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THE 


Sfi2S(SSlE3ii^®WS  W®JSIES 


OF 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH, 


WITH  AN 


Account  of  fits  awe  nnn  aaFtritinfls* 


STEREOTYPED  FROM  THE  PARIS  EDITION, 


EDITED  BY 


WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


COMPLETE  IX  ONE  VOLUME 


pilUatrelDDta: 

J.  CRISSY,  No.  4,  MINOR  STREET, 
AND  THOMAS,  COWPERTHWAIT  &  Co.,  No.  253  MARKET  STREET. 


1840. 


\'bAO 


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CONTENTS 


Memoirs  of  the  life  and  writings  of  Dr.  Gold- 
smith,       ......         7 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,      .        .        .        .57 

An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite 
Learning, 122 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Prologue  by  Laberius, 143 

The  Double  Transformation,    .        .        .        ib. 

New  Simile,  in  the  manner  of  Swift,     .        .  144 

Description  of  an  Author's  Bedchamber,    .       145 

The  Hermit ;  a  Ballad,        ....    ib. 

An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog,     .       147 

Stanzas  on  Woman, ib. 

•  The  Traveller ;  or,  a  Prospect  of  Society,  ib. 

The  Deserted  Village,  .        .        .        .152 

The  Gift,         .        .        .        ...        .157 

Epitaph  on  Dr.  Parnell,        .        .        .        .    ib. 

Epilogue  to  the  Comedy  of  the  Sisters,      .        ib. 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mrs.  Bulkley  and  Miss 
Catley, 

Epilogue  intended  for  Mrs.  Bulkley, 

The  Haunch  of  Venison,      .... 

Song  from  the  Oratorio  of  the  Captivity,    . 

Song, 

The  Clown's  Reply,         .... 

Epitaph  on  Edward  Purdon, 

An  Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize, 

Retaliation, 

Postscript  to  ditto, 

Song, 

Prologue  to  Zobeide,         .... 

Epilogue  spoken  by  Mr.  Lewes,   . 

The  Logicians  Refuted,     .... 

Stanzas  on  the  Taking  of  Cluebec, 

On  a  beautiful  Youth  struck  blind  by  Light- 
ning,          

A  Sonnet, 


ib. 
158 
159 
160 

ib. 

ib. 
161 

ib. 

ib. 
163 
164 

ib. 

ib. 
165 

ib. 


DRAMATIC. 

The  Good-natured  Man.    A  Comedy,      .       166 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or,  the  Mistakes  of  a 

Night.    A  Comedy,      .        .        .        .193 
An  Oratorio ;  first  printed  in  the  Paris  edi- 
tion, in  1825,  from  the  original  in  Dr. 
Goldsmith's  own  handwriting,       .        .  221 

PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 
The  Preface  to  Dr.  Brookes's  Natural  His- 
tory,  226 1 

Introduction  to  a  New  History  of  the  World,  228 1 


Page 
The  Preface  to  the  Roman  History,  230 

The  Preface  to  a  History  of  England,  .  .  231 
The  Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Earth,  etc.  232 
The  Preface  to  the  Beauties  of  English  Poetry,  233 
The  Preface  to  a  Collection  of  Poems,  etc.       238 


Criticism  on  Massey's  Translation  of  the 
Fasti  of  Ovid, 239 

Criticism  on  Barrett's  Translation  of  Ovid's 
Epistles, 242 

LETTERS  FROM  A  CITIZEN  OF  THE 
WORLD  TO  HIS  FRIENDS  IN  THE 
EAST. 

Letter 

I.  Introduction.  A  character  of  the  Chi- 
nese Philosopher,  .  .  .  248 
II.  The  arrival  of  the  Chinese  in  Lon- 
don. His  motives  for  the  journey. 
Some  description  of  the  streets  and 
houses, lb. 

The  description  of  London  continu- 
ed. The  luxury  of  the  English. 
Its  benefits.  The  fine  gentleman. 
The  fine  lady,  ....      249 

English  pride.  Liberty.  An  instance 
of  both.   Newspapers.   Politeness,  251 

English  passion  for  politics.  A  spe- 
cimen of  a  newspaper.  Character- 
istic of  the  manners  of  different 
countries,  ....      252 

Happiness  lost  by  seeking  after  re- 
finement. The  Chinese  philoso- 
pher's disgraces,    ....  253 

The  tie  of  wisdom  only  to  make  us 
happy.  The  benefits  of  travelling 
upon  the  morals  of  a  philosopher,     254 

The  Chinese  deceived  by  a  prostitute 
in  the  streets  of  London,      .        .  255 

The  licentiousness  of  the  English 
with  regard  to  women.    A  charac- 
ter of  a  woman's  man,  .        .  256 
The  journey  of  the  Chinese  from  Pe- 
kin  to  Moscow.     The  customs  of 
the  Daures,           ....  257 
The  benefits  of  luxury  in  making  a 
people  more  vsdse  and  happy,         .  258 
The  funeral  solemnities  of  the  En- 
gUsh.    Their  passion  for  flattering 
epitaphs,      .....  259 
An  account  of  Westminster  Abbey,  260 


111. 

IV. 
V. 

Vi. 

VII. 

Vlll. 
IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XIL 

XIII. 


!\Ai0i005 


CONTENTS. 


letter  Page 

XIV.  The  reception  of  the  Chinese 

from  a  Lady  of  distinction,     .  262 
XV.  Against  cruelty  to  animals.    A 
story  from  the  Zendevesta  of 
Zoroaster,     ....  263 
XVI.  Of  falsehood  propagated  by  books 

seemingly  sincere,  .        .  264 

XVII.  Of  the  war  now  carried  on  be- 
tween France  and  England, 
with  its  frivolous  motives,      .  265 
XVIII.  The  story  of  the  Chinese  ma- 
tron, ....      266 

XIX.  The  English  method  of  treating 

women   caught  in    adultery. 
The  Russian  method,    .        .  267 

XX.  Some  account  of  the  republic  of 

letters  in  England,  .         .  269 

XXL  The  Chinese  goes  to  see  a  play,  270 
XXII.  The  Chinese  philosopher's  son 

made  a  slave  in  Persia,  .  272 

XXIII.  The  English  subscription  in  fa- 

vour of  the  French  prisoners 
commended,  ....  273 

XXIV.  The  venders  of  quack  medicines 

and  nostrums  ridiculed,  .  274 

XXV.  The  natural  rise  and  decline  of 
kingdoms,  exemplified  in  the 
history  of  the  kingdom  of  Lao,  275 

XXVI.  The  character  of  the  man  in 
black,  with  some  instances  of 
his  inconsistent  conduct,        .  276 

XXVII.  The  history  ofthe  man  in  black,  278 
XXVIII.  On  the  great  numbers  of  old 
maids  and  bachelors  in  Lon- 
don.    Some  of  the  causes,      .  280 

XXIX.  A  description  of  a  club  of  au- 
thors,     281 

XXX.  The  proceedings  of  the  club  of 

authors,         .        .        .        .282 

XXXI.  The  perfection  of  the  Chinese 
in  the  art  of  gardening.  The 
description  ofa  Chinese  garden  384 

XXXII.  Ofthe  degeneracy  of  some  ofthe 
English  nobility.  A  mush- 
room feast  among  the  Tartars,  285 

XXXIII.  The  manner  of  writing  among 

the  Chinese,  The  eastern  tales 

of  magazines,  etc.  ridiculed,    .  287 

XXXIV.  Ofthe  present  ridiculous  passion 

of  the  nobility  for  painting,      .  288 
XXXV.  The  philosopher's  son  describes 

a  lady,  his  fellow-captive,        .  290 

XXXVI.  A  continuance  of  his  corr^pond- 
ence.  The  beautiful  captive 
consents  to  marry  her  lord,     .  291 

XXXVII.  The  correspondence  still  con- 
tinued. He  begins  to  be  dis- 
gusted in  the  pursuit  of  vvis- 


Letter  Fagg 

dom.    An  allegory  to  prove  its 
futility,  ....  299 

XXXVIII.  The  Chinese  philosopher  praises 
the  justice  of  a  late  sentence, 
and  instances  the  injustice  of 
the  King  of  France,  in  the  case 
of  the  Prince  of  Charolais,  .  2^ 
XXXIX.  The  description  of  true  polite- 
ness. T  wo  lettef  (S  of  different 
countries,  by  ladies  falsely 
thought  polite  at  home,  .  29f 

XL.  The  English  still  have  poetSj 

though  not  versifiers,      *        .  29(' 
XLI.  The  behaviour  of  the  congrega- 
tion in  St.  Paul's  church  at 
prayers,         ....  29^ 
XLII.  The  history  of  China  more  re- 
plete with  great  Actions  th^n 
that  of  Europe,      .        .        .  SSf 
XLIII.  An  apostrophe  on  the  supposed 

death  of  Voltaire,  .        .        .291 
XLIV.  Wisdom  and  precept  may  lessen 
our  miseries,  but  can  never  in- 
crease our  positive  satisfactions  dOi 
XLV.  Thfe  ardour  ofthe  people  of  Lon- 
don in  running  after  sights  And 
monsters,       ....  302 
XLVI.  A  dream,      ....      304 
XL VII.  Misery  best  relieved  by  dissipa- 

tion, 305 

XL  VIII.  The  absurdity  of  persons  in  high 

station  pursuing  employments 

beneath  them,  exempUfied  in 

a  fairy  tale,    ....  306 

XLIX.  The  fairy  tale  continued,       .      308 

L.  An  attempt  to  define  what  is 

meant  by  English  liberty,       .  309 
LI.  A  bookseller's  visit  to  the  Chi- 
nese,      310 

LII.  The  impossibility  of  distinguish- 
ing men  in  England  by  their 
dress.  Two  instances  of  this,  312 
LIII.  The  absurd  taste  for  obscene  and 
pert  novels,  such  as  Tristram 
Shandy,  ridiculed,  .        ,  313 

LIV.  The  character  of  an  important 

trifler, 314 

LV.  His  character  continued ;  with 
that  of  his  wife,  his  house,  and 
furniture,         ....  315 
LVI.  Some  thoughts  on  the  present 
situation  of  affairs  in  the  differ- 
ent countries  of  Europe,  .        .  317 
L  VII.  The  difficulty  of  rising  in  litera- 
ry reputation  without  intrigue 
or  riches,         ....  318 
LVIII.  A  visitation  dinner  described,       319 
LIX.  The  Chinese  philosopher's  sOn 


CONTEKTS. 


\ 


Letter 

LX 
LXI. 

LXII. 

LXIII. 

LXIV. 

LXV. 

LXVI. 

LXVIl. 

LXVIII. 

LXIX. 
LXX. 

LXXI. 


LXXII. 
LXXllI. 
LXXIV. 

LXXV. 


LXXVI. 
LXXVII. 
LXXVIII. 

LXXIX. 
LXXX. 


LXXXI. 

LXXXII. 


LXXXIII. 
LXXXIV. 


Page 


escapes  with  the  beautiful  cap- 
tive from  slavery,     . 

The  history  of  the  beautiful  cap- 
tive,         

Proper  lessons  to  a  youth  enter- 
ing the  world,  with  fables  suit- 
ed to  the  occasion,   . 

An  authentic  liistory  of  Cathe- 
rina  Alexowna,  wife  of  Peter 
the  Great,       .... 

The  rise  or  the  decline  of  litera- 
ture not  dependent  on  man,  but 
resulting  from  the  vicissitudes 
of  nature, 

The  great  exchange  happiness 
for  show.  Their  folly  in  this 
respect  of  use  to  society. 

The  history  of  a  philosophic  cob- 
bler,         

The  difference  between  love  and 
gratitude. 

The  folly  of  attempting  to  learn 
wisdom  by  being  recluse, 

Cluacks  ridiculed.  Some  particu- 
larly mentioned, 

The  fear  of  mad-dogs  ridiculed. 

Fortune  proved  not  to  be  blind. 

The  story  of  the  avaricious  miller  335 

The  shabby  beau,  the  man  in 
black,  the  Chinese  philosopher, 
etc.  at  Vauxhall, 

The  marriage-act  censured. 

Life  endeared  by  age. 

The  description  of  a  little  great 
man, 

The  necessity  of  amusing  each 
other  with  new  books  insisted 
upon, 

The  preference  of  grace  to  beau- 
ty; an  allegory. 

The  behaviour  of  a  shopkeeper 
and  his  journeyman, 

The  French  ridiculed  after  their 
own  manner,  .... 

The  preparations  of  both  thea- 
tres for  a  winter  campaign, 

The  evil  tendency  of  increasing 
penal  laws,  or  enforcing  even 
those  already  in  being  with 
rigour, 347 

The  ladies'  trains  ridiculed,  348 

The  sciences  useful  in  a  populous 
state,  prejudicial  in  a  barbarous 
one, 349 

Some  cautions  on  life  taken  from 
a  modern  philosopher  of  China,  351 
Anecdotes  of  several  poets  who 
lived  and    died  in    circum- 
stances of  wretchedness,       .  353 


320 


321 


.  323 


324 


.  326 


.  327 
328 

.  329 

231 

232 
333 


336 
338 
339 

340 


342 


343 


344 


345 


346 


Letter  Page 

LXXXV.  Thetrifling  squabbles  of  stage 

players  ridiculed,          .        .  353 
LXXX  VI.  The  races  of  Newmarket  ridi- 
culed.    The  description  of  a 
cart-race,^     ....  355 
LXXXVIL  The  folly  of  the  western  parts 
of  Europe  in  employing  the 
Russians  to  fight  their  battles,  356 
LXXXVin.  The  ladies  advised  to  get  hus- 
bands.    A  story  to  this  pur- 
pose,     ib. 

LXXXIX.  The  folly  of  remote  or  use- 
less disquisitions  among  the 
learned,       ....  358 
XC.  The  English  subject  to  the 

spleen,         ....  359 
XCL  The  influence  of  climate  and 
soil  upon  the  temper  and  dis- 
positions of  the  English,       .  36i 
XCIL  The  manner  in  which  some 
philosophers  make  artificial 
misery,        ....  362 
XCIIL  The  fondness  of  some  to  ad- 
mire the  writings  of  lords,  etc.  303 
XCIV.  The  philosopher's  son  is  again 
separated  from  his  beautiful 
companion,  .        .        .    ib. 

XC  V.  The  father  consoles  him  upon 

this  occasion,        .        .        .  364 
XC  VI.  The  condolence  and  congratur 
lation  upon  the  death  of  the 
late  king  ridiculed.     English 
mourning  described,     .        .  365 
XCVII.  Almost  every  subject  of  litera- 
ture has    been   already  ex- 
hausted,     ....  366 
XCVIII.  A  description  of  the  courts  of 

justice  in  Westminster  Hall  367 
XCIX.  A  visit  from  the  Uttle  beau. 
The  indulgence  with  which 
the  fair  sex  are  treated  in 
several  parts  of  Asia,    .         .  368 
C.  A  life  of  independence  praised,  369 
CI.  That  people  must  be  contented 
to  be  guided  by  those  whom 
they  have  appointed  to  gov- 
ern.   A  story  to  this  effect,    370 
CII.  The  passion  for  gaming  among 

ladies  ridiculed,    .         .         .  371 
cm.  The  Chinese  philosopher  be- 
gins to  think  of  quitting  En- 
gland, .        .        .        .372 
CIV.  The  arts  some  make  use  of  to 

appear  learned,    .        .        .  373 
CV.  The  intended  coronation  de- 
scribed,       ....  374 
CVI.  Funeral  elegies  written  upon 
the  great  ridiculed.    A  speci- 
men of  one,  .        .        .  375 


CONTENTS. 


Letter  Page 

CVII.  The  English  too  fond  of  believing 
every  report  without  examination. 
A  story  of  an  incepdiary  to  this 

purpose, 376 

CVlII.  The    utility    and    entertainment 
which  might  result  from  a  jour- 
ney into  the  East,        .        .        .  377 
CIX.  The  Chinese  philosopher  attempts 

to  find  out  famous  men,       .        .  378 
ex.  Some  projects  for  introducing  Asi- 
atic employments  into  the  courts 
of  England,         .         .        .        .380 
CXI.  On  the  difierent  sects  in  England, 

particularly  Methodism,       .        .  381 
CXIl.  An  election  described,       .        .      362 
CXIII.  A  literary  contest  of  great  import- 
ance; in  which  both  sides  fight  by 

epigram, 383 

CXIV.  Against  the  marriage  act.  A  fable,  385 
CXV.  On  the  danger  of  having  too  high 

an  opinion  of  human  nature,        .386 
CXVI.  Whether  love  be  a  natural  or  ficti- 
tious passion,      ....  387 
CXVII.  A  city  night-piece,    .        .        .389 
CXVIII.  On  the  meanness  of  the  Dutch  at 

the  court  of  Japan,      .         .         .    ib. 
CXIX.  On  the  distresses  of  the  poor  exem- 
plified in  the  life  of  a  private  sen- 
tinel,   390 

CXX.  On  the  absurdity  of  some  late  En- 
glish titles,  .        .        .        .392 
CXXI.  The  irresolution  of  the  English  ac- 
counted for,        ....  393 
CXXII.  The  manner  of  travellers  in  their 

usual  relations  ridiculed,  .  .  394 
CXXIII.  The  conclusion,  .  .  .395 
TheLifeofDr.  Parnell,  .  .  .  .398 
The  Life  of  Henry  Lord  Viscount  Bolingbroke  407 

THE  BEE. 

No.  L  Introduction, 424 

On  a  beautiful  youth  struck  blind  by 

lightning, 426 

Remarks  on  our  Theatres,          .        .  ib. 

The  Story  of  Alcander  and  Septimius,  427 

A  letter  from  a  Traveller,           .        .  429 

Account  of  Mr.  Maupertuis,           .  ib. 

II.  On  Dress, 430 

Some  particulars  relative  to  Charles  12,  432 

Happiness  dependent  on  Constitution,  434 

On  our  Theatres,       ....  435 

III.  Onthe  Use  of  Language,  .  .  436 
The  History  of  Hyspasia,  .  .  438 
On  Justice  and  Generosity,  .  .  439 
Some  particulars  relative  to  Father 

Freijo, 440 

IV,  Miscellaneous,  ....  441 
A  Flemish  Tradition,  ,  .  .442 
The  Sagacity  of  some  Insects,        .      444 


Page 

The  Characteristics  of  Greatness,       .  445 

Conclusion  of  a  City  Night-Piece,        446 

V.  Upon  Political  Frugality,  .        .        .  447 

A  Reverie, 450 

A  word  or  two  upon  High  Life  Below 

Stairs, 452 

Upon  unfortunate  Merit,  .  .  .  453 
VJ.  On  Education,  ....  454 
On  the  instability  of  worldly  grandeur,  458 
Account  of  the  Academies  of  Italy,  459 
VII.  Of  Eloquence,  ....  460 
Custom  and  Laws  compared,  .  ,  463 
On  the  Pride  and  Luxury  of  the  Mid- 

dHng  class  of  People,  .         .  464 

Sabinus  and  OUnda,  .        .        .    ib. 

The  Sentiments  of  a  Frenchman  on  the 

Temper  of  the  English,       .        .  466 
VIII.  On  Deceit  and  Falsehood       .        .      467 
An  Account  of  the  Augustan  Agt  of 

England, 469 

Of  the  Opera  in  England,       .        .      471 

ESSAYS. 
Preface  to  the  Essays,  .        .      473 

I.  Description  of  various  Clubs,  .  474 

II.  Specimen  of  a  Magazine  in  Minia- 
ture, .        .        .        .        .47" 

III.  Asem,  an  eastern  Tale;  or,  Vindica- 

tion of  the  Wisdom  of  Providence 
in  the  Moral  Government  of  the 
World, 478 

IV.  On  the  English  Clergy  and  popular 

Preachers,  ....  480 

V.  A  Reverie  at  the  Boar's-Head  Tav- 
ern, Eastcheap,    ....  482 
VI.  Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player,      487 
VII.  Rules  enjoined  to  be  observed  at  a 

Russian  Assembly,          .        .      -490 
VIII.  Biographical  Memoir  supposed  to  be 
written  by  the  Ordinary  of  New- 
gate,   491 

IX.  National  Concord,       .        .        .492 

X.  Female  Warriors,  .        .        .  493 

XI.  National  Prejudices,    .        .        .      494 

XII.  Taste, 496 

XIII.  Cultivation  of  Taste,  .        .        .499 

XIV.  Origin  of  Poetry,    .        .        .        .502 
XV.  Poetry    distinguished    from    other 

Writing, 506 

XVI.  Metaphors,         ....      510 

XVII.  Hyperboles, 516 

XVIII.  Versification,      ....      517 
XIX.  Schools  of  Music,  Objections  there- 
to, and  Answers,        .        .        .519 
XX.  Carolan  the  Irish  Bard,        .        .      521 
XXI.  On  the  Tenants  of  Leasowes,         .  522 
XXII.  Sentimental  Comedy,  .        .      523 

XXIII.  Scotch  Marriages,  .        .        .        .525 

XXIV.  Dignity  of  Human  Nature,         .      526 


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lilFE  AND  WRITINGS 


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®Ut>et  @;ol9!9initfi. 


There  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels 
such  personal  kmdness  as  for  Oliver  GoldsmitJi. 
The  fascinating  ease  and  simplicity  of  his  style; 
the  benevolence  that  beams  through  every  page ; 
the  whimsical  yet  amiable  views  of  human  life  and 
human  nature;  the  mellow  unforced  humour, 
blended  so  happily  with  good  feeling  and  good 
sense,  throughout  his  writings;  win  their  way  ir- 
resistibly to  the  affections  and  carry  the  author  with 
them.  While  writers  of  greater  pretensions  and 
more  sounding  names  are  suffered  to  lie  upon  our 
shelves,  the  works  of  Goldsmith  are  cherished  and 
laid  in  our  bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them  with 
ostentation,  but  they  mingle  with  our  minds ;  they 
sweeten  our  tempers  and  harmonize  our  thoughts ; 
they  put  us  in  good  humour  with  ourselves  and 
with  the  world,  and  in  so  doing  they  malceus  hap- 
pier and  better  men. 

We  have  been  curious  therefore  in  gathering  to- 
gether all  the  heterogeneous  particulars  concerning 
poor  Goldsmith  that  still  exist;  and  seldom  have  we 
met  with  an  author's  life  more  illustrative  of  his 
works,  or  works  more  faithfully  illustrative  of  the 
author's  life.*  His  rambling  biography  displays 
him  the  same  kind,  artless,  good  humoured,  excur- 
sive, sensible,  whimsical,  intelligent  being  that  he 
appears  in  his  writings.  Scarcely  an  adventure  or 
a  character  is  given  in  his  page  that  may  not  be 
traced  to  his  own  parti-coloured  story.  Many  of 
his  most  ludicrous  scenes  and  ridiculous  incidents 
have  been  drawn  from  his  own  blunders  and  mis- 
chances, and  he  seems  really  to  have  been  buffeted 
into  almost  every  maxim  imparted  by  him  for  the 
instruction  of  his  readers. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  a  native  of  Ireland,  and 
was  born  on  the  29th  of  November,  1728.     Two 


*The  present  biography  is  principally  taken  from  the  Scotch 
•dition  of  Goldsmith's  works,  published  in  1821. 


villages  claim  the  honour  of  having  given  him 
birth:  Pallas  in  the  county  of  Longford ;  and  El- 
phin,  in  the  county  of  Roscommon.  The  former 
is  named  as  the  place  in  the  epitaph  by  Dr.  John- 
son, inscribed  on  his  monument  in  Westminster 
Abbey;  but  later  investigations  have  decided  in  fa- 
vour of  Elphin. 

He  was  the  second  son  of  the  Rev.  Charles 
Goldsmith,  a  clergyman  of  the  established  church, 
but  without  any  patrimony.  His  mother  was 
daughter  of  the  Rev.  Oliver  Jones,  master  of  the 
diocesan  school  at  Elphin.  It  was  not  till  some 
time  after  the  birth  of  Oliver  that  his  father  ob- 
tained the  living  of  Kilkenny- West,  in  the  county 
of  Westmeath.  Previous  to  this  period  he  and  his 
wife  appear  to  have  been  almost  entirely  dependent 
on  her  relations  for  support. 

His  father  was  equally  distinguished  for  his  lite- 
rary attainments  and  for  the  benevolence  of  his 
heart.  His  family  consisted  of  five  sons  and  two 
daughters.  From  this  little  world  of  home  Gold- 
smith has  drawn  many  of  his  domestic  scenes, 
both  whimsical  and  touching,  which  appeal  so  for- 
cibly to  the  heart,  as  well  as  to  the  fancy;  his  fa- 
ther's fireside  furnished  many  of  the  family  scenes 
of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield;  and  it  is  said  that  the 
learned  simplicity  and  amiable  peculiarities  of  that 
worthy  divine  have  been  happily  illustrated  in  the 
character  of  Dr.  Primrose. 

The  Rev.  Henry  Goldsmith,  elder  brother  of 
the  poet,  and  born  seven  years  before  him,  was  a 
man  of  estimable  worth  and  excellent  talents. 
Great  expectations  were  formed  of  hun,  from  the 
promise  of  his  youth,  both  when  at  school  and  at 
college;  but  he  offended  and  disappointed  his 
friends,  by  entering  into  matrimony  at  the  early 
age  of  nineteen,  and  resigning  all  ambitious  views 
for  love  and  a  curacy.  If,  however,  we  may  be- 
lieve the  pictures  drawn  by  the  poet  of  his  brother's 


8 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


domestic  life,  his  lot,  though  humble,  was  a  happy 
one.     He  is  the  village  pastor  of  the  "  Deserted 
Village;"  so  exers:ipla«-j  in  hi-s  eha^acter,  and  "pass- 
ing rich  wifti  foity  pounds  a.  year."     It  is  to  this 
brother,  who  wijfs  the  guide  and  protector  of  Gold- 
'smrih'duripg;  hjis, childhood,  and^toywljom  he  was 
;  ,t^,n(\ef\y  Atift(iW>d,Xhiii?hCi  addresses  tho^e  beautiful 
'    lih^s  in  hi^pdenf  of  the  Tlateher :'    '  ' 

Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
j^:  Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a  length'ning  chain. 

His  family  also  form  the  ruddy  and  joyous 
group,  and  exercise  the  simple  but  generous  rites 
of  hospitality,  which  the  poet  so  charmingly  de- 
scribes : 

Bless'd  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Wliere  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food. 
And  loam  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

The  whimsical  character  of  the  Man  in  Black, 
in  the  "Citizen  of  the  World,"  so  rich  in  eccen- 
tricities and  in  amiable  failings,  is  said  to  have 
been  likewise  drawn  partly  from  his  brother,  part- 
ly from  his  father,  but  in  a  great  measure  from  the 
author  himself.     It  is  difficult,  however,  to  assign 


placed  under  the  care  of  a  village  school-master,  to 
be  instrjLicted  in  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic. 
Tills  pedagogue,  whom  his  scholar  afterwards  so 
happily  describes  in  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  had 
been  a  quarter-master  in  the  army  during  the  wars 
of  Q,ueen  Anne,  and,  in  his  own  estimation,  a  man 
of  no  small  pith  and  moment.  Having  passed 
through  various  parts  of  Europe,  and  being  of  an 
eccentric  turn  of  mind,  he  acquired  habits  of  ro- 
mancing that  bordered  on  the  marvellous,  and,  like 
many  other  travellers,  was  possessed  with  a  prodi- 
gious itch  for  detailing  his  adventures.  He  him- 
self was  most  commonly  the  redoubted  hero  of  his 
own  story,  and  his  pupils  were  always  the  amazed 
and  wilhng  auditory : 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  ttfead  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

The  tales  of  wonder  recounted  by  this  second 
Pinto  are  said  to  have  had  surprising  effects  on  his 
youthful  hearers;  and  it  has  been  plausibly  con- 
jectured that  to  the  vivid  impressions  thus  made  on 
the  young  imagination  of  our  author,  may  be  as- 
cribed those  wandering  propensities  which  influ- 
enced his  after  life.  * 

After  he  had  been  for  some  time  with  this  in- 
different preceptor,  his  mother,  with  whom  he  was 
always  a  favourite,  exerted  her  influence  to  per- 


with  precision  the  originals  of  a  writer's  characters,  j  suade  his  father  to  give  him  an  education  that  would 
They  are  generally  composed  of  scattered,  though  i  qualify  him  for  a  liberal  profession.  Her  solicita- 
accordant  traits,  observed  in  various  individuals,  itious,  together  with  the  passionate  attachment  which 


which  have  been  seized  upon  with  the  discriminat- 
ing tact  of  genius  and  combined  into  one  harmoni- 
ous whole.  Still,  it  is  a  fact,  as  evident  as  it  is  de- 
lightful, that  Goldsmith  has  poured  out  the  genu- 
ine feeUngs  of  his  heart  in  his  works;  and  has  had 
continually  before  him,  in  his  delineations  of  simple 
worth  and  domestic  virtue,  the  objects  of  his  filial 
and  fraternal  affection. 

Goldsmith  is  said,  in  his  earlier  years,  to  have 
been  whimsical  in  his  humours  and  eccentric  in  his 
habits.  This  was  remarked  in  his  infancy.  Some- 
times lie  assumed  the  gravity  and  reserve  of  riper 
years,  at  other  times  would  give  free  scope  to  the 
wild  frolic  and  exuberant  vivacity  suited  to  his  age. 
The  singularity  of  his  moods  and  manners,  and 
the  evidences  he  gave  of  a  precocity  of  talent,  caus- 
ed him  to  be  talked  of  in  the  neighbourhood  as  a 
little  prodigy.  It  is  said  that,  even  before  he  was 
eight  years  old  he  evinced  a  natural  turn  for  poet- 
ry, and  made  many  attempts  at  rhymes,  to  the 
amusement  of  his  father  and  friends;  and  when 
somewhat  older,  after  he  had  learned  to  write,  his 
chief  pleasure  was  to  scribble  rude  verses  on  small 
scraps  of  paper,  and  then  commit  them  to  the 
flames. 

His  father  had  strained  his  slender  means  in 
giving  a  liberal  education  to  his  eldest  son,  and  had 
determined  to  bring  up  Oliver  to  trade.     He  was 


the  boy  evinced  for  books  and  learning,  and  his 
early  indications  of  talent,  prevailed  over  all  scru- 
ples of  economy,  and  he  was  placed  under  the  care 
of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin. 
He  was  boarded  in  the  house  of  his  uncle,  John 
Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of  Ballyoughter,  in  the  vicinity. 
Here  the  amiableness  of  his  disposition  and  the 
amusing  eccentricity  of  his  humour  rendered  him  a 
universal  favourite.  A  httle  anecdote,  preserved 
by  the  family  of  his  uncle  evinces  the  precocity  of 
his  wit. 

At  an  entertainment  given  by  this  gentleman  to 
a  party  of  young  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  a 
fiddler  was  sent  for,  and  dancing  introduced.  Oli- 
ver, although  only  nine  years  of  age,  was  permitted 
to  share  in  the  festivities  of  the  evening,  and  was 
called  on  to  dance  a  hornpipe.  His  figure  was 
never  good,  but  at  this  tune  it  was  pecuUarly  short 
and  clumsy,  and  having  but  recently  recovered  from 
the  small-pox,  his  features  were  greatly  disfigured. 
The  scraper  of  catgut,  struck  vnth  the  oddity  of  the 
boy's  appearance,  thought  to  display  his  waggery, 
by  likening  him  to  ^sop  dancing.  This  compari- 
son, according  to  his  notions,  being  uncommonly 
happy,  he  continued  to  harp  on  it  for  a  considerable 
time,  when  suddenly  the  laugh  of  the  company  was 
turned  against  himself,  by  Oliver  sarcastically  re- 
marking. 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


Our  herald  hath  proclaim'd  this  saying, 
See  iEsop  dancing,  and  liis  monkey  playing. 

So  smart  a  repartee,  from  so  young  a  boy,  was 
the  subject  of  much  conversation,  and  perhaps  of 
itself  was  decisive  of  his  fortune.  His  friends  im 
Jnediately  determined  that  he  should  be  sent  to  the 
aniversity;  and  some  of  his  relations,  who  belonged 
to  the  church,  and  possessed  the  necessary  means, 
generously  offered  to  contribute  towards  the  ex- 
pense. The  Rev.  Mr.  Green,  and  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Contarine,  both  men  of  distinguished  worth  and 
learning,  stood  forward  on  this  occasion  as  the 
youth's  patrons. 

To  qualify  him  for  the  university,  he  was  now 
sent  to  Athlone  school,  and  placed  under  the  tui- 
tion of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Campbell.  There  he  re- 
mained two*years;  but  the  ill  health  of  the  master 
having  obliged  him  to  resign  liis  situation,  Oliver 
was  consigned  to  the  care  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes,  at  Edgeworthstown,  in  the  county  of 
Longford,  under  whom  he  continued  his  studies  till 
finally  fitted  for  the  university.  Under  this  re- 
spectable teacher  and  excellent  man,  he  is  said  to 
have  made  much  greater  progress  than  under  any 
:)f  the  rest  of  his  instructors. 

A  short  time  before  leaving  the  school  of  Mr, 
Hughes,  our  poet  had  an  adventure  which  is  be- 
lieved to  have  suggested  the  plot  of  his  comedy  of 
"She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  or  the  Mistakes  of  a 
Night." 

His  father's  house  was  distant  about  twenty 
miles  from  Edgeworthstown,  and  Avlien  on  his  jour- 
ney thither  for  the  last  time,  he  had  devoted  so 
mijch  tmie  to  amusement  on  the  road,  that  it  was 
almost  dark  when  he  reached  the  little  town  of  Ar- 
magh. Some  friend  had  given  him  a  guinea,  and 
Oliver,  who  was  never  niggard  of  his  purse,  re- 
solved to  put  up  here  for  the  night,  and  treat  him- 
self to  a  good  supper  and  a  bed.  Having  asked 
for  the  best  house  in  the  village,  he  was  conducted 
to  the  best  hotise,  instead  of  the  best  inn.  The 
owner,  immediately  discovered  the  mistake,  but  be- 
ing a  man  of  humour,  resolved  to  carry  on  the  joke, 
Oliver  was  therefore  permitted  to  order  his  horse 
to  the  stable,  while  he  himself  walked  into  tllQ  par- 
lour, and  took  his  seat  famiharly  by  the  fire-side. 
The  servants  were  then  called  about  him  to  receive 
his  orders  as  to  supper.  The  supper  was  soon 
produced;  the  gentleman,  with  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ters, were  generously  invited  to  partake;  a  bottle 
of  wine  was  called  for  to  crown  the  feast,  and  at 
going  to  bed,  a  hot  cake  was  ordered  to  be  prepared 
for  his  breakfast.  The  laugh,  to  be  sure,  was  ra- 
ther against  our  hero  in  the  morning,  when  he 
called  for  his  bill,  and  found  he  had  been  hospitably 
entertained  in  a  private  family.  But  finding  that 
his  host  was  an  acquaintance  of  his  father's,  he  en- 
tered into  the  humour  of  the  scene,  and  laughed  as 
heartily  as  the  rest. 


On  the  nth  of  June,  1744,  Goldsmith,  then  fif- 
teen years  of  ago,  was  admitted  a  sizer  in  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  under  the  Rev.  Theakcr  Wilder, 
one  of  the  fellows,  a  man  of  violent  temper,  from 
whose  overbearing  disposition  he  suffered  much 
vexation.  The  young  student  was  giddy  and 
thoughtless,  and  on  one  occasion  mvited  a  number 
of  young  persons  of  both  sexes  to  a  supper  and 
dance  in  his  apartments,  in  direct  violation  of  the 
college  rules.  The  vigilant  Wilder  became  ap- 
prised of  the  circumstance,  and  rushed  like  a  tiger 
to  the  festive  scene.  He  burst  into  the  apartment, 
put  the  gay  assembly  to  the  rout,  but  previous  to 
their  dispersion,  seized  on  the  unfortunate  delin- 
quent, and  inflicted  corporal  chastisement  on  liim, 
in  presence  of  the  party. 

The  youthful  poet  could  not  brook  this  outrage 
and  indignity.  He  could  not  look  his  acquaintances 
in  the  face  without  the  deepest  feeling  of  shame  and 
mortification.  He  determined,  therefore,  to  escape 
altogether  from  his  terrible  tutor,  by  abandoning  his 
studies,  and  flying  to  some  distant  part  of  the  glolio. 
With  this  view  he  disposed  of  his  books  and  clothes, 
and  resolved  to  embark  at  Cork :  but  here  his  usual 
thoughtless  and  improvident  turn  was  again  dis- 
played, for  he  lingered  so  long  in  DubUn  after  his 
resolution  had  been  taken,  that  his  finances  were 
reduced  to  a  single  shilling  when  he  set  out  on  the 
journey. 

He  was  accustomed  afterwards  to  give  a  ludi- 
crous account  of  his  adventures  in  this  expedition, 
although  it  was  attended  by  many  distressful  cir- 
cumstances. Having  contrived  to  subsist  three 
whole  days  on  the  shilling  he  set  out  with,  he  was 
then  compelled  by  necessity  to  sell  the  clothes  off 
his  back,  and  at  last  was  so  reduced  by  famine,  that 
he  was  only  saved  from  sinking  under  it  by  the 
compassion  of  a  young  girl  at  a  wake,  from  whom 
he  got  a  handful  of  gray  peas.  This  he  used  to  say 
was  the  most  delicious  repast  he  had  ever  made. 
While  in  this  state  of  hunger  and  wretchedness, 
without  money  and  without  friends,  the  rashness 
and  folly  of  his  undertaking  became  every  moment 
more  apparent,  and,  in  spite  of  Ms  lacerated  feel- 
ings, and  the  dread  of  Wilder,  he  resolved  to  pro- 
pose a  reconciliation  with  his  friends,  and  once 
more  to  return  to  the  college.  Before  he  had 
reached  the  place  of  embarkation,  therefore,  he  con- 
trived to  get  notice  conveyed  to  his  brother  of  his 
miserable  condition,  and  hinted  that  if  a  promise 
of  milder  treatment  were  obtained  from  his  tutor, 
he  should  be  inclined  to  return.  His  affectionate 
brother  instantly  hastened  to  relieve  his  distress, 
equipped  him  with  new  clothing,  and  carried  him 
hack  to  college.  A  reconcihation  was  also  in  some 
degree  effected  v/ith  Wilder,  but  there  was  never 
afterwards  between  them  any  interchange  of  friend- 
ship or  regard. 

From  the  despondency  resulting  from  his  tutor's 


10 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


ill  treatment,  Goldsmith  is  said  to  have  sunk  into 
habitual  indolence;  yet  his  genius  sometimes  dawn- 
ed through  the  gloom,  and  translations  from  the 
classics  made  by  him  at  this  period  were  long  re- 
membered by  his  cotemporaries  with  app*lause.  He 
was  not,  however,  admitted  to  the  degree  of  Bache- 
lor of  Arts  till  February  27,  1749,  O.  S.  two  years 
after  the  regular  time. 

The  chagrin  and  vexation  attending  his  unlucky 
disputes  with  his  tutor,  were  soon  after  succeeded 
by  a  calamity  of  deeper  moment,  and  more  lasting 
consequences  to  our  poet.  This  was  the  death  of 
his  worthy  and  amiable  father.  He  had  now  lost 
his  natural  guardian  and  best  friend,  and  found 
himself  young  in  the  world,  without  either  protector 
6t  guide.  His  uncle  Contarine,  however,  in  this 
emergency  kindly  interfered,  and,  with  almost  pa- 
rental anxiety,  took  the  charge  of  advising  and  di- 
recting his  future  progress.  When  he  had  com- 
pleted his  studies  at  the  university,*  Mr.  Contarine 
advised  him  to  prepare  for  holy  orders;  but  this  was 
a  measure  always  repugnant  to  his  inclinations. 
An  unsettled  turn  of  mind,  an  unquenchable  de- 
sire of  visiting  other  countries,  and  perhaps  an  in- 
genuous sense  of  his  unfitness  for  the  clerical  pro- 
fession, conspired  to  disincline  him  to  the  church; 
and  though  at  length  he  yielded  to  the  pressing  so- 
licitations of  his  uncle  and  friends,  b}^  applying  to 
the  bishop  for  ordination,  it  is  thought  he  was  more 
pleased  than  disappointed  when  rejected  by  his 
lordship,  on  account  of  his  youth.  He  was  now 
anxious,  however,  to  be  employed  in  some  way  or 
other,  and  when  the  office  of  private  tutor  in  the 
family  of  a  neighbouring  gentleman  was  offered  to 
him,  he  willingly  accepted  it.  In  this  situation  he 
remained  about  a  year;  but  finding  the  employment 
much  more  disagreeable  than  he  had  been  taught 
to  beUeve  it,  and  the  necessary  confinement  pain- 
fully irksome,  he  suddenly  gave  up  his  charge,  pro- 
cured a  good  horse,  and,  with  about  thirty  pounds 
which  lie  had  saved,  quitted  his  friends,  and  set 
out  nobody  knew  whither. 

As  this  singular  unpremeditated  step  had  been 
taken  without  consulting  any  of  his  friends,  and 
as  no  intelhgence  could  be  obtained  either  of  him- 
self or  the  motives  which  had  prompted  his  de- 
parture, his  family  became  much  alarmed  for  his 
safety,  and  were  justly  offended  at  his  conduct. 


*  During  his  studies  at  the  university,  he  was  a  contempo- 
rary with  Burke ;  and  it  has  been  said  that  neither  of  them 
gave  much  promise  of  future  celebrity.  Goldsmith,  however, 
got  a  premium  at  a  Christmas  examination ;  and  a  premium 
obtained  at  such  examination  is  more  honourable  than  any 
other,  because  it  ascertains  the  person  who  receives  it  to  be 
the  first  in  literary  merit.  At  the  other  exanoinations,  the 
person  thus  distinguished  may  be  only  tlie  second  in  merit ; 
he  who  has  previously  obtained  the  same  honorary  reward, 
sometimes  receiving  a  written  certificate  that  he  was  the  best 
answerer ;  it  being  a  rule,  that  not  more  than  one  premium 
-neuld  be  adjudged  to  the  same  person  in  one  year. 


Week  after  week  passed  away,  and  no  tidings 
of  the  fugitive.  At  last,  when  all  hope  of  his  re- 
turn had  been  given  up,  and  when  they  concluded 
he  must  have  left  the  country  altogether,  the  fami- 
ly were  astonished  by  his  sudden  reappearance  at 
his  mother's  house;  safe  and  sound,  to  be  sure,  but 
not  exactly  in  such  good  trim  as  when  he  had  left 
them.  His  horse  was  metamorphosed  into  a 
shabby  Uttle  pony,  not  worth  twenty  shillmgs; 
and  instead  of  thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket,  he  was 
without  a  penny.  On  this  occasion  the  indignation 
of  his  mother  was  strongly  expressed;  but  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  who  were  all  tenderly  attach- 
ed to  him,  interfered,  and  soon  effected  a  recon- 
ciliation. 

Once  more  reinstated  in  the  good  graces  of  his 
family,  our  poet  amused  them  with  a  detail  of 
his  adventures  in  this  last  expedition.  He  pre- 
mised that  he  had  long  felt  a  strong  inclination  to 
visit  the  New  World,  but  knowing  that  his  friends 
would  throw  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  departure, 
he  had  determined  to  set  out  unknown  to  any  of 
them.  Intending  to  embark  at  Cork,  he  had  gone 
directly  thither,  and  immediately  after  he  arrived 
disposed  of  his  horse,  and  struck  a  bargain  with  a 
captain  of  a  ship  bound  for  North  America.  For 
three  weeks  after  his  arrival,  the  wind  continued 
unfavorable  for  putting  to  sea  ;  and  the  vessel  re- 
mained wind-bound  in  the  harbour.  In  the  mean 
time,  he  amused  himself  by  sauntering  about  the 
city  and  its  environs,  satisfying  his  curiosity,  and 
examining  every  object  worthy  of  notice.  Hav- 
ing formed  some  acquaintances  by  means  of  the 
captain,  he  accompanied  a  party  on  an  excursion 
into  the  country.  The  idea  never  occurred  to  him, 
that  the  wind,  which  had  blown  so  perversely 
a-head  during  there  wrecks,  might  change  in  a  sin- 
gle day ;  he  was  not  less  surprised  than  chagrined, 
therefore,  on  his  return  next  morning,  to  find  the 
vessel  gone.  This  was  a  death-blow  to  his  scheme 
of  emigration,  as  his  passage-money  was  already 
in  the  pocket  of  the  captain. 

Mortified  and  disappointed,  he  lingered  about 
Cork,  irresolute  what  to  do,  until  the  languishing 
state  of  his  purse,  which  was  reduced  to  two  gui- 
neas, admonished  him  to  make  the  best  of  his  way 
home.  He  accordingly  bought  a  poor  little  pony, 
which  he  called  Fiddleback,  and  found  that  he  had 
just  five  sliilUngs  left  to  defray  the  travelhng  expen- 
ses of  himself  arid  his  steed.  This  pittance,  how- 
ever, was  rather  too  scanty  for  a  journey  of  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  miles,  and  he  was  at  a  loss  how 
to  procure  a  further  supply.  He  at  last  bethought 
himself  of  an  old  college  friend,  who  lived  on  the 
road,  not  far  from  Cork,  and  determined  to  apply 
to  him  for  assistance.  Having  been  often  pressed 
by  this  person  to  spend  a  summer  at  his  house,  he 
had  the  less  hesitation  in  paying  him  a  visit  under 
his  present  circumstances,  and  doubted  not  that  he 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


11 


vtovld  at  once  obtain  all  the  aid  his  situation  re- 
quired. When  on  the  road  to  the  house  of  his 
iriend,  a  poor  woman  with  eight  children,  whose 
husband  had  been  thrown  into  jail  for  rent,  threw 
herself  in  his  way  and  implored  for  relief.  The 
feelings  of  humanity  being  ever  most  easily  awak- 
ened in  Oliver's  bosom,  he  gave  her  all  that  re- 
mained in  his  purse,  and  trusted  his  own  wants  to 
the  expected  liberality  of  his  old  fellow-collegian. 

This  dear  friend,  whose  promised  hospitalities 
were  so  securely  relied  on,  received  him  with  much 
apparent  satisfaction,  and  only  appeared  anxious 
to  learn  the  motive  which  could  have  prompted 
this  chance  visit.  Charmed  with  this  seeming  cor- 
diality with  which  he  was  received,  Oliver  gave 
him  an  artless  and  honest  account  of  his  whole  ex- 
pedition; and  did  not  even  conceal  the  offence 
which  his  departure  must  have  given  to  his  friends. 
His  good  host  listened  with  profound  attention 
and  appeared  to  take  so  much  interest  in  the  detail 
of  our  poet's  adventures,  that  he  was  at  length  in- 
duced to  disclose  the  immediate  object  of  his  visit 
This  chanced  to  be  the  true  touch-stone  for  try- 
ing the  liberality  of  so  honest  a  friend.  A  profound 
sigh,  and  querulous  declamation  on  his  own  in- 
firm state  of  health,  was  the  only  return  to  his  hint 
for  assistance.  When  pressed  a  little  further,  this 
kind  friend  drily  remarked,  that  for  his  part  he 
could  not  understand  how  some  people  got  them- 
selves into  scrapes ;  that  on  any  other  occasion  he 
would  have  been  happy  to  accommodate  an  old 
comrade,  but  really  he  had  been  lately  so  very  ill, 
and  was,  even  now,  in  such  a  sickly  condition, 
that  it  was  very  inconvenient  to  entertain  compa- 
ny of  any  kind.  Besides,  he  could  not  well  ask  a 
person  in  health  to  share  in  his  slops  and  milk 
diet.  If,  however,  Mr.  Goldsmith  could  think  of 
putting  up  with  the  family  fare,  such  as  it  was,  he 
would  be  made  welcome;  at  the  same  time  he 
must  apprise  him  that  it  might  not  soon  be  got 
Tea.dy.  The  astonishment  and  dismay  of  our  poet 
at  the  conclusion  of  this  speech  was  sufficiently 
visible  in  his  lengthened  visage.  Nothing  but  the 
utter  emptiness  of  his  purse,  and  his  great  distance 
from  home,  could  have  induced  him  to  pocket  the 
insult,  or  accept  so  inhospitable  an  imitation.  No 
better,  however,  could  be  made  of  it  in  his  present 
circumstances;  so  without  showing  his  chagrin,  he 
good-humouredly  partool^of  a  miserable  supper  of 
brown  bread  and  butter  milk,  served  up  at  a  late 
hour  by  a  miserable  looking  old  woman,  the  fit 
handmaid  of  so  miserable  a  master. 

Notwithstanding  the  base  colours  in  which  our 
poet's  host  had  exhibited  himself,  the  former  had  too 
much  good-nature  to  harbour  resentment.  When 
they  met  in  the  morning,  therefore,  he  entered  fa- 
miliarly into  conversation,  and  even  condescended 
to  ask  what  he  would  advise  him  to  do  in  his  pre- 
sent difficulty.     "My  dear  fellow,"  said  his  host, 


"return  home  immediately.  You  can  never  do  witli- 
out  the  assistance  of  your  friends;  and  if  you  keep 
them  longer  in  suspense  and  alarm  by  remaining 
away,  you  will  only  widen  the  breach  which  your 
rashness  must  have  already  occasioned,  and  perhaps 
mduce  them  to  throw  you  off  altogether."  ' '  But," 
rejoined  Oliver,  "how  am  I  to  get  on  without  mo- 
ney? I  told  you  I  had  not  a  shilling  left,  and  it  is 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  proceed  on  the  journey, 
unless  you  should  be  so  obliging  as  to  lend  me  a 
guinea  for  the  purpose."  Here  again  his  friend's 
countenance  fell.  He  pleaded  his  inabiUty  to  lend, 
in  consequence  of  having  spent  all  his  ready  cash 
during  his  late  illness,  interlarding  this  apology 
with  many  sage  aphorisms  on  the  disadvantages  of 
borrowing,  and  the  sin  of  running  into  debt.  "  But 
my  dear  fellow,"  resumed  he,  "  I'll  tell  you  how 
you  may  get  over  the  difficulty.  May  you  not 
sell  the  Uttle  horse  you  brought  with  you  last 
night?  The  price  of  it  will  be  sufficient  for  all 
your  expenses  till  you  arrive  among  your  friends, 
and,  in  the  mean  time,  I  think  I  can  furnish  you 
with  another  to  help  you  forward  on  the  jour- 
ney." Oliver  could  discover  no  objection  to  a  plan 
so  feasible,  and  therefore  agreed  to  it  at  once;  but 
when  be  asked  for  a  sight  of  the  steed  which  was 
to  carry  him  home,  his  host,  with  solemn  gravity, 
drew  from  under  the  bed  a  stout  oaken  staff,  which 
he  presented  to  him  with  a  grin  of  self-approba- 
tion. Our  poor  poet  now  lost  all  patience,  and  was 
just  about  to  snatch  it  from  him,  and  apply  it  to 
his  pate,  when  a  loud  rap  announced  a  visiter.  A 
person  of  interesting  appearance  was  immediately 
afterwards  ushered  into  the  room,  and,  when  the  us- 
ual compliments  were  over,  Oliver  was  presented  to 
him  by  his  host,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
described  as  the  learned  and  ingenious  young  man 
of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much  while  at  college. 
The  agreeable  manners  of  this  gentleman  soon 
gave  an  interesting  turn  to  the  conversation.  Har- 
mony appeared  to  be  once  more  restored  between 
Oliver  and  his  host,  and  the  stranger  invited  them 
both  to  dine  with  him  the  following  day.  This 
was  not  acceded  to  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  with- 
out considerable  reluctance;  but  the  gentleman's 
pressing  solicitations  prevailed  on  him  to  consent. 
The  hospitality  and  kindness  displayed  at  this  per- 
son's table  was  a  striking  contrast  to  the  penury 
and  meanness  exhibited  by  his  fellow-collegian, 
and  Oliver  could  hardly  refrain  from  making  some 
sarcastic  remarks  on  the  difference.  The  hints  on 
this  subject  which  were  occasionally  hazarded  by 
the  poet,  led  the  gentleman  to  suspect  that  the  two 
friends  were  not  on  the  most  cordial  tenns.  He 
was  therefore  induced  to  invite  our  poet  to  spend  a 
few  days  at  his  house.  An  invitation  of  this  kind, 
so  opportunely  and  handsomely  given,  was  a  for- 
tunate circumstance  for  Oliver.  He  did  not  hesi- 
tate a  moment  to  accept  it,  and  at  parting  with  his 


12 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


dear  fellow-collegian,  archly  recommended  to  him 
to  take  good  care  of  the  steed  kept  at  so  much  ex- 
pense for  the  use  of  his  friends;  and,  of  all  things, 
to  beware  of  surfeiting  them  with  a  milk  diet.  To 
this  sarcasm  the  other  only  replied  by  a  sneer  at 
the  poet's  poverty  and  improvident  disposition. 
Their  host  being  well  acquainted  with  the  charac- 
ter of  his  neighbour,  seemed,  when  OUver  after- 
wards recounted  to  him  all  the  circumstances  that 
had  taken  place,  to  be  more  amused  than  surprised 
at  the  detail. 

In  the  house  of  this  new  friend  Goldsmith  expe- 
rienced the  most  hospitable  entertainment  for  seve- 
ral days.  Two  beautiful  daughters,  as  well  as  the 
host  himself,  were  emulous  in  finding  amusement 
for  their  guest  during  his  stay;  and  when  about  to 
depart,  he  was  oflered  money  to  defray  the  expense 
of  his  journey,  and  a  servant  to  attend  him  on 
horseback.  The  servant  and  horse  he  declined, 
but  accepted  of  a  loan  of  three  half-guineas ;  and 
with  sentiments  of  the  deepest  respect  and  grati- 
tude, took  leave  of  his  benevolent  host. 

He  now  pursued  his  journey  without  any  fur- 
ther interruption,  and  arrived  at  his  mother's  house 
in  the  sudden  and  unexpected  manner  already  nar- 
rated. Once  more  reconciled  to  his  friends,  he  did 
not  fail  to  transmit  to  his  Idnd  benefactor  suitable 
acknowledgments  expressive  of  the  grateful  sense 
he  entertained  of  such  unlooked-for  and  generous 
hospitality. 

It  was  now  considered  essential  that  he  should 
fix  on  a  profession,  the  pursuit  of  which  might  di- 
vert him  from  idle  and  expensive  habits.  After 
various  consultations,  it  was  determined  that  he 
should  begin  the  study  of  the  law,  and  his  uncle 
Contarine  agreed  to  advance  the  necessary  funds. 
Provided  with  money  for  the  expenses  of  his  jour- 
ney, and  to  enable  him  to  enter  on  his  studies  at 
the  Temple,  Oliver  set  out  for  London,  but  his 
customary  imprudence  again  interfered.  He  fell 
by  accident  into  the  company  of  a  sharper  in  Dub- 
lin, and  being  tempted  to  engage  in  play,  was  soon 
plundered  of  all  his  money,  and  again  left  to  find 
his  way  home  without  a  shiUing  in  his  pocket. 

His  friends  now  almost  despaired  of  him.  Not- 
withstanding the  brilliancy  of  his  natural  talents, 
it  was  feared  that  his  habitual  carelessness  and  im- 
providence would  form  a  bar  to  his  success  in  any 
profession  whatever.  That  it  would  be  vain  for 
him  to  pursue  the  study  of  the  law  veith  such  dis- 
positions was  obvious;  and,  of  course,  it  was  neces- 
sary once  more  to  cast  about  for  a  profession.  Af- 
ter various  consultations,  therefore,  it  was  finally 
determined  that  physic  should  be  his  future  pur- 
suit ;  and  his  kind  uncle,  who  had  been  prevailed 
on  to  pardon  him  once  more,  took  hun  again  under 
his  protection,  and  at  last  fixed  him  at  Edinburgh 
as  a  student  of  medicine,  about  the  end  of  the  year 
i752.  On  his  arrival  in  that  city,  he  had  no  sooner 


deposited  his  trunk  in  lodgings  than  he  sallied  out 
to  see  the  town.  He  rambled  about  until  a  late 
hour,  and  when  he  felt  disposed  to  turn  his  face 
homeward,  recollected  for  the  first  time  that  he 
knew  neither  the  name  nor  address  of  his  landlady. 
In  tliis  dilemma,  as  he  was  wandering  at  random, 
he  fortunately  met  with  the  porter  who  had  carried 
his  baggage,  and  who  now  served  him  as  a  guide. 
In  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  at  that  time  be 
coming  famous  as  a  school  of  medicine,  he  attend- 
ed the  lectures  of  the  celebrated  Monro,  and  the 
other  professors  in  medical  science.  What  pro- 
gress he  made  in  this  study,  however,  is  not  par- 
ticularly ascertained.  Riotous  conviviality,  and 
tavern  adjournments,  whether  for  business  or  plea- 
sure, were  at  that  tune  characteristic  of  Edinburgh 
society ;  and  it  does  not  appear  that  our  poet  was 
able  to  resist  the  general  contagion.  His  attention 
to  his  studies  was  far  from  being  regular.  Dissi- 
pation and  play  allured  him  from  the  class-room, 
and  his  health  and  his  purse  suffered  in  conse- 
quence. About  this  period,  his  contemporaries  have 
reported,  that  he  sometimes  also  sacrificed  to  the 
Muses,  but  of  these  early  efifusions  no  specimen 
seems  to  have  been  preserved. 

The  social  and  good-humoured  qualities  of  oui 
poet  appear  to  have  made  him  a  general  favourite 
with  his  fellow-students.  He  was  a  keen  partici- 
pator in  all  their  wild  pranks  and  humorous  frolics. 
He  was  also  a  prime  table  companion :  always  rea- 
dy with  story,  anecdote,  or  song,  though  it  must  be 
confessed  that  m  such  exhibitions  he  was  far  from 
being  successful.  His  narrations  were  too  frequent- 
ly accompanied  by  grimace  or  bufibonery;  nor  was 
his  wit  of  that  chaste  and  classical  land  that  might 
have  been  expected  from  his  education.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  generally  forced,  coarse,  and  un- 
natural. All  his  oral  communications  partook  of 
these  defects ;  and  it  is  a  fact  not  less  true  than  sin- 
gular, that  even  in  after  life  he  was  never  exempt 
from  them,  although  accustomed  to  the  poUtest  li- 
terary society. 

When  conversing  on  this  feature  in  our  poet's 
character,  his  friend  Dr.  Johnson  many  years  after- 
wards, justly,  but  perhaps  rather  severely,  remark- 
ed, "  The  misfortune  of  Goldsmith  in  conversation 
is  this :  he  goes  on  without  knowing  how  he  is  to  get 
off.  His  genius  is  great,  but  his  knowledge  is  small. 
As  they  say  of  a  generous  man,  it  is  a  pity  he  is 
not  rich,  we  may  say  of  Goldsmith,  it  is  a  pity  he  is 
not  knowing :  he  would  not  keep  his  knowledge  to 
himself." 

On  another  occasion,  Johnson  being  called  on  for 
his  opinion  on  the  same  subject,  took  a  similar  view 
of  it,  wdth  much  critical  acumen,  and  all  his  usuaJ 
power  of  amplification.  "Goldsmith,"  said  he, 
"  should  not  be  for  ever  attempting  to  shine  in  con- 
versation; he  has  not  temper  for  it,  he  is  so  much 
mortified  when  he  fails.    A  game  of  jokes  is  com- 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


posed  partly  of  skill,  partly  of  chance;  a  man  may 
be  beat  at  times  by  one  who  has  not  the  tenth  part 
of  his  wit.  Now  Goldsmith's  putting  himself 
against  another,  is  like  a  man  laying  a  hundred  to 
one,  who  can  not  spare  the  hundred.  It  is  not 
worth  a  man's  wliile.  A  man  should  not  lay  a 
hundred  to  one,  unless  he  can  easily  spare  it;  though 
he  has  a  hundred  chances  for  him,  he  can  get  but 
a  guinea,  and  he  may  lose  a  hundred.  Goldsmith 
is  in  this  state :  when  he  contends,  if  he  get  the  bet- 
ter, it  is  a  very  little  addition  to  a  man  of  his  literary 
reputation;  if  he  do  not  get  the  better,  he  is  misera- 
Hy  vexed." 

Though  now  arrived  at  an  age  when  reflection 
on  passing  objects  and  events  might  have  been  oc 
casionally  eUcited,  yet  it  does  not  appear  that  any 
thing  of  that  kind  worth  preserving  occurred  in  our 
poet's  correspondence  with  his  friends.  The  only 
drcumstancc  which  seems  to  have  excited  particu- 
lar remark  was  the  economy  of  the  Scotch  in  cook- 
ing and  eating ;  and  of  this  he  would  sometimes  give 
rather  a  ludicrous  account.  His  first  landlady,  he 
used  to  say,  nearly  starved  him  out  of  his  lodgings ; 
and  the  second,  tliough  somewhat  more  Uberal,  was 
still  a  wonderful  adept  in  the  art  of  saving.  When 
permitted  to  put  forth  all  her  talents  in  this  way, 
she  would  perform  siu^prising  feats.  A  single  lorn 
of  mutton  would  sometimes  be  made  to  serve  our 
poet  and  two  fellow-students  a  whole  week ;  a  bran- 
dered  chop  was  served  up  one  day,  a  fried  steak  ano- 
ther, collops  with  onion  sauce  a  third,  and  so  on,  till 
the  fleshy  parts  were  quite  consumed,  when  finally 
a  dish  of  broth  was  made  from  the  well-picked  bones 
on  the  seventh  day,  and  the  landlady  rested  from 
her  labours. 

After  he  had  attended  some  courses  of  lectures  at 
Eldinburgh,  it  was  thought  advisable  that  he  should 
complete  his  medical  studies  at  the  University  of 
Leyden,  then  celebrated  as  a  great  medical  school 
his  uncle  Contarine  furnishing  the  funds.  Gold 
smith  accordingly  looked  out  at  Leith  for  a  vessel 
for  Holland;  but  finding  one  about  to  sail  for  Bor- 
deaux, with  his  usual  eccentricity  engaged  a  pas- 
sage. He  found  himself,  however,  in  an  awkward 
dilemma  about  the  time  of  embarkation.  He  had 
become  security  to  a  tailor  for  a  fellow-student  in  a 
considerable  amount.  The  tailor  arrested  hun  for 
debt;  and,  but  for  the  interference  of  Mr.  Lachlan 
Maclane  and  Dr.  Sleigh,  he  would  have  been 
thrown  into  prison.  Rescued  from  this  diflSculty, 
he  embarked,  but  encountered  a  storm,  and  a  de- 
tention, and  an  escape  from  sliipwreck,  and  finally 
arrived  safe  at  Rotterdam,  instead  of  Bordeaux ;  all 
which  is  thus  related  by  himself,  in  an  extract  from 
a  letter,  without  date,  to  liis  generous  uncle  Conta- 
rine. 

"  Some  time  after  the  receipt  of  your  last,  I  era- 
barked  for  Bordeaux,  on  board  a  Scotch  ship,  call- 
ed the  St.  Andrew,  Captain  John  Wall,  master. 


The  ship  made  a  tolerable  appearance,  and  as  ano- 
ther inducement,  I  was  let  to  know  that  six  agree- 
able passengers  were  to  be  my  company.  Well, 
we'  were  but  two  days  at  sea  when  a  storm  drove 
us  into  a  city  of  England,  called  Newcastle-upon- 
TjTie.  We  all  went  ashore  to  refresh  us,  after  the 
fatigue  of  our  voyage.  Seven  men  and  I  were  one 
day  on  shore,  and  on  the  following  evening,  as  we 
were  all  very  merry,  the  room  door  bursts  open,  en- 
ters a  sergeant  and  twelve  grenadiers,  with  their 
bayonets  screwed,  and  puts  us  all  under  the  king's 
arrest.  It  seems  my  company  were  Scotchmen  in 
the  French  service,  and  had  been  in  Scotland  to 
enlist  soldiers  for  the  French  army.  I  endeavoured 
all  I  could  to  prove  my  innocence;  however,  I  re- 
mained in  prison  with  the  rest  a  fortnight,  and  with 
difficulty  got  oft*  even  then.  Dear  sir,  keep  this  all 
a  secret,  or  at  least  say  it  was  for  debt ;  for  if  it  were 
once  known  at  the  university,  I  should  hardly  get 
a  degree.  But  hear  how  Providence  interposed  m 
my  favour;  the  ship  was  gone  on  to  Bordeaux  be- 
fore I  got  from  prison,  and  was  wrecked  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and  every  one  of  the  crew 
were  drowned.  It  happened  the  last  great  storm. 
There  was  a  ship  at  that  time  ready  for  HoUandj 
I  embarked,  and  in  nine  days,  thanlt  my  God,  I  ar- 
rived safe  at  Rotterdam,  whence  I  travelled  by  land 
to  Leyden,  and  whence  I  now  vmte." 

He  proceeds  in  the  same  letter  to  amuse  his 
friends  with  a  whimsical  account  of  the  costume 
and  manners  of  the  Hollanders;  which  we  also  ex- 
tract for  the  entertaimnent  of  the  reader. 

You  may  expect  some  account  of  this  country ; 
and  though  I  am  not  well  qualified  for  such  an  un- 
dertaking, yet  I  shall  endeavour  to  satisfy  some 
part  of  your  expectations.  Nothing  surprised  me 
more  than  the  books  every  day  pubUshed  descrip- 
tive of  the  manners  of  tliis  country.  Any  young 
man  who  talces  it  into  his  head  to  publish  his  travels, 
visits  the  comitries  he  intends  to  describe;  passes 
through  them  with  as  much  inattention  as  his  valet 
de  chambre;  and  consequently,  not  having  a  fund 
himself  to  fill  a  volume,  he  apphes  to  those  who 
wrote  before  him,  and  gives  us  the  manners  of  a 
country;  not  as  he  must  have  seen  them,  but  such 
as  they  might  have  been  fifty  years  before.  The 
modern  Dutchman  is  quite  adifl^erent  creature  from 
him  of  former  times:  he  in  every  thing  imitates  a 
Frenchman,  but  in  his  easy  disengaged  air,  wlaich 
is  the  result  of  keeping  polite  company.  The 
Dutchman  is  vastly  ceremonious,  and  is  perhaps 
exactly  what  a  Frenchman  might  have  been  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Such  are  the  better  bred. 
But  the  downright  Hollander  is  one  of  the  oldest 
figures  in  nature.  Upon  a  head  of  lanlc  hair  he 
wears  a  half-cocked  narrow  hat,  laced  with  black 
riband ;  no  coat,  but  seven  waistcoats,  and  nine  pair 
of  breeches;  so  that  his  hips  reach  almost  up  to  his 
arm-pits.    This  well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit  to 


14 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


see  company,  or  make  love.     But  what  a  pleasing  thing  can  equal  its  beauty.     Wherever  I  turn  my 


creature  is  the  object  of  his  appetite?  Why,  she 
wears  a  large  fur  cap,  with  a  deal  of  Flanders  lace; 
and  for  every  pair  of  breeches  he  carries,  she  puts 
on  two  petticoats. 

"  A  Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phleg- 
matic admirer  but  his  tobacco.  You  must  know, 
sir,  every  woman  carries  in  her  hand  a  stove  with 
coals  in  it,  which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs  under 
her  petticoats ;  and  at  this  chimney  dozing  Strephon 
lights  his  pipe.  I  take  it  that  this  continual  smok- 
ing is  what  gives  the  man  the  ruddy  healthful  com- 
plexion he  generally  wears,  by  draining  his  super- 
fluous moisture;  while  the  woman,  deprived  of  this 
amusement,  overflows  with  such  viscidities  as  tint 
the  complexion,  and  give  that  paleness  of  visage 
which  low  fenny  grounds  and  moist  air  conspire  to 
cause.  A  Dutch  woman  and  a  Scotch  will  bear 
an  opposition.  The  one  is  pale  and  fat,  the  other 
lean  and  ruddy.  The  one  walks  as  if  she  were 
straddling  after  a  go-cart,  and  the  other  takes  too 
masculme  a  stride.  I  shall  not  endeavour  to  de- 
prive either  country  of  its  share  of  beauty;  but 
must  say,  that  of  all  objects  on  this  earth,  an  En- 
glish farmer's  daughter  is  most  charming.  Every 
woman  there  is  a  complete  beauty,  while  the  higher 
class  of  women  want  many  of  the  requisites  to 
make  them  even  tolerable.  Their  pleasures  here 
are  very  dull,  though  very  various.  You  may 
smoke,  you  may  doze,  you  may  go  to  the  ItaUan 
comedy,  as  good  an  amusement  as  either  of  the  for- 
mer. This  entertainment  always  brings  in  Har- 
lequin, who  is  generally  a  magician;  and  in  conse- 
quence of  his  diaboUcal  art,  performs  a  thousand 
tricks  on  the  rest  of  the  persons  of  the  drama,  who 
are  all  fools.  I  have  seen  the  pit  in  a  roar  of  laugh- 
ter at  this  humour,  when  with  his  sword  he  touches 
the  glass  from  which  another  was  drinking.  '  T  was 
not  his  face  they  laughed  at,  for  that  W£ls  masked: 
they  must  have  seen  something  vastly  queer  in  the 
wooden  sword,  that  neither  I,  nor  you,  sir,  were 
you  there,  could  see. 

"  In  winter,  when  their  canals  are  frozen,  every 
house  is  forsaken,  and  all  people  are  on  the  ice ; 
sleds  drawn  by  horses,  and  skating,  are  at  that 
time  the  reigning  amusements.  They  have  boats 
here  that  slide  on  the  ice,  and  are  driven  by  the 
winds.  When  they  spread  all  their  sails  they  go 
more  than  a  mile  and  a  half  a  minute,  and  their 
motion  is  so  rapid,  the  eye  can  scarcely  accompany 
them.  Their  ordinary  manner  of  travelling  is  very 
cheap  and  very  convenient.  They  sail  in  covered 
boats  drawn  by  horses ;  and  in  these  you  are  sure 
to  meet  people  of  all  nations.  Here  the  Dutch 
slumber,  the  French  chatter,  and  the  Enghsh  play 
at  cards.  Any  man  who  likes  company,  may  have 
them  to  his  taste.  For  my  part,  I  generally  de- 
tached myself  from  all  society,  and  was  wholly 
taken  up  in  observing  the  face  of  the  country.  No- 


eyes,  fine  houses,  elegant  gardens,  statues,  grottoa,  • 
vistas,  presented  themselves ;  but  when  you  entei 
their  towns  you  are  charmed  beyond  description 
No  misery  is  to  be  seen  here ;  every  one  is  useful* 
ly  employed. 

"Scotland  and  this  country  bear  the  highest 
contrast.  There,  liills  and  rocks  intercept  every 
prospect ;  here,  'tis  all  a  continued  plain.  There 
you  might  see  a  well  dressed  duchess  issuing  from 
a  dirty  close ;  and  here  a  dirty  Dutchman  inhabit- 
ing a  palace.  The  Scotch  may  be  compared  to  a 
tulip  planted  in  dung;  but  I  never  see  a  Dutchman 
in  his  own  house,  but  I  think  of  a  magnificent 
Egyptian  temple  dedicated  to  an  ox. 

"  Physic  is  by  no  means  taught  here  so  well  as 
in  Edinburgh ;  and  in  all  Leyden  there  are  but 
four  British  students,  owing  to  all  necessaries  being 
so  extremely  dear,  and  the  professors  so  very  lazy 
(the  chemical  professor  excepted,)  that  we  don't 
much  care  to  come  hither.  I  am  not  certain  how 
long  my  stay  here  may  be ;  however,  I  expect  to 
have  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  at  Kilmore,  if  I 
can,  next  March." 

While  resident  in  Leyden,  he  attended  the  lec- 
tures of  Gaubius  on  chemistry,  and  those  of  Albi- 
nus  on  anatomy.  In  the  letters  of  Goldsmith  to 
his  uncle,  Gaubius  is  the  only  professor  of  whose 
talents  he  gives  a  favourable  opinion.*  Of  all  the 
other  professors  he  seems  to  have  formed  rather  a 
contemptuous  estimate ;  and  with  regard  to  the  in- 
habitants in  general,  his  remarks  are  by  no  means 
of  a  laudatory  description.  But  to  appreciate  the 
characters  of  men,  and  describe  the  manners  of  a 
people  with  accuracy,  require  the  nicest  discrimi- 
nation, and  much  knowledge  of  the  world.  On 
such  subjects,  therefore,  the  opinions  of  our  poet, 
at  this  early  period  of  his  life,  are  to  be  the  less  re- 
garded. His  Dutch  characteristics  can  only  be 
deemed  good  himaoured  caricatures,  and  probably 
were  dravm  as  such,  merely  for  the  amusement  of 
his  friends  in  Ireland. 

It  happened,  unfortunately  for  Goldsmith,  that 
one  of  his  most  dangerous  propensities  met  with 
too  much  encouragement  during  his  stay  in  Hol- 
land. The  people  ofthatcoxmtry  are  much  addict- 
ed to  games  of  chance.  Gaming  tables  are  to  be 
met  with  in  every  tavern,  and  at  every  place  of 
amusement.  Goldsmith,  unable  to  resist  the  con- 
tagion of  example,  with  his  usual  faciUty  sailed 
with  the  stream;  and  fortune,  according  to  c/ustom, 
alternately  greeted  him  vsdth  smiles  and  frowns. 
His  friend.  Dr.  ElUs,t  who  was  then  also  study- 
ing at  Leyden,  used  to  relate,  that  on  one  occasion 
he  came  to  him  with  much  exultation,  and  count- 


*  Gaubius  died  in  1750,  at  the  age  of  75,  leaving  a  splendid 
reputation.  He  was  tlie  favourite  pupil  of  Boerhaave.  and 
wrote  several  learned  and  ingenious  works. 

t  Afterwards  clerk  of  the  Irish  House  of  Commorw. 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


15 


ed  out  a  considerable  ^um  which  he  had  won  the 
preceding  evening.  "  Perceiving  that  this  tempo- 
rary success,"  said  Ellis,  "was  only  fanning  the 
flame  of  a  ruinous  passion,  I  was  at  some  pains  to 
point  out  to  him  the  destructive  consequences  of 
indulging  so  dangerous  a  propensity.  I  exhorted 
him,  since  fortune  had  for  once  been  unusually 
kind,  to  rest  satisfied  with  his  present  gains,  and 
showed,  that  if  he  set  apart  the  money  now  in  his 
hands,  he  would  be  able  to  complete  his  studies 
without  further  assistance  from  his  friends.  Gold- 
smith, who  could  perceive,  though  he  could  not  al- 
ways pursue  the  right  path,  admitted  all  the  truth 
»f  my  observations,  seemed  grateful  for  my  advice, 
#nd  promised  for  the  future  strictly  to  adhere  to  it." 
The  votary  of  play,  however,  is  never  to  be  so 
•sasily  cured.  Reason  and  ridicule  are  equally  im- 
potent against  that  unhappy  passion.  To  those 
infected  with  it,  the  charms  of  the  gaming  table 
may  be  said  to  be  omnipotent.  Soon  after  this,  he 
once  more  gave  himself  up  to  it  without  control, 
and  not  only  lost  all  he  had  lately  won,  but  was 
stripped  of  every  shilling  he  had  in  the  world.  In 
this  emergency  he  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to 
Dr.  Ellis  for  advice.  His  friend  perceived  that  ad- 
monition was  useless,  and  that  so  long  as  he  re- 
mained within  reach  of  the  vortex  of  play,  his 
gambling  propensities  could  never  be  restrained. 
It  was  therefore  determined  that  he  ought  to  quit 
Holland ;  and  with  a  view  to  his  further  improve- 
ment, it  was  suggested  that  he  should  visit  some 
of  the  neighbouring  countries  before  returning  to 
his  own.  He  readily  acceded  to  this  proposal,  and 
notwithstanding  the  paucity  of  his  means,  resolved 
to  pursue  it  without  delay.  EUis,  however,  kindly 
took  his  wants  into  consideration,  and  agreed  to 
accommodate  him  with  a  sum  of  money  to  carry 
his  plan  into  execution ;  but  in  this,  as  in  other  in- 
stances, his  heedless  improvidence  interfered  to 
render  his  friend's  generosity  abortive.  When  about 
to  set  out  on  his  journey,  accident  or  curiosity  led 
him  into  a  garden  at  Leyden,  where  the  choicest 
flowers  were  reared  for  sale.  In  consequence  of  an 
unaccountable  mania  for  flowers  having  at  one 
time  spread  itself  over  Holland,  an  extensive  trade 
in  flower  roots  became  universally  prevalent  in  that 
country,  and  at  this  period  the  Dutch  florists  were 
the  most  celebrated  in  Europe.*  Fortunes  and 
law  suits  innumerable  had  been  lost  and  won  in 
this  singular  traflac;  ^d  though  the  rage  had  now 
greatly  subsided,  flower  roots  still  bore  a  considera- 
ble value.  Unluckily,  while  rambling  through  the 
garden  at  Leyden,  Goldsmith  recollected  that  his 

*  It  was  the  celebrated  tulip  mania.  For  a  tulip  root,  known 
by  the  name  of  Semper  Augustus,  550^.  sterling  was  given; 
and  for  other  tulip  roots  less  rare,  various  prices  were  given, 
from  one  hundred  to  four  hundred  guineas.  Tliis  madness 
raged  in  Holland  for  many  years,  tiU  at  length  the  State  in- 
terfered, and  a  law  was  enacted  which  put  a  stop  to  the  trade. 


uncle  was  an  amateur  of  such  rarities.  With  his 
usual  inconsiderateness  he  immediately  concluded 
a  bargain  for  a  parcel  of  the  roots,  never  reflecting 
on  his  own  limited  means,  or  the  purpose  for  which 
his  money  had  been  furnished.  This  absurd  and 
extravagant  purchase  nearly  exhausted  the  fund 
he  had  already  received  from  hfe  friend  Ellis,  and 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  the  gaming  table  gleaned  the 
little  that  remained ;  for  it  has  often  been  asserted, 
that  after  his  magnificent  speculation  in  tulip  roots 
he  actually  set  out  upon  his  travels  with  only  one 
clean  shirt,  and  without  a  shilling  in  his  pocket. 

When  this  expedition  was  projected,  it  is  most 
likely  that  nothing  more  was  intended  than  a  short 
excursion  into  Belgium  and  France.  The  passion 
for  travel,  however,  which  had  so  long  lain  dormant 
in  his  mind  was  now  thoroughly  awakened. 
Blessed  with  a  good  constitution,  an  adventurous 
spirit,  and  with  that  thoughtless,  or  perhaps  happy 
disposition,  which  talces  no  care  for  to-morrow,  he 
continued  his  travels  for  a  long  time  in  spite  of  in- 
numerable privations;  and  neither  poverty,  fatigue, 
nor  hardship,  seems  to  have  damped  his  ardour,  or 
interrupted  liis  progress.  It  is  a  well  authenticated 
fact,  that  he  performed  the  tour  of  Europe  on  foot, 
and  that  he  finished  the  arduous  and  singular  un- 
dertaking without  any  other  means  than  was  ob- 
tained by  an  occasional  display  of  his  scholarship, 
or  a  tune  upon  his  flute. 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  no  account  of  his 
tour  was  ever  given  to  the  world  by  himself.  The 
oral  conununications  which  he  sometimes  gave  to 
friends,  are  said  to  have  borne  some  resem- 
blance to  the  story  of  the  Wanderer  in  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield.  The  interest  they  excited  did  not  arise 
so  much  from  the  novelty  of  the  incidents  as  from 
the  fine  vein  of  moral  reflection  interwoven  with 
the  narrative.  Like  the  Wanderer,  he  possessed  a 
sufficient  portion  of  ancient  Uterature,  some  taste 
in  music,  and  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  the  French 
language.  His  learning  was  a  passport  to  the  hos- 
pitalities of  the  literary  and  religious  establish- 
ments on  the  continent,  and  the  music  of  his  flute 
generally  procured  him  a  welcome  reception  at  the 
cottages  of  the  peasantry.  "Whenever  I  ap- 
proached a  peasant's  house  towards  night-fall,"  he 
used  to  say,  "I  played  one  of  my  merriest  tunes, 
and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging,  but  sub- 
sistence for  the  next  day;  but,  in  truth;"  his  con- 
stant expression,  "I  must  own,  whenever  I  attempt- 
ed to  entertain  persons  of  a  higher  rank,  they  al- 
ways thought  my  performance  odious,  and  never 
made  me  any  return  for  my  endeavours  to  please 
them."  The  hearty  good-will,  however,  with 
which  he  was  received  by  the  harmless  peasantry, 
seems  to  have  atoned  to  him  for  the  disregard  of 
the  rich.  How  much  their  simple  manners  won 
upon  his  afl*ection3,  may  be  discovered  from  the  fin^ 


16 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


passage  in  his  "Traveller,"  in  which  he  so  happi- 
ly introduces  himself: — 

How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Lou:e  I 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshen'd  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew: 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  falt'ring  still, 
But  mock'd  aU  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancers'  skill, 
Vet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hoiu:. 
The  learned  and  religious  houses  also  appear  to 
have  been  equally  hospitable.     "With  the  mem- 
bers of  these  estabUshments,"  said  ho,  "I  could 
converse  on  topics  of  literature,  and  then  I  always 
forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances." 

In  many  of  the  foreign  universities  and  con- 
vents there  are,  upon  certain  days,  philosophical 
theses  maintained  against  every  adventitious  dis- 
putant ;  for  which,  if  the  champion  opposes  with 
A  any  dexterity,  he  can  claim  a  gratuity  in  money, 
a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one  night.  The  talents  of 
Goldsmith  frequently  enabled  him  to  command  the 
rehef  afforded  by  this  useful  and  hospitable  cus- 
tom. In  this  manner,  without  money  or  friends, 
he  fought  his  way  from  convent  to  convent,  and 
from  city  to  city,  examined  mankind  more  nearly, 
and,  as  he  himself  expressed  it,  saw  both  sides  of 
the  picture. 

To  Goldsmith's  close  and  familiar  intercourse 
with  the  scenes  and  natives  of  the  different  coun- 
tries through  which  he  passed,  the  world  is  indebt- 
ed for  his  "  Traveller."  For  although  that  poem 
was  afterwards  "  slowly  and  painfully  elaborated," 
still  the  nice  and  accurate  discrimination  of  na- 
tional character  displayed  could  only  be  acquired 
by  actual  examination.  In  the  progress  of  his 
journey,  he  seems  to  have  treasured  his  facts  and 
observations,  with  a  view  to  the  formation  of  this 
delightful  poem.  The  first  sketch  of  it  is  said  to 
have  been  vmtten  after  his  arrival  in  Switzerland, 
and  was  transmitted  from  that  country  to  his  bro- 
ther Henry  in  Ireland. 

After  his  arrival  in  Svntzerland,  he  took  up  his 
abode  for  some  time  in  Geneva.  Here  he  appears 
to  have  found  friends,  or  formed  acquaintances; 
for  we  find  him  recommended  at  this  place  as  tu- 
tor to  a  young  gentleman  on  his  travels.  The 
youth  to  whom  he  was  recommended  was  the  ne- 
phew of  Mr.  S******,  pawnbroker  in  London, 
who  had  unexpectedly  acquired  a  large  fortune  by 
the  death  of  his  uncle.  Determined  to  see  the 
world,  he  had  just  arrived  at  Geneva  on  the  grand 
tour,  and  not  being  provided  with  a  travelling  tu- 
tor, Goldsmith  was  hired  to  perform  the  functions 
of  that  office.  They  set  out  together  for  Mar- 
seilles; but  never  were  tutor  and  pupil  so  miserably 
assorted.  The  latter,  before  acquiring  his  fortune, 
had  been  for  some  time  articled  to  an  attorney,  and 
while  in  that  capacity  had  so  well  learned  the  art 
of  managing  in  money  concerns,  that  it  had  at 


length  become  his  favourite  study.  Naturally  ava- 
ricious, his  training  as  an  attorney  had  nothing 
duninished  the  reign  of  that  sordid  passion,  and  it 
discovered  its  most  odious  features  in  almost  every 
transaction.  When  he  engaged  a  tutor,  there- 
fore, he  took  care  to  make  a  special  proviso,  that 
in  all  money  matters  he  should  be  at  liberty  to  tu- 
tor himself.  A  stipulation  of  this  kind  so  cramp- 
ed the  views  and  propensities  of  Goldsmith,  and 
afforded  to  the  pupil  so  many  opportunities  of  dis- 
playing his  mean  disposition,  that  disgust  and  dis- 
like almost  immediately  ensued.  When  arrived 
at  Marseilles  they  mutually  agreed  to  separate; 
and  the  poet  having  received  the  small  part  of  hia 
salary  that  was  due,  his  pupU,  terrified  at  the  ex- 
pense of  travelling,  instantly  embarked  for  Eng- 
land. 

Goldsmith,  thus  freed  from  the  trammels  of  tu- 
torship, set  out  once  more  on  foot,  and  in  that  man- 
ner travelled  through  various  districts  of  France. 
He  finally  pursued  his  journey  into  Italy,  visiting 
Venice,  Verona,  Florence,  and  other  celebrat^ 
places.  At  Padua,  where  he  staid  six  months,  he 
is  said  to  have  taken  a  medical  degree,  but  upon 
what  authority  is  not  ascertained.  While  resi- 
dent at  Padua  he  was  assisted,  it  is  believed,  by 
remittances  from  his  uncle  Contarine,  who,  how- 
ever, unfortunately  died  about  that  time.*  In 
Italy,  Goldsmith  found  his  talent  for  music  al- 
most useless  as  a  means  of  subsistence,  for  every 
peasant  was  a  better  musician  than  himself;  but 
his  skill  in  disputation  still  served  his  purpose,  and 
the  religious  establishments  were  equally  hospita- 
ble. At  length,  curiosity  being  fully  gratified,  he 
resolved  to  retrace  his  steps  towards  his  native 
home.  He  returned  through  France,  as  the  short- 
er route,  and  as  affording  greater  facilities  to  a 
pedestrian.  He  was  lodged  and  entertained  as 
formerly,  sometimes  at  learned  and  religious  estab- 
lishments, and  sometimes  at*  the  cottages  of  the 
peasantry,  and  thus,  with  the  aid  of  his  philoso- 
phy and  his  flute,  he  disputed  and  piped  his  way 
homewards. 

When  Goldsmith  arrived  at  Dover  from  Franc^ 
it  was  about  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  in 
1755-6.  Being  unprovided  with  money,  a  new 
difficulty  now  presented  itself,  how  to  fight  his 


*The  Rev.  Thomas  Contarine  was  descended  from  the  no- 
ble family  of  the  Contarini  of  Venice.  His  ancestor,  having 
married  a  nun  in  his  native  country,  was  obliged  to  fly  with 
her  into  Fi^ance,  where  she  died  of  the  small-pox.  Being 
pursued  by  ecclesiastical  censures,  Contarmi  came  to  Eng- 
land; but  the  puritanical  manners  which  then  prevailed,  hav- 
ing afforded  him  but  a  cold  reception,  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Ireland,  when  at  Chester  he  met  with  a  young  lady  of  the 
name  of  Chaloner  whom  he  married.  Having  afterwards 
conformed  to  the  established  church,  he,  through  the  interest 
of  his  wife's  family,  obtained  ecclesiastical  preferment  in  the 
diocese  of  Elphin.  This  gentleman  was  their  lineal  descent 
(ia.nl.— CampbelPs  Biography  of  Goldsmith. 


OF  DH.  GOLDSMITH. 


17 


way  to  the  metropolis.  His  whole  stock  of  cash 
could  not  defray  the  expense  of  the  ordinary  con- 
veyance, and  neither  flute  nor  logic  could  help 
him  to  a  supper  or  a  bed.  By  some  means  or  other, 
however,  he  contrived  to  reach  London  in  safety. 
On  his  arrival  he  had  only  a  few  halfpence  in  his 
pocket.  To  use  his  own  words,  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters, he  found  himself  "without  friend,  recom- 
mendation, money,  or  impudence;"  and,  contrary 
to  his  usual  habits,  began  to  be  filled  with  the 
gloomiest  apprehensions.  There  was  not  a  mo- 
ment to  be  lost,  therefore,  in  seeking  for  a  sit- 
uation that  might  aflford  him  the  means  of  imme- 
diate subsistence.  His  first  attempt  was  to  get  ad- 
mission as  an  assistant  to  a  boarding-school  or  aca- 
demy, but,  for  want  of  a  recommendation,  even 
that  poor  and  painfxil  situation  was  found  difficult 
to  be  obtained.  This  difficulty  appears  also  to  have 
been  nothing  lessened  by  his  stooping  to  make  use  of 
a  feigned  name.  "What  his  motives  were  for  such 
a  measure  has  never  been  fully  explained ;  but  it 
is  fair  to  infer,  that  his  literary  i)ride  revolted  at 
servitude,  and  perhaps,  conscious  that  his  powers 
would  ultimately  enable  him  to  cniorge  from  his 
present  obscurity,  he  was  unwilling  it  should  after- 
wards be  known  that  he  had  occupied  a  situation 
60  humble.  Deceit  and  finesse,  liowc\  er,  arc  at  all 
times  dangerous,  be  the  motive  for  employing  them 
ever  so  innocent;  and  in  the  present  inotauce  our 
author  found  them  productive  of  considerable  em- 
barrassment ;  for,  when  the  master  of  the  school 
demanded  a  reference  to  some  respectable  person 
for  a  character.  Goldsmith  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  using  any  other  name  than  his  own.  In  this 
dilemma  he  wrote  to  Dr.  RadcHIT,  a  mild  benevo- 
lent man,  who  had  been  joint-tutor  with  hi.-?  perse- 
cutor Wilder,  in  Trinity  College,  and  had  some- 
times lectured  the  other  pupils.  Having  can- 
didly stated  to  the  doctor  the  predicament  in  wliich 
he  was  placed,  and  explained  the  immediate  object 
in  view,  he  told  him  that  the  same  post  whieli 
conveyed  this  information  would  also  bring  him  a 
letter  of  inquiry  from  the  school-master,  to  wliicli 
»t  was  hoped  he  would  be  so  good  as  return  a  fa- 
vourable answer.  It  appears  that  Dr.  Radcliii" 
promptly  complied  with  this  request,  for  Goldsmith 
immediately  obtained  the  situation.  We  learn 
from  Campbell's  Philosophical  Survey  of  the 
South  of  Ireland,  that  our  author's  letter  of  thanks 
to  Dr.  Radcliff  on  that  occasion  was  accompanied 
with  a  very  interesting  account  of  his  travels  and 
adventures. 

The  employment  of  usher  at  an  academy  in  Lon- 
don, is  of  itself  a  task  of  no  ordinary  labour;  but, 
independent  of  the  drudgery  and  toil,  it  is  attended 
with  so  many  little  irritating  circumstances,  that 
of  all  others  it  is  perhaps  a  situation  the  most  pain- 
ful and  irksome  to  a  man  of  independent  mind  and 
liberal  ideas.     To  a  person  of  our  author's  temper 


and  habits,  it  was  peculiarly  distasteful.  How  long 
he  remained  in  this  situation  is  not  well  ascertained, 
but  he  ever  spoke  of  it  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  The 
very  remembrance  of  it  seemed  to  be  gall  and  worm- 
wood to  him;  and  how  keenly  he  must  have  felt  its 
mortification  and  misery,  may  be  gathered  from  the 
satire  with  which  it  is  designated  in  various  parts 
of  his  works.  The  language  which  he  has  put 
into  the  mouth  of  the  Wanderer's  cousin,  when  he 
applies  to  liim  for  an  ushership,  is  feelingly  charac- 
teristic. "I,"  said  he,  "have  been  an  usher  to  a 
boarding-school  myself;  and  may  I  die  by  an  ano- 
dyne necklace,  but  I  had  rather  be  an  under-turn- 
key  in  Newgate!  I  was  up  early  and  late:  I  was 
browbeat  by  the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face  by 
the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never 
permitted  to  stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But, 
are  you  sure  you  arc  fit  for  a  school?  Let  me 
examine  you  a  little.  Have  you  been  bred  ap- 
prentice to  the  business?"— -No. — "Then  you  won't 
do  for  a  school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys'  hair  ?" — 
No. — "  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Have 
you  had  the  small-pox?" — No. — "  Then  you  won't 
do  for  a  school.  Can  you  lie  three  in  a  bed?" — 
No. — "  Then  you  will  never  do  for  a  school.  HaA  e 
you  got  a  good  stomach?" — Yes. — "Then  you 
will  by  no  means  do  for  a  school.  No,  sir:  if  you 
are  for  a  genteel,  easy  profession,  bind  yourself 
seven  years  as  an  apprentice  to  turn  a  cutler's 
wheel;  but  avoid  a  school  by  any  means." 

On  another  occasion,  when  talking  on  the  same 
SiUbject,  our  author  thus  sunnned  u])  the  misery  of 
such  an  employment : — "  After  the  fatigues  of  tiie 
day,  the  poor  usher  of  an  academy  is  obliged  to 
sleep  in  the  same  bed  with  a  Frenchman,  a  teacher 
of  that  language  to  the  boys,  who  disturbs  him 
every  niglit,  an  hour  perhaps,  in  papering  and  fillet- 
ing hio  hair,  and  stinks  worse  tlian  a  carrion,  with 
his  rancid  pomatums,  when  he  lays  his  head  beside 
him  on  his  bolster." 

Having  thrown  up  this  wretched  employment, 
he  was  obliged  to  cast  about  for  one  more  congenial 
to  his  mind.  In  this,  however,  he  again  found  con- 
siderable difficulty.  His  personal  appearance  and 
address  were  never  prepossessing,  but  at  that  par- 
ticular period  were  still  less  so  from  tlie  thread-bare 
state  of  his  wardrobe.  He  applied  to  se^  eral  of  the 
medical  tribe,  but  had  the  mortification  to  meet  witli 
repeated  refusals;  and  on  more  than  one  occasion 
was  jeered  with  the  mimicry  of  his  broad  Irish  jic- 
cent.  At  length  a  chemist,  near  Fish-street-hill, 
took  him  into  his  laboratory,  where  his  medical 
knowledge  soon  rendered  him  an  able  and  useful 
assistant.  Not  long  after  this,  however,  accident 
discovered  to  him  that  his  old  friend  and  fellow- 
student,  Dr.  Sleigh,  was  in  London,  and  he  deter- 
mined, if  possible,  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with 
him.  "  It  was  Sunday,"  said  Goldsmith,  "when 
I  paid  him  the  first  visit,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  1 


18 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


was  dressed  in  my  best  clothes.  Sleigh  scarcely 
knew  me ;  such  is  the  tax  the  unfortunate  pay  to 
poverty.  However,  when  he  did  recollect  me,  I 
found  his  heart  as  warm  as  ever,  and  he  shared  his 
purse  and  his  friendship  with  me  during  his  con- 
tinuance in  London." 

The  friendship  of  Dr.  Sleigh*  was  not  confined 
to  the  mere  relief  of  our  poet's  immediate  wants, 
])ut  showed  itself  in  an  anxious  solicitude  for  his 
permanent  success  in  life.  Nobody  better  knew 
how  to  appreciate  his  talents  and  acquirements,  and 
the  accurate  knowledge  that  Sleigh  possessed  of 
London  qualified  him  to  advise  and  direct  the  poet 
in  his  subsequent  pursuits.  Accordingly  we  find 
that  Goldsmith,  encouraged  by  his  friend's  advice, 
commenced  medical  practitioner  at  Bankside,  in 
Southwark,  whence  he  afterwards  removed  to  the 
Temple  and  its  neighbourhood.  In  Southwark  it 
appears  that  his  practice  did  not  answer  his  ex- 
pectations, but  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Temple  he 
was  more  successful.  The  fees  of  the  physician, 
however,  were  little,  and  that  little,  as  is  usual 
among  the  poorer  classes,  was  very  ill  paid.  He 
found  it  necessary,  therefore,  to  have  recourse  like- 
wise to  his  pen,  and  being  introduced  by  Dr. 
Sleigh  to  some  of  the  booksellers,  was  almost  im- 
mediately engaged  in  their  service; — and  thus, 
"  with  very  little  practice  as  a  physician,  and  very 
little  reputation  as  a  poet,"  as  he  himself  expresses 
it,  he  made  "  a  shift  to  live."  The  peculiarities  of 
his  situation  at  this  period  are  described  in  the  fol- 
lowing letter,  addressed  to  the  gentleman  who  had 
married  his  eldest  sister.  It  is  dated  Temple  Ex- 
change Coffee-house,  December  27,  1757,  and  ad- 
dressed to  Daniel  Hodson,  Esq.,  at  Lishoy,  near 
Ballymahon,  Ireland, 

"  Dear  Sir, — It  may  be  four  years  since  my  last 
letters  went  to  Ireland ;  and  from  you  in  particular 
I  received  no  answer,  probably  because  you  never 
wrote  to  me.  My  brother  Charles,  however,  in- 
forms me  of  the  fatigue  you  were  at  in  soliciting  a 
subscription  to  assist  me,  not  only  among  my  friends 
and  relations,  but  acquaintance  in  general.  Though 
my  pride  might  feel  some  repugnance  at  being  thus 
relieved,  yet  my  gratitude  can  suffer  no  diminution. 
How  much  am  I  obliged  to  you,  to  them,  for  such 
generosity,  or  (why  should  not  your  virtues  have 
the  proper  name)  for  such  charity  to  me  at  that 
juncture.  Sure  I  am  bom  to  ill  fortune,  to  be  so 
much  a  debtor,  and  unable  to  repay.  But  to  say 
no  more  of  tliis :  too  many  professions  of  gratitude 
are  often  considered  as  indirect  petitions  for  future 
favours ;  let  me  only  add,  that  my  not  receiving  that 
supply  was  the  cause  of  my  present  establishment 


•  ITiis  gentleman  subsequently  settled  in  Cork,  his  native 
city,  and  was  rapidly  rising  into  eminence  in  his  profession, 
when  he  was  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  age  by  an  inflamma- 
tory fever,  which  deprived  the  world  of  a  fine  scholar,  a  skilful 
physician,  and  an  honest  man. 


at  London.  You  may  easily  imagine  w^hat  difl^- 
culties  I  had  to  encounter,  left  as  I  was  without 
friends,  recommendations,  money,  or  impudence; 
and  that  in  a  country  where  being  born  an  Irish- 
man was  sufiicient  to  keep  me  unemployed.  Many 
in  such  circumstances  would  have  had  recourse  to 
the  friar's  cord,  or  the  suicide's  halter.  But,  with 
all  my  follies,  I  had  principle  to  resist  the  one,  and 
resolution  to  combat  the  other. 

"  1  suppose  you  desire  to  know  my  present  situ- 
ation.    As  there  is  nothing  in  it  at  which  I  should 
blush,  or  which  mankind  could  censure,  I  see  no 
reason  for  making  it  a  secret.     In  short,  by  a  very 
little  practice  as  a  physician,  and  a  %  ery  little  repu- 
tation as  a  poet,  I  make  a  sliift  to  live.    Nothing  is 
more  apt  to  introduce  us  to  the  gates  of  the  Muses 
than  poverty ;  but  it  were  well  for  us  if  they  only 
,  left  us  at  the  door — the  mischief  is,  they  sometimes 
I  choose  to  give  us  their  company  at  the  entertain- 
I  ment,  and  want,  instead  of  being  gentleman  usher, 
,  often  turns  master  of  the  cx^rcmonies.    Thus,  upon 
hearing  I  write,  no  doubt  you  imagine  I  starve ; 
j  and  the  name  of  an  author  naturally  remands  you 
I  of  a  garret.     In  this  particular  I  do  not  tliink  pro- 
I  per  to  undeceive  my  friends.     But  whether  I  eat 
:  or  starve ;  live  in  a  first  fioor,  or  four  pair  of  stairs 
high,  I  still  remember  them  with  ardour ;  nay,  my 
I  very  country  comes  in  for  a  share  of  my  affection. 
Unaccountable  fondness  for  country,  this  maladie 
du  pays,  as  the  French  call  it !    Unaccountable, 
that  he  should  still  have  an  affection  for  a  place, 
w  ho  never  received,  when  in  it,  above  common  ci 
I  vility ;  who  never  brought  any  thing  out  of  it,  ex- 
I  cept  his  brogue  and  his  blunders.    Surely  my  affec- 
ition  is  equally  ridiculous  with  the  Scotchman's, 
j  who  refused  to  be  cured  of  the  itch  because  it  made 
Mm  unco  thoughtfxd  o'  his  wife  and  bonnie  Inve- 
i  rary.     But  now  to  be  serious ;  let  me  ask  myself 
j  what  gives  me  a  wish  to  see  Ireland  again  1  The 
I  country  is  a  fine  one,  perhaps  7    No. — There  are 
1  good  company  in  Ireland?  No. — The  conversation 
I  there  is  generally  made  up  of  a  smutty  toast,  or  a 
bawdy  song.     The  A-ivacity  supported  by  some 
humble  cousin,  who  has  just  folly  enough  to  earn 
his  dinner. — Then,  perhaps,  there  is  more  wit  and 
learning  among  the  Irish?  Oh,  Lord,  no!   There 
has  been  more  money  spent  in  the  encouragement 
of  the  Podareen  mare  there  in  one  season,  than 
given  in  rewards  to  learned  men  since  the  time  of 
Usher.     All  their  productions  in  learning  amount 
to  perhaps  a  translation,  or  a  few  tracts  in  divinity ; 
and  all  their  productions  in  wit  to  just  nothing  at 
all. — Why  the  plague,  then,  so  fond  of  Ireland  7 
Then,  all  at  once,  because  you,  my  dear  friend, 
and  a  few  more,  who  are  exceptions  to  the  general 
picture,  have  a  residence  there.     This  it  is  that 
gives  me  all  the  pangs  I  feel  in  separation.    I  con- 
fess I  carry  this  spirit  sometimes  to  the  souring  the 
pleasures  1  at  present  possess.   If  I  go  to  the  opera, 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


19 


where  Signora  Columba  pours  out  all  the  mazes 
of  mclod}^,  I  sit  and  sigh  for  Lishoy  fireside,  and 
Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good  Night,  from  Peg- 
gy Golden.  If  I  climb  Flamstead-hill,  than  where 
nature  never  exhibited  a  more  magnificent  pros- 
pect, 1  confess  it  fine,  but  then  I  had  rather  be 
placed  on  the  little  mount  before  Lishoy  gate,  and 
there  take  in,  to  me,  the  most  pleasing  horizon  in 
nature.  Before  Charles  came  hither,  my  thouglits 
sometimes  found  refuge  from  severe  studies  among 
my  friends  in  Ireland.  I  fancied  strange  revolutions 
at  home ;  but  I  find  it  was  the  rapidity  of  my  own 
motion  that  gave  an  imaginary  one  to  objects  really 
at  rest.  No  alterations  there.  Some  friends,  he 
tells  me,  are  still  lean,  but  very  rich ;  others  very 
fit,  but  still  very  poor.  Nay,  all  the  news  I  hear 
of  you  is,  that  you  and  Mrs.  Hodson  sometimes 
sally  out  in  visits  among  the  neighbours,  and  some- 
times make  a  migration  from  the  blue  bed  to  the 
brown,  I  could  from  ray  heail  wish  that  you  and 
she,  and  Lishoy  and  Ballymahon,  and  all  of  you, 
would  fairly  make  a  migration  into  Middlesex; 
though,  upon  second  thoughts,  this  might  be  at- 
tended with  a  few  inconveniencics :  therefore,  as 
the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mahomet,  why  Ma- 
homet shall  go  to  the  mountain ;  or,  to  speak  plain 
English,  as  you  can  not  conveniently  pay  me  a  visit, 
if  next  summer  I  can  contrive  to  be  absent  six 
weeks  from  London,  I  shall  spend  tliree  of  them 
among  my  friends  in  Ireland.  But  first  believe  me, 
my  design  is  purely  to  visit,  and  neither  to  cut  a 
figure  nor  levy  contributions,  neither  to  excite  en- 
vy nor  soUcit  favour;  in  fact,  my  circumstances  are 
adapted  to  neither,  I  am  too  poor  to  be  gazed  at, 
and  too  rich  to  need  assistance, 

"You  see,  dear  Dan,  how  long  I  have  been 
talking  about  myself;  but  attribute  my  vanity  to 
my  affection:  as  every  man  is  fond  of  himself,  and 
I  consider  you  as  a  second  self,  I  imagine  you  will 
consequently  be  pleased  with  these  instances  of 
egotism." 

Goldsmith  then  alludes  to  some  concerns  of  a 
private  nature,  and  concludes  : 

"  My  deai^  sir,  these  things  give  me  real  uneasi- 
ness, and  I  could  wish  to  redress  them.  But  at 
I)resent  there  is  hardly  a  kingdom  in  Europe  in 
which  I  am  not  a  debtor.  I  have  already  discharged 
my  most  threatening  and  pressing  demands,  for 
we  must  be  just  before  we  can  be  grateful.  For 
the  rest  I  need  not  say,  (you  know  I  am,)  your  af- 
fectionate kinsman." 

The  medical  and  literary  pursuits  of  our  author, 
though  productive,  at  this  period,  of  little  emolu- 
ment, gradually  extended  the  sphere  of  his  acquaint- 
ance. Several  of  his  fellow  students  at  Edinburgh 
and  Dublin  were  now  resident  in  London,  and,  by 
degrees,  he  continued  to  renew  the  intimacy  that 
had  formerly  subsisted  between  them.'  Some  of 
them  occasionally  assisted  him  with  their  purse. 


and  others  procured  lum  the  notice  of  the  polite 
and  the  learned.  Among  the  friendships  thus 
agreeably  renewed,  there  was  one  with  a  medical 
character,*  afterwards  eminent  in  his  profession, 
who  used  to  give  the  following  account  of  our  au- 
thor's first  interview  with  him  in  London. 

"  From  the  time  of  Goldsmith's  leaving  Edin- 
burgh in  the  year  1754,  I  never  saw  him  till  the 
year  1756,  when  I  was  in  London  attending  the 
hospitals  and  lectures ;  early  in  January  he  called 
upon  me  one  morning  before  I  was  up,  and  on  my 
entering  the  room  I  recognised  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, dressed  in  a  rusty  full  trimmed  black  suit, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  papers,  which  instantly  re- 
minded me  of  the  poet  in  Garrick's  farce  of  Lethe. 
After  we  had  finished  our  breakfast  he  drew  from 
his  pocket  part  of  a  tragedy,  which  he  said  he  had 
brought  for  my  correction.  In  vain  I  pleaded  iiia- 
1)ility,  when  he  began  to  read,  and  every  part  on 
which  I  expressed  a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety,  was 
immediately  blotted  out.  I  tlien  more  earnestly 
pressed  him  not  to  trust  to  my  judgment,  but  to 
take  the  opinion  of  persons  better  qualified  to  de- 
cide on  dramatic  compositions.  He  now^  told  me 
that  he  had  submitted  his  production,  so  far  as  he 
had  written,  to  Mr.  Richardson,  the  author  of  Cla- 
rissa, on  which  I  peremptorily  declined  offering 
another  criticism  on  the  J>crformance.  The  name 
and  subject  of  tlie  tragedy  have  unfortunately  es- 
caped my  memory,  neither  do  I  recollect,  with  ex- 
actness, hov/  much  he  had  written,  though  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  he  had  not  completed  the 
third  act;  I  never  heard  whether  he  afterwards 
finished  it.  In  this  visit,  I  remember  his  relating  a 
strange  Gluixotic  scheme  he  had  in  contemplation, 
of  going  to  decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  Writ- 
ten Mountains,  though  he  was  altogether  ignorant 
of  Arabic,  or  the  language  in  which  they  might 
be  supposed  to  be  written.  The  salary  of  tliree 
hundred  pounds  per  annum,  which  had  been  left 
for  the  purpose,  was  the  temptation !" 

"With  regard  to  the  sketch  of  a  tragedy  here  al- 
luded to,  the  piece  never  was  completed,  nor  did  he 
afterwards  attempt  any  thing  in  the  same  line. 
His  project  respecting  the  Written  Monntains, 
was  certainly  an  undertaking  of  a  most  extrava- 
gant description;  but,  if  we  consider  how  little 
qualified  he  was  for  such  a  task,  it  can  hardl}^  be 
supposed  that  the  scheme  ever  entered  seriously 
into  his  mind.  It  was  not  unusual  with  him  to 
hazard  opinions  and  adopt  resolutions,  without 
much  consideration,  and  often  without  calculating 
the  means  to  the  end.  "Goldsmith,"  said  Bos- 
well,  "had  a  more  than  conunon  share  of  that 
hurry  of  ideas  which  we  often  find  in  his  country- 
men. He  was  very  much  wdiat  the  French  call 
un  etourdi,  and  from  vanity  and  an  eager  desire 


*  It  is  presumed  that  Dr.  Sfeigh  is  meant 


so 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


of  being  conspicuous,  wherever  he  was,  he  fre- 
nuently  talked  earelessly,  without  knowledge  of 
the  subject  or  even  without  thought."  The  ex- 
travagant scheme  respecting  the  Written  Moun- 
tdins,  however,  seems  not  to  have  given  way  to  a 
more  rational  undertaking  at  home;  and,  notwith- 
istanding  our  author's  boast,  in  his  letter  to  Mr, 
Hodson,  of  being  "  too  rich  to  need  assistance," 
we  find  him,  about  this  time,  induced  to  relinquish 
his  medical  i)ractice,  and  undertake  the  manage- 
ment of  the  classical  school  at  Peck  ham.     The 


never  do  it  sincerely.  Take  me  then  with  all  my 
faults.  Let  me  write  when  I  please  ;  for  you  see  I 
say  what  I  please,  and  am  only  thinking  aloud 
when  writing  to  you.  I  suppose  you  have  heard 
of  my  intention  of  going  to  the  East  Indies.  The 
place  of  my  destination  is  one  of  the  factories  on 
the  coast  of  Coromandel,  and  I  go  in  the  quality  of 
physician  and  surgeon ;  for  which  the  Company  has 
signed  my  warrant,  which  has  already  cost  me  ten 
pounds;  I  must  also  pay  fifty  pounds  for  my  pas- 
sage, and  ten  pounds  for  my  sea-stores ;  and  the 


master.  Dr.  Milner,  having  been  seized  with  a  se-  other  incidental  expenses  of  my  equipment  will 


vere  illness,  was  unable  to  attend  to  the  duties  of 
his  charge ;  and  it  had  been  necetjsary  to  procure  a 
person,  of  classical  attainments,  to  preside  over 
the  establishment,  while  deprived  of  his  own  sup- 
port. The  son  of  the  doctor  having  studied  with 
Goldsmith  at  Edinburgh,  knew  his  abilities  as 
scholar,  and  recommended  him  to  his  father  as  a 
person  well  qualified  for  the  situation.  Our  author 
accordingly  took  charge  of  the  school,  and  acquitted 
himself  in  the  management  so  much  to  the  satis- 
fiiction  of  his  employer,  that  he  engaged  to  procure 
a  medical  appointment  for  him  under  the  East  In- 
dia Company.  Dr.  Milner  had  considerable  in- 
fluence with  some  of  the  directors,  and  afterwards 
made  good  his  promise,  for,  by  his  means,  through 
the  interest  of  the  director  Mr.  Jones,  Goldsmith 
was  appointed  physician  to  one  of  the  factories  in 
India,  in  the  year  1758. 

This  appointment  seems,  for  a  while,  to  have 
filled  the  vivid  imagination  of  our  author  with 
splendid  dreams  of  futurity.  The  princely  fortunes 
acquired  b}^  some  individuals  in  the  Indies  flattered 
liim  with  the  hope  of  similar  success ;  and  accord- 
ingly we  find  him  bending  his  whole  soul  to  the 
accompUshment  of  this  new  undertaking.  The 
chief  obstacle  that  stood  in  the  way  was  the  ex- 
pense of  his  equipment  for  so  long  a  voyage ;  but 
his  "  Present  State  of  Polite  Literature  in  Europe" 
had  been,  for  some  time,  preparing  for  the  press ; 
and  he  seems  to  have  relied  that  the  profits  of  that 
work  would  aflford  the  means  of  enabling  him  to 
embark.  Proposals  were  immediately  drawn  up, 
and  published,  to  print  the  work  by  subscription. 
These  he  circulated  with  indefatigable  zeal  and 
industry.  He  wrote  to  his  friends  in  Ireland  to 
promote  the  subscription  in  that  country,  and,  in 
the  correspondence  with  them,  he  evinces  the 
greatest  anxiety  for  its  success.  In  the  following 
letter  he  explains  liis  situation  and  prospects,  and 
shows  how  much  he  had  set  his  heart  on  the  ex- 
pedition to  the  East.  It  is  without  dat«,  but  writ- 
ten some  time  in  1758,  or  in  the  early  pa*t,  of  1759, 
and  addressed  to  Mr.  Daniel  Hodson,  his  brother- 
in-law. 

"Dear  Sir, — You  can  not  expect  regularity  in 
one  who  is  regular  in  nothing.  Nay,  were  I  forced 
to  love  you  by  rule,  T  dare  venture  to  say,  I  could 


amount  to  sixty  or  seventy  pounds  more.  The  sa- 
lary is  but  trifling,  viz.  one  hundred  pounds  per 
annum;  but  the  other  advantages,  if  a  person  be  pio?.- 
dent,  are  considerable.  The  practice  of  the  place, 
if  I  am  rightly  informed,  generally  amounts  to  not 
less  than  one  thousand  pounds  per  annum,  for  which 
the  appointed  physician  has  an  exclusive  privilege. 
This,  with  the  advantages  r<'sulting  from  trade, 
with  the  high  interest  which  money  bears,  viz. 
twenty  per  cent.,  are  the  inducements  which  per- 
suade me  to  undergo  the  fatigues  of  the  sea,  the 
dangers  of  war,  and  the  still  greater  dangers  of  the 
climate ;  which  induce  me  to  leave  a  place  where  I 
am  every  day  gaining  friends  and  esteem,  and 
where  I  might  enjoy  all  the  conveniencies  of  life. 
I  am  certainly  wrong  not  to  be  contented  with  what 
I  already  possess,  trifling  as  it  is ;  for  should  I  ask 
myself  one  serious  question.  What  is  it  I  want? — 
what  can  I  answer?  My  desires  are  as  capricioua 
as  the  big-bellied  woman's  who  longed  for  a  piece 
of  her  husband's  nose.  I  have  no  certainty,  it  is 
true ;  but  wh^  can  not  I  do  as  some  men  of  more 
merit,  who  have  lived  on  more  prc(;arious  terms? 
Scarron  used  jestingly  to  call  himself  the  .Marquis 
of  Gluenault,  which  was  the  name  of  the  booksel- 
ler that  employed  him;  and  why  may  not  I  assert 
my  privilege  and  quality  on  the  same  pretensions? 
Yet,  upon  deliberation,  whatever  airs  I  give  my- 
self on  this  side  of  the  water,  my  dignity,  I  fancy 
would  be  evaporated  before  I  reached  the  other.  I 
know  you  have  in  Ireland  a  very  indiflerent  idea  of 
a  man  who  writes  for  bread,  though  Swift  and 
Steele  did  so  in  the  earliest  part  of  their  lives.  You 
imagine,  I  suppose,  that  every  author  by  profession 
lives  in  a  garret,  wears  shabby  clothes,  and  con- 
verses vsdth  the  meanest  compan3^  Yet  I  do  not 
believe  there  is  one  single  writer,  w^ho  has  abilities 
to  translate  a  French  novel,  that  docs  not  keep  bet- 
ter company,  Avear  finer  clothes,  and  live  more  gen- 
teely,  than  many  who  pride  themselves  for  notliing 
else  in  Ireland.  I  confess  it  again,  my  dear  Dan, 
that  nothing  but  the  wildest  ambition  could  prevail 
on  me  to  leave  the  enjoyment  of  that  refined  con- 
versation which  I  am  sometimes  permitted  to  par- 
take in,  for  uncertain  fortune,  and  paltry  show. 
You  can  not  conceive  how  I  am  sometimes  divided. 
To  leave  all  that  is  dear  to  me  gives  me  pain;  but 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


91 


when  I  consider  I  may  possibly  acquire  a  genteel 
independence  for  life;  when  I  think  of  that  dignity 
which  philosophy  claims,  to  raise  itself  above  con- 
tempt and  ridicule;  when  1  think  thus,  I  eagerly 
long  to  embrace  every  opportunity  of  separating 
myself  from  the  vulgar,  as  much  in  my  circum- 
stances as  I  am  already  in  my  sentiments.  I  am 
going  to  pubUsh  a  book,  for  an  account  of  which  I 
refer  you  to  a  letter  wliich  I  w^rote  to  my  brother 
Goldsmith.  Circulate  for  me  among  your  acquaint- 
ance a  hundred  proposals,  which  1  have  given  or- 
ders may  be  sent  to  you,  and  if,  in  pursuance  of 
such  circulation,  you  should  receive  any  subscrip- 
tions, let  them,  when  collected,  be  transmitted  to 
Mr.  Bradley,  who  will  give  a  receipt  for  the  same. 


"  I  know  not  how  my  desire  of  seeing  Ireland, 
which  had  so  long  slept,  has  again  revived  with  so 
much  ardour.  So  weak  is  my  temper,  and  so  un- 
steady, that  I  am  frequently  tempted,  particularly 
when  low-spirited,  to  return  home,  and  leave  my 
fortune,  though  just  beginning  to  look  kinder.  But 
it  shall  not  be.  In  five  or  six  years  I  hope  to  in- 
dulge these  transpoits,  I  find  I  want  constitution, 
and  a  strong  steady  disposition,  which  alone  makes 
men  great.  I  will,  however,  correct  my  faults, 
since  I  am  conscious  of  them." 

The  following  letter  to  Edward  Mills,  Esq.  dat- 
ed Temple  Exchange  CofTee-house,  August  7, 
1759,  gives  the  title  of  the  book  he  was  about  to  pub- 
lish, as  stated  in  the  foregoing  letter. 

"  Dkar  Sir, — You  have  quitted,  I  find,  that  plan 
of  life  which  you  once  intended  to  pursue,  and  given 
up  ambition  for  domestic  tranquillity.  Wore  I  to 
consult  your  satisfaction  alone  in  this  change,  I  have 
the  utmost  reason  to  congratulate  your  choice ;  but 
when  I  consider  my  own,  I  can  not  avoid  feeling 
some  regret,  that  one  of  my  few  friends  has  declin- 
ed a  pursuit  in  which  he  had  every  reason  to  expect 
success.  The  truth  is,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  I 
am  self-interested  in  my  concern;  and  do  not  so 
much  consider  the  happiness  you  have  acquired,  as 
the  honour  I  have  probably  lost  in  the  change.  I 
have  often  let  my  fancy  loose  when  you  were  the 
subject,  and  have  imagined  you  gracing  the  bencli, 
or  thundering  at  the  bar;  while  I  have  taken  no 
small  pride  to  myself,  and  whispered  all  that  I  could 
come  near,  that  this  was  my  cousin.  Instead  ol" 
this,  it  seems  you  arc  contented  to  be  merely  a  hap- 
py man;  to  be  esteemed  only  by  your  acquaintance; 
to  cultivate  your  patt^rnal  acres ;  to  take  unmolested 
a  nap  under  one  of  your  own  hawthorns,  or  in 
Mrs.  Mills's  l)ed-chamber,  which,  even  a  poet  must 
confess,  is  rather  the  most  comfortable  place  of  the 
two. 

"  But,  however  your  resolutions  may  be  altered 
with  respect  to  your  situation  in  life,  I  persuade  my- 
self they  are  ujialterable  with  regard  to  3^our  friends 


in  it.  I  can  not  think  the  world  has  taken  such 
entire  possession  of  that  heart  (once  so  suscep- 
tible of  friendship,)  as  not  to  have  left  a  corner 
there  for  a  friend  or  two;  bijt  I  flatter  myself  that  J 
even  have  my  place  among  the  number.  Thia  I 
have  a  claim  to  from  the  similitude  of  our  disposi- 
tions; or,  setting  that  aside,  I  can  demand  it  as  my 
right  by  the  most  equitable  law  in  nature,  I  mean 
that  of  retaliation ;  for  indeed  you  have  more  than 
your  share  in  mine.  I  am  a  man  of  few  professions; 
and  yet  this  very  instant  I  can  not  avoid  the  pain- 
ful apprehension,  that  my  present  profession  (which 
speaks  not  half  my  feelings,)  should  be  considered 
only  as  a  pretext  to  cover  a  request,  as  I  have  a  re- 
quest to  make.  No,  my  dear  Ned,  I  know  you  arc 
too  generous  to  tliink  so;  and  you  know  me  too 
proud  to  stoop  to  mercenary  insincerity.  I  have  a 
request,  it  is  true,  to  make ;  but,  as  1  know  to  whom  I 
am  a  petitioner,  I  make  it  without  diffidence  or  con- 
fusion. It  is  in  short  this :  I  am  going  to  publish  a 
book  in  London,  entitled,  "  An  Essay  on  the  pre- 
sent State  of  Taste  and  Literature  in  Europe." 
Every  v^ork  published  here,  the  printers  in  Ireland 
republish  there,  without  giving  the  author  the  least 
consideration  for  his  copy.  I  would  in  this  respect 
disappoint  their  avarice,  and  have  all  the  additional 
advantages  that  may  result  from  the  sale  of  my  per- 
formance there  to  myself.  The  book  is  now  print- 
ing in  London,  and  I  have  requested  Dr.  Radcliff, 
Mr.  Lawder,  Mr.  Bryanton,  my  brother  Mr.  Hen- 
ry Goldsmith,  and  brother-in-law  Mr.  Hodson,  to 
circulate  my  proposals  among  their  acquaintance. 
The  same  request  I  now  malie  to  you;  and  have 
accordingly  given  directions  to  Mr.  Bradley,  book- 
seller in  Darae-strect,  Dublin,  to  send  you  a  hun- 
dred proposals.  Whatever  subscriptions,  pursuant 
to  those  proposals,  you  may  receive,  when  collected, 
rnay  be  transmitted  to  Mr.  Bradley,  who  will  give 
a  receipt  for  the  money  and  be  accountable  for  the 
books.  I  shall  not,  by  a  paltry  apology,  excuse  my 
self  for  putting  you  to  this  trouble.  Were  1  not 
convinced  that  you  found  more  pleasure  in  doing 
good-natured  things  than  uneasiness  at  being  em- 
ployed in  them,  I  should  not  have  singled  }^ou  out 
on  this  occasion.  It  is  probable  you  would  comply 
with  such  a  request,  if  it  tended  to  the  encourage- 
ment of  any  man  of  learning  whatsoever;  what  then 
may  not  he  expect  who  has  claims  of  family  and 
friendship  to  enfore  his?" 

The  same  subjects  are  pursued  in  another  and 
every  interesting  letter,  written  in  1759,  but  subse- 
quent to  the  foregoing,  to  his  brother,  the  Rev. 
Henry  Goldsmith, 

"  Dear  Sir, — Tour  punctuality  in  answering  a 
man  whose  trade  is  writing,  is  more  than  I  had 
reason  to  expect,  and  yet  you  see  me  generally  fill 
a  whole  sheet,  which  is  all  the  recompense  I  can 
make  for  being  so  frequently  troublesome.  The 
behaviour  of  Mr.  Mills  and  Mr,  Lawder  is  a  Uttle 


23 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


extraordinary.  However,  their  answering  neither 
you  nor  me,  is  a  sufficient  indication  of  their  dis- 
liking the  employment  which  I  assigned  them.  As 
their  conduct  is  different  from  what  I  had  expected, 
so  I  have  made  an  alteration  in  mine.  I  shall  the 
beginning  of  next  month  send  over  two  hundred 
and  fifty  books,*  which  are  all  that  I  fancy  can  be 
well  sold  among  you,  and  I  would  have  you  make 
some  distinction  in  the  persons  who  hayecubscribecl. 
The  money,  which  will  amount  to  sixty  pounds, 
may  be  left  with  Mr.  Bradley  as  soon  as  possil)le. 
I  am  not  certain  but  I  shall  quickly  have  occasion 
for  it.  I  have  met  with  no  disappointment  with 
respect  to  my  East  India  voyage,  nor  are  my  reso- 
lutions altered;  though  at  the  same  time,  I  must 
confess  it  gives  me  some  pain  to  think  I  am  almost 
beginning  the  world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one. 
Though  I  never  had  a  day's  sickness  since  I  saw 
you,  yet  1  am  not  that  strong  active  man  you  once 
knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  conceive  how  much 
eight  years  of  disappointment,  anguish,  and  study, 
have  worn  me  down.  If  I  remember  right,  you 
are  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  me,  yet  1  dare 
venture  to  say,  if  a  stranger  saw  us  both,  he  would 
pay  me  the  honours  of  seniority.  Imagine  to  your- 
self a  pale,  melancholy  visage,  with  two  great 
wrinkles  between  the  eye-brows,  with  an  eye  dis- 
gustingly severe,  and  a  big  wig,  and  you  may  have 
a  perfect  picture  of  my  present  appearance.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  conceive  you  as  perfectly  sleek 
and  healthy,  passing  many  a  happy  day  among 
your  own  children,  or  those  who  knew  you  a  child. 
Since  I  knew  what  it  was  to  be  a  man,  this  is  a 
pleasure  I  have  not  known.  I  have  passed  my  days 
among  a  parcel  of  cool  designing  beings,  and  have 
contracted  all  their  suspicious  manner  in  my  own 
behaviour.  I  should  actually  be  as  unfit  for  the  so- 
ciety of  my  friends  at  home,  as  I  detest  that  which 
I  am  obliged  to  partake  of  here.  I  can  now  neither 
partake  of  the  pleasure  of  a  revel,  nor  contribute  to 
raise  its  jollity.  I  can  neither  laugh  nor  drink, 
have  contracted  a  hesitating  disagreeable  manner 
of  speaking,  and  a  visage  that  looks  ill-nature  itself; 
in  short,  I  have  thought  myself  into  a  settled  melan- 
choly, and  an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings 
with  it.  Whence  this  romantic  turn,  that  all  our 
family  are  possessed  with'?  Whence  this  love  for 
every  place  and  every  country  but  that  in  which  we 
eside?  for  every  occupation  but  our  own?  This 
desire  of  fortune,  and  yet  this  eagerness  to  dissi- 
pate? I  perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  i  am  at  intervals 
for  indulging  this  splenetic  manner,  and  following 
my  own  taste  regardless  of  yours. 

"  The  reasons  you  have  given  me  for  breeding  up 
your  son  a  scholar,  are  judicious  and  convincing. 
I  should,  however,  be  glad  to  know  for  what  par- 


•  The  "  Present  State  of  Polite  Literature  in  Europe,''  sub- 
jcrlplion  p)"lce,  5s. 


ticular  profession  he  is  designed.  If  he  be  assidu- 
ous, and  divested  of  strong  passions,  (for  passions 
in  youth  always  lead  to  pleasure.)  he  may  do  very 
■  well  in  your  college;  for  it  must  be  owned,  that  the 
industrious  poor  have  good  encouragement  there, 
^  perhaps  better  than  in  any  other  in  Europe.  But 
,if  he  has  ambition,  strong  passions,  and  an  exqui- 
site sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  .send  him  there, 
unless  you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  except  your 
own.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  how  much  may 
I  be  done  by  a  proper  education  at  home.  A  hoy,  for 
instance,  who  understands  perfectly  well  Latin. 
French,  arithmetic,  and  the  principles  of  the  civil 
law,  and  can  write  a  fine  hand,  has  an  education 
that  may  qualify  him  for  any  undertaking.  And 
these  parts  of  learning  should  be  carefully  incul- 
1  cated,  let  him  be  designed  for  whatever  calling  he 
i  will.  Above  all  tilings,  let  him  never  touch  a  ro- 
j  mance  or  novel ;  these  paint  beauty  in  colours  more 
charming  than  nature,  and  describe  happiness  that 
man  never  tastes.  How  delusive,  how  destructive 
are  those  pictures  of  consummate  bliss !  They  teach 
the  youthful  mind  to  sigh  after  beauty  and  happi- 
ness which  never  existed ;  to  despise  the  little  good 
which  fortune  has  mixed  in  our  cup,  by  expecting 
more  than  she  ever  gave :  and  in  general,  take  the 
word  of  a  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  has 
studied  human  nature  more  by  experience  than 
precept;  take  my  word  for  it,  I  say,  that  books  teach 
us  ^  ery  little  of  the  world.  The  greatest  merit  in 
a  state  of  poverty  would  only  serve  to  make  the 
possessor  ridiculous ;  may  distress,  but  can  not  re- 
lieve him.  Frugality,  and  even  avarice,  in  the 
lower  orders  of  mankind,  are  true  ambition.  These 
afford  the  only  ladder  for  the  poor  to  rise  to  prefer- 
ment. Teach,  then,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  son  thrifl 
and  economy.  Let  his  poor  wandering  uncle's 
example  be  placed  before  his  eyes.  I  had  learned 
from  books  to  be  disinterested  and  generous,  before 
I  was  taught  from  experience  the  necessity  of  being 
prudent.  I  had  contracted  the  habits  and  notions 
of  a  philosopher,  while  I  was  exposing  myst'if  to 
the  insidious  approaches  of  cunning;  and  often  by 
being,  even  with  my  narrow  finances,  charitable  to 
excess,  I  forgot  the  rules  of  justice,  and  placed  my- 
self in  the  very  situation  of  the  wretch  who  did  not 
thank  me  for  my  bounty.  When  I  am  in  the  re- 
motest part  of  the  world,  tell  him  this,  and  perhaps 
he  may  improve  from  my  example.  But  I  find  my- 
self again  falling  into  my  gloomy  habits  of  thinking. 
"  My  mother,  I  am  informed,  is  almost  blind : 
even  though  I  had  the  utmost  inclination  to  return 
home,  under  such  circumstances  I  could  not ;  for  to 
behold  her  in  distress,  without  a  capacity  of  reliev- 
ing her  from  it,  would  add  too  much  to  my  splenetic 
habit.  Your  last  letter  was  much  too  short;  it 
should  have  answered  some  queries  1  made  in  my 
former.  Just  sit  down  as  I  do,  and  write  forward 
till  you  have  filled  all  ycur  paper;  it  requires  no 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


23 


thought,  at  least  from  the  ease  with  which  my  own 
sentiments  rise  when  they  are  addressed  to  you: 
for,  believe  me,  my  head  has  no  share  in  all  I  write; 
my  heart  dictates  the  whole.  Pray  give  my  love 
to  Bob  Bryanton,  and  entreat  hmi,  from  me,  not  to 
drink.  My  dear  sir,  give  me  some  account  about 
poor  Jenny.*  Yet  her  husband  loves  her ;  if  so, 
she  can  not  be  unhappy. 

"  I  know  not  whether  I  should  tell  you — yet  why 
should  I  conceal  those  trifles,  or  indeed  any  thing, 
from  you?  There  is  a  book  of  mine  will  be  pub- 
hshed  in  a  few  days,  the  Ufe  of  a  very  extraordinary 
man — no  less  than  the  great  Voltaire.  You  know 
already  by  the  title,  that  it  is  no  more  than  a  catch- 
penny. However,  I  spent  but  four  weeks  on  the 
whole  performance,  for  which  I  received  twenty 
pounds.  When  published,  I  shall  take  some  me- 
thod of  conveying  it  to  you,  unless  you  may  think 
it  dear  of  the  postage,  which  may  amount  to  four 
or  fi\e  sMllings,  However,  I  fear  you  will  not  find 
an  equivalence  of  amusement.  Your  last  letter,  I 
repeat  it,  was  too  short;  you  should  have  given  me 
your  opinion  of  the  design  of  the  heroic-comical 
poem  which  I  sent  you :  you  remember  I  intended 
to  introduce  the  hero  of  the  poem  as  lying  in  a  pal- 
try alehouse.  You  may  take  the  following  speci- 
men of  the  manner,  which  I  flatter  myself  is  quite 
original.  The  room  in  which  he  lies,  may  be  de- 
scribed somewhat  this  way : — 

"  The  window,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  feebly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay. 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread ; 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread ; 
The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  Prussia's  monarch  show'd  his  lamp-black  face. 
The  morn  was  cold;  he  views  with  keen  desire 
A  rusty  grate  uncoascious  of  a  fire; 
An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  five  crack'd  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney-board. 

"  And  now  imagine,  after  his  soliloquy,  the  land- 
lord to  make  his  appearance,  in  order  to  dun  liim 
for  the  reckoning : — 

"  Not  with  that  face,  so  servile  and  so  gay, 
That  welcomes  every  stranger  that  can  pay; 
With  sulky  eye  he  smoked  the  patient  man, 
Then  puU'd  his  breeches  tight,  and  thus  began,  etc. 

"  All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a 
good  remark  of  Montaigne's,  that  the  wisest  men 
often  have  friends,  wdth  whom  they  do  not  care 
how  much  they  play  the  fool.  Take  my  present 
follies  as  instances  of  regard.  Poetry  is  a  much 
easier,  and  more  agreeable  species  of  composi- 
tion than  prose;  and  could  a  man  Uve  by  it,  it 
were  no  unpleasant  employment  to  be  a  poet.  I 
am  resolved  to  leave  no  space,  though  I  should  fill 
it  up  only  by  telling  you,  what  you  very  well  know 

*  Hjs  ycungeat  sister,  who  had  rnarriod  unfortunately. 


already,  I  mean  that  I  am  your  most  affectionate 
friend  and  brother." 

Notwithstanding  the  ardour  with  which  our  au- 
thor at  first  prosecuted  his  intention  of  embarking 
for  the  Indies,  we  find  soon  after  that  he  abandon- 
ed the  design  altogether,  and  applied  himself  with 
renewed  vigour  to  Uterary  pursuits.  From  what 
particular  motive  this  expedition  was  given  up,  has 
never  been  accurately  explained,  but  most  liliely  it 
was  owing  to  the  immediate  impracticability  of 
raising  an  adequate  sum  for  his  equipment.  Per- 
haps, however,  abetter  reason  may  be  found  in  the 
rapid  change  that  took  place  in  our  author's  circum- 
stances about  this  time,  in  consequence  of  the  in- 
creased patronage  he  began  to  receive  from  the 
booksellers.  No  man  had  tlie  art  of  displaying 
with  more  advantage  as  a  writer,  whatever  literary 
acquisitions  he  had  made;  and  whatever  he  put  his 
hands  to  as  an  author,  he  finished  witn  ;?nt;h  felici- 
ty of  thought  and  purity  of  expression,  thai  it  al- 
most instantly  became  popular.  Hence  the  booksti- 
lers  were  soon  bound  to  him  from  interest,  and  the 
profits  they  derived  from  the  ready  sale  of  liis  pro- 
ductions became  the  guarantee  of  his  constant  em- 
ployment. He  had  by  this  time  published  the 
"  Bee,  being  Essays  on  the  most  interesting  Sub- 
jects," also  Essays  and  Tales  in  the  British  Maga- 
zine, afterwards  collected  and  published  in  one  vol- 
ume, besides  various  criticisms  in  the  newspapers 
and  reviews,  all  of  which  were  read  with  avidity  by 
the  public,  and  commended  by  the  learned.  His 
connexions  with  literary  characters  became  conse- 
quently still  more  extended,  and  his  literary  pros- 
pects were  rendered  still  more  flattering ;  and  hence 
we  may  the  more  easily  account  for  the  change 
that  took  place  in  his  mind  with  regard  to  his  In- 
dian appointment. 

Our  author's  toil  in  the  service  of  the  booksellers 
was  now  exceedingly  laborious.  Independent  of 
his  contributions  to  newspapers  and  magazines,  lie 
wrote  regularly  for  Mr.  Griffiths  in  the  Monthly 
Review,  from  nine  till  two  o'clock  every  day.  Hii 
friend  Dr.  Milner  had  introduced  him  to  Griffith^?, 
and  this  work  was  performed  in  consequence  of  a 
written  agreement  which  was  to  last  for  a  year. 
The  remuneration  to  be  given  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Griffiths,  was  board  and  lodging,  and  a  handsome 
salary;  but  it  is'  probable  Goldsmith  found  the 
drudgery  too  irksome,  for  at  the  end  of  seven  or 
eight  months  the  agreement  was  dissolved  by  mu- 
tual consent.  When  the  "  Inquiry  into  the  state 
of  Polite  Literature"  was  published,  Mr.  Newber- 
ry, the  bookseller,  who  at  that  tune  gave  great  en- 
couragement to  men  of  literary  talents,  became  one 
of  our  author's  chief  patrons.  For  that  gentleman 
he  was  now  regularly  engaged  in  writing  or  com- 
piling a  variety  jof  minor  pieces,  and  at  the  same 
time  was  introduced  by  his  means  as  a  writer  in 
the  Public  Led^^cr,  to  which  he  contributed  Chu 


34 


LIF*E  AND  WRITINGS 


nese  Letters,  afterwards  published  under  the  title 
of  the  "  Citizen  of  the  World." 

At  this  time  also,  Goldsmith  wrote  occasionally 
for  the  British  Magazine  and  Critical  Review,  con- 
ducted by  Dr.  Smollett.  To  that  celebrated  wri- 
ter he  was  originally  introduced  in  consequence  of 
the  taste  and  accuracy  with  which  he  had  criticis- 
ed a  despicable"  translation  of  Ovid's  Fasti,  by  a 
pedantic  schoolmaster ;  though  the  intercourse  be- 
tween them  does  not  appear  to  have  been  kept  up 
for  any  considerable  time,  yet  Goldsmith  is  said  to 
have  derived  important  advantages  from  the  con- 
nexion. It  is  well  known  that  the  liberal  soul  of 
Smollett  made  him  the  friend  of  every  author  in 
distress;  and  it  is  generally  understood  that,  for 
some  time,  he  warmly  interested  himself  in  Gold- 
smith's success.  He  not  only  recommended  him 
to  the  patronage  of  the  most  eminent  booksellers, 
but  introduced  him  to  the  notice  of  the  first  literary 
characters. 

Notwithstanding  the  variety  of  our  author's  lite- 
rary labours,  however,  no  decided  improvement  in 
his  circumstances  appears  to  have  taken  place  till 
after  the  publication  of  his  "  Inquiry"  in  1759. 
At  that  time  he  had  lodgings  in  Green-Arbour 
Court,  Old  Bailey;  and,  that  he  must  have  occu- 
pied them  rather  on  principles  of  economy  than 
from  the  excellence  of  their  accommodation,  is 
proved  by  a  little  anecdote  related  by  one  of  his 
(iterary  friends.  "  I  called  on  Goldsmith,  at  his 
lodgings,"  said  he,  "in  March  1759,  and  found 
him  writing  his  "  Inqvury,"  in  a  miserable,  dirty- 
tooking  room,  in  which  there  was  but  one  chair ; 
and  when  from  civility,  he  resigned  it  to  me,  he 
was  himself  obliged  to  sit  in  the  window.  While 
we  were  conversing  together  some  one  gently 
tapped  at  the  door,  and  being  desired  to  come  in, 
a  poor  ragged  httle  girl,  of  a  very  becoming  de- 
meanour, entered  the  room,  and  dropping  a  cour- 
tesy said,  '  my  mamma  sends  her  compliments,  and 
begs  the  favour  of  you  to  lend  her  a  chamber-pot 
full  of  coals?'  " 

Our  author's  labours  for  the  booksellers,  though 
for  some  time  unproductive  of  general  literary 
fame,  by  degrees  procured  him  the  more  substan- 
tial benefits  of  good  living  and  commodious  lodg- 
ings. He  soon  acquired  extraordinary  facility  in 
compilation,  and  used  to  boast  of  the  power  of  his 
pen  in  this  way  of  procuring  money.  According-  j 
ly,  as  early  as  17G1,  we  find  him  removed  from 
Green- Arbour  (jourt  to  Wine-Oflice  Court  in 
Fleet-street,  whei'e  he  occupied  genteel  apartments, 
received  visits  of  ceremony,  and  sometimes  gave 
entertainments  to  his  literary  friends.  j 

Among  the  distinguished  characters  to  whom 
Goldsmith  had  been  lately  introduced,  and  with 
whom  he  now  regularly  associated,  either  from 
similarity  of  disposition  or  pursuits,  the  most  re- 
markable in  point  of  eminence  was  Dr.  Johnson. 


To  a  mind  of  the  highest  order,  richly  and  various- 
ly cultivated,  Johnson  united  a  warm  and  gene- 
rous disposition.  Similar  qualities,  both  of  the 
head  and  the  heart,  were  conspicuous  in  Gold- 
smith; and  hence,  to  use  an  expression  of  the 
Rambler  himself,  no  two  men  were,  perhaps,  ever 
better  formed  to  take  to  one  another.  The  innate 
benevolence  of  heart  which  they  mutually  displav- 
ed  first  drew  them  together;  and  so  strong  was  the 
attraction,  ultimately  increased  by  respect  for  each 
other's  powers,  that  their  friendship  subsisted  with- 
out interruption,  and  with  undiminished  regard, 
for  a  period  of  fourteen  years.  It  has  been  inju- 
diciously remarked,  that  this  connexion  was  unfor- 
tunate for  the  reputation  of  Goldsmith,  and  that, 
in  the  literary  circles  of  the  time,  "  he  seldom  ap- 
peared but  as  a  foil  to  the  Giant  of  Words."  On 
the  contrary,  however,  the  intercourse  that  subsist- 
ed between  these  eminent  men,  would  rather  ap- 
pear to  have  been  productive  of  the  finest  illustra- 
tion of  their  respective  characters;  and  such  was 
the  strength  of  their  mutual  attachment,  that  it 
seems  to  have  been  the  study  of  each  to  embellish 
and  exalt  the  character  of  the  other.  Besides, 
Johnson  was  the  giant  of  intellect  as  well  as  the 
giant  of  w^ords,  and  it  is  absurd  to  suppose,  that,  in 
the  display  of  his  extraordinary  powers  he  would 
ever  require  a  foil  to  heighten  their  effect.  Gold- 
smith, it  is  true,  seemed  sometimes,  as  it  were,  to 
look  tip  to  the  great  moralist,  but  it  was  rather  vnth 
affection  than  with  dread,  more  with  the  spirit  of 
emulation  than  the  despair  of  equal  excellence. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  in  no  single  instance  do 
we  find  that  Johnson  ever  looked  down  upon  Gold- 
smith as  inferior  to  himself:  the  reverse,  indeed,  is 
much  more  frequently  the  case;  for  the  uniform 
tendency  of  his  remarks  on  the  genius  and  writings 
of  our  author  is  to  hold  him  up  as  the  brighest  lite- 
rary ornament  of  his  time.  Long  before  his  fame 
was  established  with  the  public,  Johnson  had  justly 
appreciated  his  talents,  and  in  a  conversation  with 
Boswell,  concluded  with  asserting,  that  "Gold- 
smith was  one  of  the  first  men  then  existing  as  an 
author." 

It  has  not  been  ascertained  by  whom  Johnson 
and  our  author  were  originally  introduced  to  one 
another;  but  it  is  generally  understood  that  their 
intimacy  conunenced  in  the  beginning  of  17G1. 
On  the  31st  of  May,  that  year,  we  find  Johnson, 
for  the  first  time,  at  a  supper  in  Goldsmith's  lodg- 
ings, in  Wine-Office  Court,  along  with  a  number 
of  literary  friends.  Dr.  Percy,  afterwards  Bishop 
of  Dromore,  was  one  of  the  party  invited,  and  be- 
ing intimate  with  the  great  lexicographer,  was  re- 
quested to  call  at  his  chambers  and  take  him  along 
with  him.  When  walking  together,  to  the  poet's 
lodging,  Percy  was  struck  with  the  unusual 
spruceness  of  Johnson's  appearance  in  the  studied 
neatness  of  his  dress:  he  had  on  a  new  smt  of 


OP  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


clothes,  a  new  hat,  and  a  wig  nicely  powdered; 
and  in  the  tout  ensemble  of  his  apparel  there  was 
a  degree  of  smartness,  so  perfectly  dissimilar  to  his 
ordinary  habits  and  appearance,  that  it  could  not 
fail  to  prompt  an  inquiry  on  the  part  of  his  compan- 
ion, as  to  the  cause  of  this  transformation.  "  Why, 
sir,"  said  Johnson,  "  I  hear  that  Goldsmith,  who 
is  a  very  great  sloven,  justifies  his  disregard  of 
cleanliness  and  decency,  quoting  my  practice,  and 
I  am  desirous  this  night  to  show  him  a  better  ex 
ample." 

The  connexion  betwixt  oiu*  author  and  John 
son  was  henceforth  more  closely  cemented  by  dai 
,  ly  association.  Mutual  communication  of  thought 
oegot  mutual  esteem,  and  as  their  intercourse  in- 
creased, their  friendship  improved.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  fortunate  for  Goldsmith.  A  man 
of  his  open  improvident  disposition  was  apt  to 
stand  in  need  of  the  assistance  of  a  friend.  The 
years,  wisdom,  and  experience  of  Johnson,  ren- 
dered his  advice  of  the  highest  value,  and  from 
the  kindness  and  promptitude  with  which  he  un- 
dertook and  performed  good  offices,  he  might  al- 
ways be  securely  relied  on  in  cases  of  difficulty 
or  distress.  It  was  not  long  before  the  improvi- 
dence of  our  author  produced  embarrassment  in 
his  circumstances,  and  we  find  the  illustrious  mo- 
ralist the  prompt  and  affectionate  Mentor  of  his 
imprudent  friend.  The  sums  which  he  was  now 
receiving  as  a  writer,  might  naturally  be  supposed 
to  have  been  at  least  equal  to  his  wants,  and  more 
than  sufficient  to  have  kept  him  out  of  debt.  But 
Goldsmith's  affections  were  so  social  and  generous, 
that  when  he  had  money  he  gave  it  most  liberally 
away.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  therefore,  if 
we  find  him  soon  after  this  period  in  distress  for 
money,  and  even  under  arrest  for  his  rent  He 
had  just  put  the  finishing  stroke  to  his  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  when  the  arrest  took  place,  and  was 
obliged  to  send  for  his  friend  Johnson  to  raise  mo- 
ney by  a  sale  of  the  manuscript. 

Our  author's  situation,  on  this  occasion,  hav- 
ing been  mis-stated,  it  may  be  proper  to  give  an 
authentic  detail  of  it  as  narrated  by  Johnson  him- 
self. 

"I  received  one  morning  a  message  from  poor 
Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and  as  it 
was  not  in  his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that 
I  would  come  to  him  as  soon  as  possible.  I  sent 
him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him  direct- 
ly. I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed, 
and  found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for 
his  rent,  at  which  he  was  in  a  violent  passion :  I 
perceived  that  he  had  already  changed  my  guinea, 
and  had  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before 
him.  I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he 
would  be  calm,  and  began  to  talk  to  him  of  the 
means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He  then 
told  me  tlmt  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press, 


which  he  produced  to  me.  I  looked  into  it,  and 
saw  its  merit ;  told  the  landlady  I  should  scon  re- 
turn ;  and  having  gone  to  a  bookseller  sold  it  for 
sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money, 
and  he  discharged  his  rent,  not  without  rating  his 
landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having  used  him  so 
ill." 

Mr.  Newberry  was  the  person  with  whom 
Johnson  thus  bargained  for  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field." The  price  agreed  on  was  certainly  Uttle 
for  a  work  of  such  merit ;  but  the  author's  name 
was  not  then  conspicuously  known  to  the  public, 
and  the  purchaser  took  the  whole  risk  on  himself 
by  paying  the  money  dov/n.  So  unconscious  was 
he  of  the  real  worth  of  his  purchase,  and  so  httle 
sanguine  of  its  success,  that  he  kept  the  manu- 
script by  him  for  a  long  time  after.  Indeed,  it  was 
not  till  the  author's  fame  had  been  fully  establish- 
ed by  the  publication  of  his  "Traveller,"  that  the 
publisher  ventured  to  put  the  "Vicar  of  Wake- 
field" to  the  press;  and  then  he  reaped  the  two-fold 
advantage  arising  from  the  intrinsic  merit  of  the 
work,  and  the  high  character  of  its  author.  When 
Boswell  some  years  afterwards,  remarked  to  John- 
son, that  there  had  been  too  little  value  given  by 
the  bookseller  on  this  occasion :  "No,  sir,"  said  he, 
"the  price  was  sufficient  when  the  bock  was  sold; 
for  then  the  fame  of  Goldsmith  had  not  been  ele- 
vated, as  it  afterwards  was,  by  his  "Traveller;" 
and  the  bookseller  had  such  faint  hopes  of  profit 
by  his  bargain,  that  he  kept  the  manuscript  by 
him  a  long  tinie,  and  did  not  publish  till  after  the 
"Traveller"  had  appeared.  Then,  to  be  sure, 
it  was  accidentally  worth  more  money.  Had  it 
been  sold  after  the.  "Traveller,"  twice  as  much 
money  would  have  been  given  for  it,  though  sixty 
guineas  was  no  mean  price.  The  bookseller  had 
the  advantage  of  Goldsmith's  reputation  from  the 
"Traveller,"  in  the  sale,  though  Goldsmith  had  it 
not  in  selling  the  copy." 

After  the  sale  of  this  novel.  Goldsmith  and  Mr. 
Newberry  became  still  more  closely  connected. 
We  find  him,  in  17G3,  in  lodgings  at  Canonbury 
House,  Islington,  where  he  laboured  assiduously 
for  that  gentleman,  in  the  revisal  and  correction  of 
various  publications;  particularly,  "The  Art  of 
Poetry,"  in  2  vols.  12mo;  a  "Life  of  Beau  Nash," 
the  famous  king  of  Bath;  a  republication  of  his 
own  letters,  originally  written  in  the  character  of 
a  Chinese  Philosopher,  and  contributed  to  the 
Public  Ledger,  a  newspaper  of  which  Kelly  was 
at  that  time  the  editor.  These  were  now  collected 
and  given  to  the  public  in  2  vols.  12mo,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Citizen  of  the  World."  Of  all  his 
productions,  prompted  by  necessity,  and  written  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  this  collection  of  letters 
is  entitled  to  the  praise  of  supereminent  merit. 
Few  works  exhibit  a  nicer  perception,  or  more  deli- 
cate delineation  of  life  and  manners.  Wit,  humour, 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


and  sentiment,  pervade  every  page;  the  vices  and 
follies  of  the  day  are  touched  with  the  most  play- 
ful and  diverting  satire;  and  English  character- 
istics, in  endless  variety,  are  hit  oil"  with  the  pen- 
cil of  a  master.  They  have  ever  maintained  their 
currency  and  reputation,  and  are  ranked  among 
the  classical  productions  of  the  British  muse. 

Nearly  about  the  same  time,  or  early  in  1764,  a 
selection  of  all  his  fugitive  pieces,  originally  con- 
tributed to  various  magazines,  were  collected  and 


man  of  letters,  but  as  such  not  very  remarkab!; 
distinguished;  and  it  was  frequently  observed, 
that  though  his  publications  were  much  read,  they 
were  not  greatly  talJced  of.  With  tlie  characteris- 
tic irritability  of  genius,  conscious  of  its  powers 
and  jealous  of  its  reward.  Goldsmith  used  to  fret 
under  the  pangs  of  neglected  merit,  and  to  repine 
at  the  slow  ])rogress  of  public  opinion. 

No  votary  of  the  muses  was  ever  more  emulous 
of  fame ;  and,  with  his  accustomed  simplicity,  he 


published  for  his  own  benefit,  in  one  volume,  un- 1  was  careless  of  concealing  his  impatience  to  ob- 
der  the  title  of  "Essays."  These,  in  their  general  tain  it.  Various  anecdotes  of  his  fretful  anxiety 
scope  and  tendency  bear  some  analogy  to  the  letters^  for  applause  have  been  recorded  in  dili'erent  pub- 
of  the  Chinese  Philosopher.  The  manner  is  still  i  Hcations,  but  the  most  authentic  is  one  of  rather  a 
happier  than  the  matter,  though  that  too  is  excel- j  ludicrous  description,  noticed  by  Mr.  Boswell. 
lent;  and  our  author  appears  to  have  been  prompt-  Conversing  with  Dr.  Johnson  one  day  on  the  dif- 
ed  to  their  republication,  in  consequence  of  the  Ube- ;  ficulty  of  acquiring  literary  celebrity,  "Ah,"  said 
ral  use  that  was  surreptitiously  made  of  them  byihe,  in  a  tone  of  distress,  "the  public  will  never  do 
the  magazines,  and  other  fugitive  repositories  of !  nie  justice;  whenever  I  write  any  tiling,  they 
the  day.  In  a  humorous  preface  which  accom-j  w«^'e  a  poin^o  know  nothing  about  it."  On  an- 
panied  the  volume,  he  took  notice  of  that  circum-  other  occasion,  when  Boswell  was  present,  "I 
stance,  and  vindicates  his  claim  to  the  merit  as  fear,"  said  Goldsmith,  "  I  have  come  too  late  into 
v.ell  as  the  profit  of  his  own  productions.  "Most;  the  world;  Pope  and  other  poets  have  taken  up 
of  these  Essays,"  said  ho,  "have  been  regularly  the  places  in  the  temple  of  Fame,  and  as  a  few  at 
reprinted  two  or  three  times  a-year,  and  conveyed ,  any  period  can  possess  poetical  reputation,  a  man  of 
to  ttie  public  through  the  channel  of  some  engag- '  genius  can  now  hardly  acquire  it."  And  in  the 
ing  compilation.  If  there  be  a  pride  in  multiplied ;  same  querulous  tone  of  despondency  he  addresses 
editions,  I  have  seen  some  of  my  labours  sixteen  his  brother,  in  the  dedication  to  his  "Traveller:" 
times  reprinted,  and  claimed  by  different  parents!  "Of  all  kinds  of  ambition,  as  things  are  now  cir- 
as  their  own.  I  have  seen  them  flourished  at  cumstanced,  perhaps  that  which  pursues  poetical 
tJic  beginning  with  praise,  and  signed  at  the  fame  is  the  wildest.  What  from  the  increased  re- 
end  with  the  names  of  Philantos,  Fhilalethes,  Phi- 1  finement  of  the  times,  from  the  diversity  of  judg- 
lalcutheros,  and  Fhilanthropos.  These  gentle- 1  ment  produced  by  opposing  systems  of  criticism 
men  have  kindly  stood  sponsors  to  my  produc- :  and  from  the  more  prevalent  divisions  of  opinion 
tions;  and  to  flatter  me  more,  have  always  passed  influenced  by  party,  the  strongest  and  happiesi 
them  as  their  own.  It  is  time,  however,  at  last  to  ^  efforts  can  expect  to  please  but  a  very  narrow  cir- 
vindicate  my  claims;  and  as  these  entertainers  of '  cle."  A  short  time,  however,  proved  to  our  au- 
the  public,  as  they  call  themselves,  have  partly  thor  how  fallacious  were  his  fears.  In  less  than  a 
lived  upon  me  for  som^  years,  let  me  now  try  if  1 1  year  the  publication  of  his  "  Traveller,"  placed 
can  not  live  a  little  upon  myself.  I  would  desire,  i  him  at  the  head  of  the  poets  of  his  time, 
in  this  case,  to  imitate  that  fat  man,  whom  I  have  The  outline  of  this  beautiful  poem  had  been 
somewhere  heard  of  in  a  shipwTeck,  who,  when  sketched  during  our  author's  residence  in  Switz- 
the  sailors,  pressed  by  famine,  were  taking  slices  erland,  and  part  of  it,  as  noticed  in  the  dedication, 
from  his  posteriors  to  satisfy  their  hunger,  insisted,  had  been  addressed  from  that  countrj-  to  his  brother 
with  great  justice,  on  having  the  first  cut  for  him-  tienry  in  Ireland.  DiflSdent  of  its  merit,  and 
self."  The  rapidity  with  which  the  first  impres-  fearful  of  its  success,  he  kept  it  by  him  in  its  origi- 
sion  of  this  little  volume  was  disposed  of,  greatly ,  nal  crude  state  for  several  j^ears,  and  it  was  not  till 
surpassed  the  expectations  of  its  author.  Since  \  he  had  been  strongly  encouraged  by  the  high  opin- 
that  time,  few  books  have  gone  through  a  greater:  ion  expressed  of  it  by  Dr.  Johnson,  that  he  was  at 
variety  of  editions.  last  induced  to  prepare  it  for  the  press.     For  two 

It  has  been  somewhere  remarked,  that  Gold-  years  previous  to  its  publication,  while  toiling  at 
smith  was  a  plant  of  slow  growth ;  and  perhaps '  other  works  for  bread,  his  choicest  hours  arc  said 
there  may  be  some  truth  in  the  observation,  in  so !  to  have  been  devoted  to  the  revisal  and  correction 


far  as  regards  public  applause.  He  had  now  been 
seven  years  a  writer,  and,  notwithstanding  the  va- 
riety of  his  labours,  had  produced  little,  except  his 


of  this  poem,  and,  if  report  may  be  believed,  no  po- 
em was  ever  touched  and.  retouched  by  its  author 
ith  more  painful  and  fastidious  care.     When  he 


"Inquiry"  and  "Citizen  of  the  World,"  to  distin- 1  thought  at  length  that  it  had  received  the  highest 
guish  him  from  the  herd  of  authors  by  profession,  possible  finishing,  it  was  committed  to  the  press, 
With  the  pubUc  he  was  generally  known  as  a  and  came  out  early  in  1765.     It  w^as  hailed  witb 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


27 


deliglit  by  all  ranks,  celebrity  and  patronage  fol- 
lowed the  applause  with  which  it  was  received, 
and  Goldsmith,  so  far  as  regarded  fame,  was  at  last 
at  the  height  of  his  ambition. 

The  great  moral  object  of  the  "  Traveller"  is  to 
reconcile  man  with  his  lot.  The  poet  maintains 
that  happiness  is  equally  distributed  among  man- 
kind, and  that  a  different  good,  either  furnished  by 
nature  or  provided  by  art,  renders  the  blessings  of 
all  natipns  even.  In  pursuing  his  subject  he  takes 
an  imaginary  station  on  the  Alps,  and  passes  his 
view  over  the  countries  that  lie  spread  out  beneath 
him,  noticing  those  only,  however,  through  which 
the  author  had  personally  travelled. 

He  draws  a  picture  of  each  in  succession,  de- 
scribing from  his  own  observation  their  scenery 
and  manners.  He  enumerates  their  advantages, 
and  contrasts  tlieir  various  pursuits, — "  wealth, 
commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content," — showing  that 
each  favourite  object,  when  attained,  runs  into  ex- 
cess, and  defeats  itself  by  bringing  with  it  its  own 
peculiar  evil.  He  proceeds  to  show,  that  content- 
ment is  more  frequently  to  be  found  in  a  meagre 
mountam  soil  and  stormy  region,  than  in  a  genial 
climate  and  luxuriant  country ;  for  labour  produces 
competence,  and  custom  inures  to  hardship,  while 
ignorance  renders  the  rugged  peasant  calm  and 
cheerful  under  a  life  of  toil  and  deprivation.  But 
the  poet  makes  a  distinction  between  mere  content 
and  happiness.  If  the  wants  of  barren  states  are 
few,  and  their  wishes  limited,  their  enjoyments  are 
in  like  manner  circumscribed ;  for  every  v/ant  be- 
comes a  sourcceof  pleasure  when  gratified.  Their 
virtues  partake  also  a  similar  dearth,  and  their 
morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  scanty,  coarse,  and 
low. 

For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 

Unalter'd,  unimproved,  the  manners  run; 

And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 

Fail  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 

Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 

May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 

But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 

Through  life's  more  cultured  wallis,  and  charm  the  way, 

These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 

To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

The  poet  comes  at  length  to  the  conclusion,  that 
happiness  centres  in  the  mind,  that  it  depends  up- 
on ourselves,  and  is  equally  to  be  enjoyed  in  every 
country  and  under  every  government ;  for,  even  in 
regions  of  tyranny  and  terror,  where  unjust  laws 
oppress,  and  cruel  tortures  are  inflicted,  these  evils 
rarely  find  their  way  into  the  hallowed  seclusion  of 
a  domestic  circle. 

In  this  poem,  we  may  particularly  remark  a 
q\iality  which  distinguishes  the  writings  of  Gold- 
smith ;  it  perpetually  presents  the  author  to  our 
minds.  He  is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  are  in- 
«}parably  identified  with  their  works.    We  ilibik 


of  him  in  every  page;  we  grow  intimate  with  hira 
as  a  man,  and  learn  to  love  him  as  we  read.  A 
general  benevolence  glows  throughout  this  poem. 
It  breathes  the  Uberal  spirit  of  a  true  citizen  of  tlie 
world.  And  yet  how  beautifully  does  it  inculcate 
and  illustrate  that  local  attachment,  that  preference 
to  native  land,  which,  in  spite  of  every  disadvan- 
tage of  soil  or  climate,  pleads  so  eloquently  to  every 
bosom;  which  calls  out  with  maternal  voice  from 
the  sandy  desert  or  the  stormy  rock,  appealing  ir- 
resistibly to  the  heart  in  the  midst  of  foreign  luxu- 
ries and  delights,  and  calling  the  wanderer  home. 

When  the  "  Traveller"  was  published.  Dr. 
Johnson  wrote  a  review  of  it  for  one  of  the  journals, 
and  pronounced  it  the  finest  ^  „em  that  had  appear- 
ed since  the  time  of  Pope.  This  was  no  cold  praise, 
for  the  versification  of  Pope  was  at  that  time  the 
model  for  imitation ;  his  rules  were  the  standard  of 
criticism,  and  the  "  Essay  on  Man"  was  placed  at 
the  head  of  didactic  poetiy.  The  fame  of  Gold- 
smith was  now  firmly  established ;  and  he  had  the 
satisfaction  to  find,  that  it  did  not  merely  rest  on 
the  authority  of  tlie  million,  for  the  learned  and 
the  great  now  deemed  themselves  honoured  by  his 
acquaintance. 

His  poem  was  frequently  the  subject  of  conver- 
sation among  the  literary  circles  of  the  time,  and 
particularly  in  that  circle  which  used  to  assemble 
at  the  house  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  On  one  oc- 
casion it  was  remarked  among  the  company  at  Sir 
Joshua's,  that  "  the  '  Traveller'  had  brought  Gokl- 
smith  into  high  reputation." — "Yes,"  said  Mr. 
Langton,  "  and  no  wonder ;  there  is  not  one  bad 
line  in  that  poem,  not  one  of  Dryden's  careless 
verses." 

"  Sir  Joshua. — I  was  glad  to  hear  Charles  Fox 
say,  it  was  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English 
language. 

"Langton. — Why  were  you  glad?  You  sure- 
ly had  no  doubt  of  it  before. 

"Dr.  Johnson. — No :  the  merit  of  the  "  Travel- 
ler," is  so  well  estabUshed,  that  Mr.  Fox's  praise 
can  not  augment  it,  nor  his  censure  diminish  it." 

"Sir  Joshua. — But  liis  friends  may  suspect  they 
had  too  great  a  partiality  for  him. 

"Johnson. — Nay,  sir,  it  can  not  be  so;  for  the 
partiality  of  his  friends  was  always  against  him." 

Goldsmith,  however,  was  not  permitted  to  enjoy 
the  fame  he  had  acquired  without  experiencing  al- 
so the  detraction  that  generally  attends  successiul 
genius.  The  envy  of  some  and  the  jealousy  of 
others,  especially  among  the  minor  candidates  foi 
poetical  fame,  was  speedily  awakened  by  the  ap- 
plause bestowed  on  his  poem.  Unable  to  deny  the 
merit  of  the  performance,  they  strove  to  detract 
from  the  merit  of  its  author,  by  ascribing  the  chief 
part  of  it  to  the  friendly  muse  of  Dr.  Johnson. 
This  question  has  since  been  finally  settled.  In 
the  year  1733,  Dr.  Johnson,  at  the  request  of  Mr. 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


Boswell,  marked  with  a  pencil  all  the  lines  he  had 
furnished,  which  are  only  line  420th, 

To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go ; 

and  the  concluding  ten  lines,  except  the  last  coup- 
let but  one,  printed  in  italic. 

How  small  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
Tliat  pan  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure ; 
Ptill  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  makfe  or  find ; 
With  secret  coui*se,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy, 
Tlie  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel,* 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  ajid  conscience,  all  our  own. 

Johnson  added  "  these  are  all  of  which  I  can  he 
sure."  They  bear  indeed  but  a  very  trifling  pro- 
portion to  the  whole,  which  consists  of  four  hun- 
dred and  tliirty -eight  verses.  The  truth  in  this 
case  seems  to  be,  that  the  report  had  its  ovigin  in 
the  avowed  fact  of  the  poem  having  been  submit- 
ted to  Johnson's  friendly  revision  before  it  was  sent 
to  the  press. 
jj.  Goldsmith,  though  now  universally  known  and 

|@  admired,  and  enabled  to  look  forward  to  indepen- 
dence at  home,  appears  still  to  have  retained  a 
strong  tincture  of  his  original  roving  disposition. 
He  had  long  entertained  a  design  of  penetrating 
into  the  interior  parts  of  Asia,  to  investigate  the 
remains  of  ancient  grandeur,  learning,  and  man- 
ners; and  when  Lord  Bute  became  prime  minister 
at  the  accession  of  George  the  Third,  this  desire 
it  was  more  strongly  excited  by  the  hope  of  obtain- 
ing some  portion  of  the  royal  bounty,  then  so  libe- 
rally dispensed  by  that  nobleman  in  pensions  and 
benefactions  to  men  of  learning  and  genius.  That 
he  might  be  enabled  to  execute  this  favourite  pro- 
ject he  resolved  on  making  a  direct  application  to 
the  premier  for  pecuniary  assistance,  and  the  sanc- 
tion of  Government,  but,  the  better  to  ensure  suc- 
cess, he  previously  drew  up  and  pubUshed  in  the 
Public  Ledger,  an  ingenious  essay  on  the  subject, 
in  which  the  advantages  of  such  a  mission  were 
stated  vdth  much  ability  and  eloquence.  Our  poor 
author,  however,  was  then  but  little  known,  and 
not  having  distinguished  himself  by  any  popular 
literary  effort,  Ms  petition  or  memorial  was  thrown 

*  Goldsmith  in  this  couplet  mentions  Luke  as  a  person  well 
known,  and  superficial  readera  have  parsed  it  over  quite 
emoothly;  while  those  of  more  attention  have  been  as  much 
perplexed  by  Luke,  as  by  Lydiat  in  "The  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes."  The  truth  is,  that  Goldsmith  himself  was  in  a  mis- 
take. In  the  "Respublica  Hungarica,"  there  is  an  account 
of  a  desperate  rebellion  in  the  year  1514,  headed  by  two  bro- 
thers of  the  name  of  Zeck,  George  and  Luke.  W^hen  it  was 
quelled,  George,  and  not  Luke,  was  punished,  by  las  head 
being  encircled  with  a  red  liot  iron  crown:  Corona  cande- 
scente  ferrea  coronatur.  The  same  severity  of  torture  was 
exercised  on  the  Earl  of  Atholj-one  of  the  murderers  of  James 
L  of  Scotland. 


aside  unnoticed  or  neglected.  Perhaps  it  was  for- 
tunate for  literature  that  it  so  happened.  Gold, 
smith,  with  all  his  genius  and  taste  as  a  writer, 
was  but  little  versed  in  the  arts;  and  it  is  extreme- 
ly questionable  whether  he  was  quaUfied  to  accom- 
plish the  task  which  he  had  proposed  to  himself. 
The  opinion  of  his  friend.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  so 
well  knew  and  appreciated  the  extent  of  his  ac- 
quirements, may  be  given  as  decisive  of  such  a 
question.  In  a  conversation  with  Mr.  Boswell, 
the  latter  remarked,  that  our  author  "  had  long  a 
visionary  prospect  of  some  time  or  other  going  to 
Aleppo,  when  his  circumstances  should  be  easier, 
in  order  to  acquire  a  knowledge,  as  far  as  might  be, 
of  any  arts  peculiar  to  the  East,  and  introduce  them 
into  Britain;"  to  which  Johnson  rejoined,  "of  all 
men.  Goldsmith  is  most  unfit  to  go  out  on  such  an 
inquiry ;  for  he  is  yet  ignorant  of  such  arts  as  we 
ourselves  already  possess,  and  consequently  could 
not  know  what  would  be  accessions  to  our  present 
stock  of  mechanical  knowledge:  sir,  he  would 
bring  home  a  grinding-barrow,  and  think  he  had 
furnished  a  wonderful  improvement."  Goldsmith, 
however,  seems  never  to  have  been  conscious  of 
the  deficiency  of  his  own  powers  for  such  an  un- 
dertaking. His  passion  for  travel  was  never  ex- 
tinguished ;  and  notwithstanding  the  neglect  with 
which  his  application  for  ministerial  patronage  had 
been  treated,  his  design  of  penetrating  to  the  East 
frequently  revived.  Even  after  the  publication  of 
the  "  Traveller,"  as  formerly  remarked,  though  en- 
gaged in  several  literary  undertakings,  this  design 
was  still  predominant;  and  had  it  not  been  for  his 
characteristic  simpUcity  or  carelesness,  or  perhaps 
his  propensity  to  practical  blundering,  an  opportu- 
nity was  now  thrown  in  his  way  that  might  have 
enabled  liim  to  fulfil  his  most  sanguine  expecta- 
tions. 

Among  the  distinguished  characters  of  the  day 
which  the  merit  of  the  "  Traveller,"  had  attached 
to  its  author,  either  as  patrons  or  friends,  LoiJ 
Nugent  (afterwards  Earl  of  Clare)  was  conspicu- 
ous in  point  of  rank;  and  his  lordship,  not  satisfied 
with  Ms  own  personal  notice  and  friendship,  warm- 
ly recommended  him  to  his  friends  in  power,  par- 
ticularly to  the  Earl  (afterwards  Duke)  of  North- 
umberland, then  lord-Ueutenant  of  Ireland.  That 
nobleman,  on  the  recommendation  of  Lord  Nu- 
gent, had  read  several  of  Goldsmith's  productions, 
and  being  charmed  with  the  elegance  of  their  style, 
expressed  a  desire  to  extend  Ms  psH;ronage  to  their 
author.  After  his  lordship's  return  from  Ireland, 
in  1765,  he  communicated  Ms  intentions  to  Dr. 
Percy,  who  was  related  to  the  family  of  Northmn- 
berland,  and  by  his  means  an  interview  took  place 
;  between  the  poet  and  the  peer.  Of  this  visit  to 
■  his  lordship.  Goldsmith  used  to  give  the  following 
account :  "I  was  invited  by  my  friend  Percy  t<» 
1  wait  upon  tlie  duke,  in  consequence  of  the  saiis* 


OP  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


faction  he  had  received  from  the  perusal  of  one  of 
my  productions.  I  dressed  myself  in  the  best  man- 
ner I  could,  and  after  studying  some  compliments 
I  thought  necessary  on  such  an  occasion,  proceed- 
ed to  Northumberland-house,  and  acquainted  the 
servants  that  I  had  particular  business  with  the 
duke.  They  showed  me  into  an  ante-chamber, 
where,  after  waiting  some  time,  a  gentleman  very 
elegantly  dressed  made  his  appearance.  Taking 
him  for  the  duke,  I  delivered  all  the  fine  things  1 
had  composed,  in  order  to  compliment  him  on  the 
honour  he  had  done  me ;  when,  to  my  great  aston- 
ishment, he  told  me  I  had  mistaken  him  for  his  mas- 
ter, who  would  see  me  immediately.  At  that  in- 
stant the  duke  came  into  the  apartment,  and  1  was 
so  confounded  on  the  occasion,  that  I  wanted  words 
barely  sufficient  to  express  the  sense  I  entertained 
of  the  duke's  politeness,  and  went  away  exceedingly 
chagrined  at  the  blunder  I  had  committed. 

In  the  embarrassment  which  ensued  from  this 
awkward  mistake,  our  author's  eastern  project,  for 
which  he  had  intended  to  have  solicited  his  lord- 
ship's patronage,  was  totally  forgotten,  and  the 
visit  appears  to  have  been  concluded  without  even 
a  hint  as  to  this  great  object  of  his  wishes. 

Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  "  Life  of  Dr.  John- 
son," has  noticed  and  commented  on  the  circum- 
stances attending  this  interview,  with  peevishness 
and  ill-humour.  "  Having  one  day,"  says  he,  "  a 
call  to  wait  on  the  late  Duke,  then  Earl  of  North- 
umberland, I  found  Goldsmith  waiting  for  an  au- 
dience in  an  outer  room:  I  asked  him  what  had 
brought  him  there ;  he  told  me,  an  invitation  from 
his  lordship.  I  made  my  business  as  short  as  I 
could,  and  as  a  reason,  mentioned  that  Dr.  Gold- 
smith was  waiting  without.  The  earl  asked  me 
if  I  was  acquainted  with  him?  1  told  him  I  was, 
adding  what  I  thought  was  likely  to  recommend 
him.  I  retired,  and  stayed  in  the  outer  room  to 
take  him  home.  Upon  his  coming  out,  I  aslccd 
him  the  result  of  this  conversation.  "  Kis  lord- 
ship," said  he,  "  told  me  he  had  read  my  poem, 
meaning  the  '  Traveller,'  and  was  much  delighted 
w^ith  it;  that  he  was  going  lord-lieutenant  to  Ire- 
land, and  that,  hearing  I  was  a  native  of  that  coun- 
try, he  should  be  glad  to  do  me  any  kindness." 
"  And  what  did  you  answer,"  asked  I,  "  to  this 
gracious  ofler?" — "  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  could  say 
nothing  but  that  I  had  a  brother  there,  a  clergy- 
man, that  stood  in  need  of  help:  as  for  myself,  I 
have  no  dependence  on  the  promises  of  great  men ; 
I  look  to  the  booksellers  for  support;  they  are  my 
best  friends,  and  I  am  not  inclined  to  forsake  them 
for  others," — "Thus,"  continues  Sir  John,  "did 
this  itliot  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  trifle  with  his 
fortunes,  and  put  back  the  hand  that  was  held  out 
to  assist  him!" — In  a  worldly  point  of  view,  the 
c«)Tyduct  of  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion  was  un- 


dispositions  will  be  pleased  with  such  a  character- 
istic instance  of  his  well-known  simplicity  and 
goodness  of  heart.  A  benevolent  mind  will  db- 
cover  in  the  recommendation  of  a  brother,  to  the 
exclusion  of  himself,  a  degree  of  disinterestedness, 
which,  as  it  is  seldom  to  be  met-with,  is  the  more  to 
be  admired. 

Though  Goldsmith  thus  lost  the  only  good  op- 
portunity that  had  offered  for  obtaining  Govern- 
ment patronage  for  his  intended  eastern  expedi- 
tion, it  must  be  admitted  to  the  honour  of  the  Duke 
of  Northumberland,  that  when  the  plan  was  after- 
wards explained  to  him  at  a  distant  period,  he  ex- 
pressed his  regret  that  he  had  not  been  made  ac- 
quainted with  it  earlier;  for  he  could  at  once  have 
placed  the  poet  on  the  Irish  establishment,  with  a 
sufficient  salary  to  enable  him  to  prosecute  his  re 
searches,  and  would  have  taken  care  to  have  had 
it  continued  to  him  during  the  whole  period  of  his 
travels.  From  this  time  our  poet,  though  he  some- 
times talked  of  his  plan,  appears  to  have  for  ever 
rehnquished  the  design  of  travelling  into  Asia. 

Independent  of  every  consideration  of  interest  or 
ambition,  the  introduction  of  Goldsmith  to  a  noble- 
man of  such  high  rank  as  the  Earl  of  Northum- 
berland, was  a  circumstance  sufficiently  gratifying 
to  a  mind  fond  of  distinction.  In  fact,  the  vanity 
of  our  poet,  was  greatly  excited  by  the  honour  of 
the  interview  with  his  lordship:  and,  for  a  consider- 
able time  after,  it  was  mucli  the  subject  of  allusion 
and  reference  in  his  conversation.  One  of  those 
ingeiious  executors  of  the  law,  a  bailiff*,  having 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  this  circumstance,  deter- 
mined i")  turn  it  to  his  advantage  in  the  execution 
of  a  writ  which  he  had  against  the  poet  for  a  small 
debt.  He  wrote  Goldsmith  a  letter,  stating,  that 
he  was  steward  to  a  nobleman  who  was  charmed 
with  reading  his  last  production,  and  had  ordered 
him  to  desire  the  doctor  to  appomt  a  place  where 
he  might  have  the  honour  of  meeting  him,  to  con- 
duct him  to  his  lordship.  Goldsmith  swallowed 
the  bait  without  hesitation;  he  appointed  the  Bri- 
tish Coffee-house,  to  which  he  was  accompanied 
by  his  friend  Mr.  Hamilton,  the  proprietor  and 
printer  of  the  Critical  Review,  who  in  vain  remon- 
strated on  the  singularity  of  the  application.  On 
entering  the  coffee-room,  the  baiUff"  paid  his  re- 
spects to  the  poet,  and  desired  that  he  might  have 
the  honour  of  immediately  attending  him.  They 
had  scarcely  entered  Pall-Mall  on  their  way  to  his 
lordsliip,  when  the  bailiff*  produced  his  writ,  to  the 
infinite  astonishment  and  chagrin  of  our  author. 
Mr.  Hamilton,  however,  immediately  interfered, 
generously  paid  the  money,  and  redeemed  the  poet 
from  captivity. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Traveller," 
Goldsmith  appears  to  have  fixed  his  abode  in  the 
Temple,  where  he  ever  afterwards  resided.     His 


doubtedly  absurd ;  but  those  who  have  generous  apartments  were  first  in  the  library  staircase,  next 


ro 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


in  the  King's-Bench-walk,  and  ultimately  at  No.  2, 
in  Brick-court.  Here  he  had  chambers  in  the  first 
floor,  elegantly  furnished,  and  here  he  was  often 
visited  by  literary  friends,  distinguished  aUke  by 
their  rank,  talents,  and  acquirements.  In  the  num- 
ber of  those  with  whom  he  now  associated,  and 
could  rank  among  his  friends,  he  was  able  to  ex- 
hibit a  list  of  the  most  eminent  and  conspicuous 
men  of  the  time,  among  whom  may  be  particu- 
larized the  names  of  Burke,  Fox,  Johnson,  Percy, 
Reynolds,  Garrick,  Colman,  Dyer,  Jones,  Boswell, 
and  Beauclerk,  with  the  Lords  Nugent  and  Charle- 
mont.  The  mention  of  these  names  naturally  calls 
up  the  recollection  of  the  famous  Literary  Club  of 
which  Goldsmith  was  one  of  the  earliest  members, 
and  of  which  the  conversational  anecdotes,  re- 
ported by  ?.Ir.  Boswell,  have  contributed  to  give  so 
much  interest  to  the  pag6s  of  that  gentleman's  bi- 
ography of  Johnson.  As  our  author  continued  a 
member  of  this  select  society  from  its  foundation  till 
liis  death,  and  shone  as  one  of  its  most  conspicuous 
orn.aments,  some  account  of  its  institution,  and  a 
notice  of  the  names  of  its  members  till  the  present 
time,  all  of  whom  have  more  or  less  figured  in  the 
literary  or  political  world,  may  not  be  unacceptable 
to  many  of  our  readers. 

This  literary  association  is  said  by  Mr.  Boswell 
to  have  been  founded  in  176-1,  but  Dr.  Percy  is  of 
opinion  that  its  institution  was  not  so  early.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  had  the  merit  of  being  the  first  to 
suggest  it  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  Mr.  Burke;  and  they 
having  acceded  to  the  proposal,  the  respective  friends 
of  these  three  were  invited  to  join  them.  The  ori- 
ginal inembers,  therefore,  as  they  stand  on  the  re- 
cords of  the  society,  were  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,* 
Dr.  Johnson,  Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  Dr.  Nugent,t 
Mr.  Beauclerk,  Mr.  Langton,  Dr.  Goldsmith,  Mr. 
Chamier,  and  Sir  John  Hawkins ;  and  to  this  num- 
ber there  was  added  soon  afterwards  Mr.  Samuel 
Dyer.t     It  existed  long  without  a  name,  but  at  the 


*  Neither  Sir  Joshua  nor  Sir  John  Hawkins  had  then  been 
knighted,  nor  had  Johnson  been  presented  with  his  diploma 
of  IJ*  D. ;  but  both  here  and  on  other  occasions  the  parties  are 
noticed  by  their  most  common  appellations. 

t-  This  gentleman  was  a  physician,  father  of  INIr.  Burke's 
wife;  not  the  Dr.  Nugent  wiio  published  some  volumes  of  tra- 
vels, and  several  philosophical  works,  for  whom  he  has  been 
sometimes  mistaken.  The  above  Dr.  Nugent  Avas  a  very 
amiable  man,  and  highly  respected  by  his  contemporaries. 

J  Tiiis  gentleman  was  one  of  the  intimate  friends  of  Mr. 
Bitrke,  who  inserted  in  the  public  papers  the  following  cha- 
racter of  him  at  the  time  of  hia  death,  which  happened  on 
l\Ionday,  September  14,  1772 : 

"On  Monday  evening  died  at  his  lodgings  in  Castle-street, 
Leicester  Fields,  Saniuel  Dyer,  Esq.,  Fellow  of  the  Royal  So- 
ciety. He  was  a  man  of  profound  and  general  erudition ;  and 
iiis  sagacity  and  judgment  were  fully  equal  to  the  extent  of  his 
learning.  His  mind  was  candid,  sincere,  benevolent;  his 
friendsliip  disinterested  and  unalterable.  The  modesty,  sim- 
plicity, and  sweetness  of  his  mr.nners,  rendered  his  conversa- 
tion as  amiable  as  it  v/as  instrucii\e,  and  cndcai'ed  him  to 


funeral  of  Mr.  Garrick,  became  distinguished  by 
the  title  of  the  Literary  Club.  The  members  met 
and  supped  together  one  evening  in  every  week,  at 
the  Turk's  Head,  in  Gerrard  street,  Soho.  Their 
meetings  commenced  at  seven;  and  by  means  of 
the  inexhaustible  conversational  powers  of  Johnson, 
Burke,  and  Beauclerk,  their  sittings  were  generally 
protracted  till  a  pretty  late  hour.  It  was  originally 
intended  that  the  number  of  members  should  be 
made  up  to  twelve,  but  for  the  first  three  or  four 
years  it  never  exceeded  nine  or  ten ;  and  it  was  un- 
derstood that  if  even  only  two  of  these  should  chance 
to  iiieet,  they  would  l>e  able  to  entertain  one  another 
for  the  evening. 

About  the  beginning  of  1768,  the  attendbig  or 
efficient  members  were  reduced  to  eight ;  first  by 
the  secession  of  Mr.  Beauclerk,  who  became  es- 
tranged by  the  gayer  attractions  of  more  fashiona- 
ble clubs ;  and  next  by  the  retirement  of  Sir  John 
Hawkins. 

Soon  after  this  it  was  proposed  by  Dr.  Johnson 
to  elect  a  supply  of  new  members,  and  to  make  up 
their  number  to  twelve,  the  election  to  be  made  by 
ballot,  and  one  black  ball  to  be  sufficient  for  the  ex 
elusion  of  a  candidate.  The  doctor's  proposal  was 
immediately  carried  into  effect  by  the  election  of  Sir 
Robert  Chambers,  Dr.  Percy,  and  the  late  George 
Colman ;  and  these  three  were  introduced  as  new 
members  on  Monday  evening,  February  15,  1768. 
Mr.  Beauclerk  having  desired  to  be  restored  to  the 
society,  was  re-elected  about  the  same  time.. 

From  this  period  till  1772  the  club  consisted  of 
the  same  members,  and  its  weekly  meetings  were 
regularly  continued  every  Monda}^  evening  till  De- 
cember that  year,  when  the  night  of  meeting  waS 
•altered  to  Friday.  Shortly  afterwards  there  were 
no  less  than  four  vacancies  occasioned  by  death. 
These  were  supplied,  first  by  the  Earl  of  Charle- 
mont  and  David  Garrick,  who  were  elected  on  the 
12th  of  March,  1773 ;  and  next  by  Mr.  (afterwards 
Sir  William)  Jones  and  Mr.  Boswell,  the  former 
of  whom  was  elected  on  the  2d,  and  the  latter  on 
the  30th  of  April  following.  In  adverting  to  the 
election  of  Mr.  Garrick,  it  may  not  be  deemed  im- 
pertinent to  notice  an  error  on  the  part  of  Sir  John 
Hawkins,  in  his  "  Life  of  Johnson."  Speaking 
of  that  gentleman's  wish  to  become  a  member  of 
the  club,  "Garrick,"  says  the  knight,  *' trusted  that 
the  least  intimation  of  a  desire  to  come  among  us 
would  procure  him  a  ready  admission;  but  in  this 
he  was  mistaken.     Johnson  consulted  rae  upon  it ; 


those  few  who  had  the  happiness  of  knowing  intimately  that 
valuable  unostentatious  man;  and  his  death  is  to  them  a  loss 
irreparable." 

Mr.  Dyer  was  held  in  high  estimation  for  his  erudition  by 
Dr.  Johnson,  but  we  know  not  of  any  literary  work  in  which 

le  was  concerned,  except  that  he  corrected  and  improved  the 
translation  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  by  Dryden  and  others,  when 

t  was  revived  by  Tonson. 


OP  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


SI 


and  when  I  could  find  no  objection  to  receiving 
Jiim,  exclaimed,  "  he  will  disturb  us  by  his  buf- 
foonery!" and  afterwards  so  managed  matters,  that 
he  was  never  formally  proposed,  and  by  conse- 
quence never  admitted. 

In  justice  both  to  Mr.  Garrick  and  Dr.  Johnson, 
Mr.  Boswell  has  rectified  this  mis-statement.  "  The 
truth  is,"  says  he,  "that  not  very  long  after  the  in- 
stitution of  our  club,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was 
speaking  of  it  to  Garrick :  '  I  Uke  it  much  (said  the 
latter);  I  think  1  shall  be  of  you.'  When  Sir 
Joshua  mentioned  this  to  Dr.  Johnson,  he  was 
much  displeased  with  the  actor's  conceit.  '  He' II 
he  ofxis  (said  Johnson),  how  docs  he  know  we  will 
permit  him  7  The  first  duke  in  England  has  no 
right  to  hold  such  language.'  However,  when 
Garrick  was  regularly  proposed  some  time  after- 
wards, Johnson,  though  he  had  taken  a  momentary 
offence  at  his  arrogance,  warmly  and  kindly  sup- 
ported him;  and  he  was  accordingly  elected,  was  a 
most  agreeable  member,  and  continued  to  attend 
our  meetings  to  the  time  of  his  death."  This  state- 
ment, while  it  corrects  the  inaccuracy  of  Sir  John, 
affords  also  a  proof  of  the  estimation  in  which  the 
Literary  Club  was  held  by  its  own  members,  and  the 
nicety  that  might  be  opposed  to  the  admission  of  a 
candidate.  The  founders  appear  to  have  been 
somewhat  vain  of  the  institution,  both  as  unique  in 
its  kind,  and  as  distinguished  by  the  learning  and 
talent  of  its  members.  Dr.  Johnson,  in  particular, 
seems  to  have  had  a  sort  of  paternal  anxiety  for  its 
prosperity  and  perpetuation,  and  on  many  occasions 
exhibited  almost  as  jealous  a  care  of  its  purity  and 
reputation  as  of  his  own.  Talking  of  a  certain 
lord  one  day,  a  man  of  coarse  manners,  but  a  man 
of  abilities  and  information,  "  I  don't  say,"  con- 
tinued Johnson,  "  he  is  a  man  I  would  set  at  the 
head  of  a  nation,  though  perhaps  he  may  be  as 
good  as  the  next  prime  minister  that  comes :  but  he 
is  a  man  to  be  at  the  head  of  a  club,  I  don't  say  our 
club,  for  there  is  no  such  club."  On  another  oc- 
casion, when  it  was  mentioned  to  him  by  Mr. 
Beauclerk  that  Dr.  Dodd  had  once  wished  to  be  a 
member  of  the  club,  Johnson  observed,  "  I  should 
be  sorry  indeed  if  any  of  our  club  were  hanged," 
and  added,  jocularly,  "  I  will  not  say  but  some  of 
them  deserve  it,"  alluding  to  their  politics  and  re- 
ligion, which  were  frequently  in  opposition  to  his 
own.  But  the  high  regard  in  which  the  doctor 
held  this  association  was  most  strikingly  evinced  in 
the  election  of  Mr.  Sheridan.  In  return  for  some 
literary  civilities  received  from  that  gentleman  while 
he  had  as  yet  only  figured  as  a  dramatist,  Johnson 
thought  the  finest  compliment  he  could  bestow  would 
be  to  procure  his  election  to  the  Literary  Club. 
When  the  ballot  was  proposed,  therefore,  he  ex- 
erted his  influence,  and  concluded  his  recommenda- 
tion of  the  candidate  by  remarking,  that  "  he  who 
has  written  the  two  best  comedies  of  Vb  age,  is 


surely  a  considerable  man."  Sheridan  had  accord- 
ingly the  honour  to  be  elected.  The  importance 
thus  attached  by  its  members  to  this  celebrated 
club,  seems  justified  by  time  and  public  opinion. 
No  association  of.  a  like  kind  has  existed ,  and  re- 
tained its  original  high  character,  for  so  long  a  pe- 
riod ;  and  none  has  ever  been  composed  of  men  so 
remarkable  for  extraordinary  talent. 

In  1774,  an  accession  of  new  members  was  add- 
ed by  the  election  of  the  Hon.  Charles  James  Fox, 
Sir  Charles  Bunbury,  Dr.  George  Fordyce,  and 
George  Steevens,  Esq. ;  and  this  brings  the  annals 
of  the  club  down  to  the  death  of  Goldsmith.  Either 
then,  or  soon  after,  the  number  of  the  members  was 
increased  to  thirty;  and,  in  1776,  instead  of  sup- 
ping once  a-week,  they  resolved  to  dine  together 
once  a-fortnight  during  the  sitting  of  Parliament; 
and  now  the  meetings  take  place  every  other  Tues- 
day at  Parsloe's,  in  St.  James' s-street.  It  isbeUev- 
ed,  that  this  increase  in  the  number  of  the  mem- 
bers, originally  Umited  to  twelve,  took  place  in  con- 
sequence of  a  suggestion  on  the  part  of  our  author. 
Conversing  with  Johnson  and  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds one  day.  Goldsmith  remarked,  "  that  he  wish- 
ed for  some  additional  members  to  the  Literary 
Club,  to  give  it  an  agreeable  variety;  for  (said  he) 
there  can  be  nothing  new  among  us;  we  have  tra- 
velled over  one  another's  minds."  Johnson,  how- 
ever, did  not  hke  the  idea  that  his  mind  could  be 
travelled  over  or  exhausted,  and  seemed  rather  dis- 
pleased; but  Sir  Joshua  thought  Goldsmith  in  the 
right,  observing,  that  "where  people  have  lived  a 
great  deal  together,  they  know  what  each  of  them 
will  say  on  every  subject.  A  new  imderstanding, 
therefore,  is  desirable;  because,  though  it  may  only 
furnish  the  same  sense  upon  a  question  which 
would  have  been  furnished  by  those  with  whom  we 
are  accustomed  to  live,  yet  this  sense  will  have  a 
different  colouring,  and  colouring  is  of  much  effect 
in  every  thing  else  as  well  as  painting."* 


•From  the  institution  of  the  Literary  Club  to  the  present 
time,  it  is  believed  that  the  following  is  a  correct  list  of  the 
members: — 


I/jvd  Ashburtoii  (Dunning.) 
Sir  Joseph  Banks. 
Marquis  of  Bath. 
Dr.  Barnard,  Bishop  of  Kila- 

loe. 
Mr.  Topham  Beauclerk. 
'  Sir  Charles  Blagden. 
'  Mr.  Boswell. 
'  Sir  Charles  Bunbury. 
'  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 
Richard  Burke  (his  son.) 
Dr.  Burney. 
Sir  Robert  Chambers. 
Mr.  Chamier. 
'  Earl  of  Charlemont. 
George  Colman. 
Mr.  Courtney. 


Dr.  Douglas,  Bishop  of  Salis. 
biuy. 

*  Mr,  Dyer. 

*  Lord  Elliot. 

*  Rev.  Dr.  Farmer. 

*  Dr.  George  Fordyce. 

*  Right  Hoa  C.  J.  Fox. 

*  David  Garrick. 

*  Mr.  Gibbon. 

*  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

*  Sir  William  Hamilton. 
•■  Sir  John  Hawkins. 

Dr.  Hinchliffe,  Bishop  of  Pe- 
terborough. 

*  Dr.  Johnson. 

*  Sir  William  Jonea. 
Mr.  Langtoa 


32 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


In  a  society  thus  composed  of  men  distinguished 
for  genius,  learning,  and  rank,  where  the  chief  ob- 
ject of  the  institution  was  social  and  Uterary  enjoy- 
ment, it  is  certainly  interesting  to  know  what  kind 
of  intellectual  sauce  was  usually  served  up  to  give  a 
zest  to  their  periodical  suppers.  Happily,  Mr. 
Boswell  has  supplied  such  a  desideratum;  and  as  a 
fair  specimen  of  the  numerous  conversations  which 
he  has  reported  of  the  members,  it  may  not  be  un- 
amusing  to  our  readers  to  be  presented  with  part  of 
the  discussion  which  took  place  at  the  time  of  his 
own  election  in  April,  1773,  and  a  full  report  of 
the  sitting  of  the  club  on  the  24th  of  March,  1775. 
This  we  do  with  the  more  pleasure,  on  account  of 
the  first  discussion  being  in  some  sort  illustrative  of 
the  character  and  writings  of  our  author. 

« On  Friday,  April  30,"  says  Mr.  Boswell,  "  I 
^ined  with  Dr.  Johnson  at  Mr.  Bcauclerk's,  where 
were  Lord  Charlemont,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and 
some  more  members  of  the  Literary  Club,  whom  he 
nad  obligingly  invited  to  meet  me,  as  I  was  this 
evening  to  be  balloted  for  as  candidate  for  admission 
into  that  distinguished  society.  Johnson  had  done 
me  the  honour  to  propose  me,  and  Beauclerk  was 
very  zealous  for  me. 

*'GoIdsmitli  being  mentioned,  Johnson  said,  *  It 
is  amazing  how  little  Goldsmith  knows.  He  sel- 
dom comes  where  he  is  not  more  ignorant  than  any 
one  else,'  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  '  Yet  there  is  no 
man  whose  company  is  more  Uked.'  Johnson,  '  To 
be  sure,  sir.  When  people  find  a  man,  of  the  most 
distinguished  abilities  as  a  writer,  their  inferior 
while  he  is  with  them,  it  must  be  highly  gratifying 
to  them.    What  Goldsmith  comically  says  of  him- 


'  Duke  of  Leeds. 
'  Earl  Lucan. 
'  Earl  Macartney. 
'  Mr.  Malone. 
Dr.  Marlay,  Bishop  of  Clon- 

fert. 
'Dr.  Nugent 
Hon.  Frederick  North  (now 

Earl  of  Guilford.) 
'  Earl  of  Upper  Ossory. 
"Viscount  Palmerston. 
'  Dr.  Percy,  Bishop  of  Dro- 

more. 
Major  RenneL 

•  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
SirW.  Scott  (now  Lord  Sto- 

■well) 
•M.R.  B.Sheridan. 

•  Dr.  Shipley,   Bishop  of  St. 

Asaph. 

•  Dr.  Adam  Smith. 
Earl  Spencer. 
William  Lock,  jun 
Mr.  George  Ellis. 


Lord  Minto. 

*  Dr.  French  Lawrence, 

*  Dr.  Horsley,  Bishop  of  St. 

Asaph. 
Henry  Vaughan,  M.  D. 

*  Mr.  George  Steevens. 

'  Mr.  Agmendesham  Vesey. 

*  Dr,  Warren. 

*  Dr.  Joseph  Warton. 

*  Rev,  Thomas  Wai-ton. 

*  Right  Hon.  William  Wind- 

ham. 
Right  Hon.  George  Canning. 
Mr.  Marsden. 
Right  Hon.  J.  H,  Frere. 
Right  Hon.  Thos.  Grenville. 
*Rev,  Dr,  Vincent,  Dean  of 

Westminster, 
Right    Hon.    Sir    William 

Grant,  Master  of  the  Rolls, 
Sir  George  Staunton. 
Mr.  Charles  Wilkins, 
Right  Hon,  William  Drum- 

mond. 


The  members  whose  names  are  distinguished  by  an  asterisk 
In  the  foregoing  list  have  all  paid  the  debt  of  nature.  Among 
those  who  survive,  it  is  generally  understood  that  tlie  spirit  of 
the  original  ai  jciation  is  still  preserved. 


self  is  very  true,  he  always  gets  the  better  when  he 
argues  alone :  meaning,  that  he  is  master  of  a  sub- 
ject in  his  study,  and  can  write  well  upon  it;  but 
when  he  comes  into  company  grows  confused,  and 
unable  to  talk.  Take  him  as  a  poet,  his  "  Travel- 
ler" is  a  very  fine  performance;  ay,  and  so  is  his 
"Deserted  Village,"  were  it  not  sometimes  too 
much  the  echo  of  his  "  Traveller."  Whether,  in- 
deed, we  take  him  as  a  poet,  as  a  comic  writer,  or 
as  a  historian,  he  stands  in  the  first  class.'  Boswell, 
*  A  historian!  my  dear  sir,  you  will  not  surely  rank 
his  compilation  of  the  Roman  History  with  the 
works  of  other  historians  of  this  age?"  Johnson, 
'  Why,  who  is  before  him?'  Boswell,  '  Hume,  Ro- 
bertson, Lord  Lyttleton,'  Johnson  (his  antipathy 
to  the  Scotch  beginning  to  rise,)  '  I  have  not  read 
Hume;  but,  doubtless,  Goldsmith's  History  is  bet- 
ter than  the  verbiage  of  Robertson,  or  the  foppery 
of  Dalrymple.'  Boswell,  '  Will  you  not  admit  the 
superiority  of  Robertson,  in  whose  History  we  find 
such  penetration,  such  painting?"  Johnson,  '  Sir, 
you  must  consider  how  that  penetration  and  that 
painting  are  employed.  It  is  not  history;  it  is  ima- 
gination. He  who  describes  what  ho  never  saw, 
draws  from  fancy.  Robertson  paints  minds  as 
Sir  Joshua  paints  faces  in  a  history-piece :  he  ima- 
gines a  heroic  countenance.  You  must  look  upon 
Robertson's  work  as  romance,  and  try  it  by  that 
standard.  History  it  is  not.  Besides,  sir,  it  is  the 
great  excellence  of  a  writer  to  put  into  his  book  as 
much  as  his  book  will  hold.  Goldsmith  has  done 
this  in  his  History.  Now  Robertson  might  have 
put  twice  as  much  into  his  book.  Robertson  is 
like  a  man  who  has  packed  gold  in  wool :  the  wool 
takes  up  more  room  than  the  gold.  No,  sir,  I  al- 
ways thought  Robertson  would  be  crushed  by  his 
own  weight — would  be  buried  under  his  own  orna- 
ments. Goldsmith  tells  you  shortly  all  you  want 
to  know ;  Robertson  detains  you  a  great  deal  too 
long.  No  man  will  read  Robertson's  cumbrous  de- 
tail a  second  time;  but  Goldsmith's  plain  narrative 
will  please  again  and  again.  I  would  say  to  Ro- 
bertson what  an  old  tutor  of  a  college  said  to  one  of 
his  pupils:  "Read  over  your  compositions  and 
wherever  you  meet  with  a  passage  which  you  think 
is  particularly  fine,  strike  it  out."  Goldsmith's 
abridgment  is  tetter  than  that  of  Lucius  Florus  or 
Eutropius :  and  I  will  venture  to  say,  that  if  you 
compare  him  with  Vertot,  in  the  same  places  of  the 
Roman  History,  you  will  find  that  he  excels  Vertot. 
Sir,  he  has  the  art  of  compiling,  and  of  saying  every 
thing  he  has  to  say  in  a  pleasing  manner.  He  is 
now  writing  a  Natural  History,  and  will  make  it  as 
entertaining  as  a  Persian  Tale.' 

"  1  can  not  dismiss  the  present  topic  (continues 
Mr.  Boswell)  without  observing,  that  Dr.  Johnson, 
who  owned  that  he  oflen  talked  for  victory,  rather 
urged  plausible  objections  to  Dr.  Robertson's  ex- 
cellent historical  works  in  the  ardour  of  contest. 


OP  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


83 


than  expressed  his  real  and  decided  opinion;  for 
it  is  not  easy  to  suppose,  that  he  should  so  widely 
differ  from  the  rest  of  the  literary  world. 

"Johnson,  'I  remember  once  being  with  Gold- 
smith in  Westminster  Abbey.  While  we  sur- 
veyed the  Poet's-Corner,  I  said  to  liim, — 

Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis,* 

When  we  got  to  Temple-Bar  he  stopped  me, 
pointed  to  the  heads  upon  it,  and  slily  whispered 
me, — 

rorsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis. 't 

''Johnson  praised  John  Bunyan  highly.  'His 
"Pilgrim's  Progress"  has  great  merit,  both  for  in- 
vention, imagination,  and  the  conduct  of  the  story ; 
and  it  has  had  the  best  evidence  of  its  merits,  the 
general  and  continued  approbation  of  mankind. 
Few  books,  I  believe,  have  had  a  more  extensive 
sale.  It  is  remarkable,  that  it  begins  very  much 
like  the  poem  of  Dante ;  yet  there  was  no  trans- 
lation of  Dante  when  Bunyan  wrote.  There  is 
reason  to  think  that  he  had  read  Spenser." 

"A  proposition  which  had  been  agitated,  that 
monuments  to  eminent  persons  should,  for  the 
time  to  come,  be  erected  in  St,  Paul's  Church  as 
well  as  in  the  Westminster  Abbey,  was  mention- 
ed; and  it  was  asked,  who  should  be  honoured  by 
having  his  monument  first  erected?  Somebody 
suggested  Pope.  Johnson,  'Why,  sir,  as  Pope  was 
a  Roman  Catholic,  I  would  not  have  his  to  be 
first.  I  think  Milton's  rather  should  have  the  pre- 
cedence. I  think  more  highly  of  him  now  than  I 
did  at  twenty.  There  is  more  thinking  in  him 
and  Butler  than  in  any  one  of  our  poets.' 

"The  gentlemen  (continues  Mr.  Boswell)  now 
went  away  to  their  club,  and  I  was  left  at  Beau- 
clerk's  till  the  fate  of  my  election  should  be  an- 
nounced to  me.  I  sat  in  a  state  of  anxiety,  which 
even  the  charming  conversation  of  Lady  Di 
Beauclerk  could  not  entirely  dissipate.  In  a  short 
time  I  received  the  agreeable  intelligence  that  I 
was  chosen.  I  hastened  to  the  place  of  meeting, 
and  was  introduced  to  such  a  society  as  can  sel- 
dom be  found.  Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  whom  I 
then  saw  for  the  first  time,  and  whose  splendid  ta- 
lents had  long  made  me  ardently  wish  for  his  ac- 
quaintance; Dr.  Nugent,  Mr.  Garrick,  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  William)  Jones,  and  the 
company  with  whom  I  had  dined.  Upon  my  en- 
trance, Johnson  placed  himself  behind  a  chair,  on 
which  he  leaned  as  on  a  desk  or  pulpit,  and, 
with  humourous  formality,  gave  me  a  charge^ 
pointing  out  the  conduct  expected  from  me  as  a 
member  of  this  club." 

The  next  conversational  specimen  given  by  Mr. 


.  ♦Ovid,  de  Art.  Amand.  ].  iii.  5.  13. 
t  In  allusion  to  Dr.  Johason's  supposed  political  principles, 
tnd  perhaps  his  own.  E. 

3 


Boswell,  is  of  the  discussion  which  took  place  at 
the  meeting  of  24th  March,  1775.  "Before  John- 
son came  in,  we  talked  of  his  'Journey  to  the  Wes- 
tern Islands,'  and  of  his  coming  away  'willing  to 
believe  the  second  sight,'  which  seemed  to  excite 
some  ridicule.  I  was  then  so  impressed  with  the 
truth  of  many  of  the  stories  of  which  I  nad  been 
told,  that  I  avowed  my  conviction,  saying  'He  is 
only  willing  to  believe ;  I  do  believe.  The  evidence 
is  enough  for  me,  though  not  for  his  great  mind. 
What  will  not  fill  a  quart  bottle  will  fill  a  pint  bot- 
tle. I  am  filled  with  belief.'  'Are  you,'  said  Col- 
man,  'then  cork  it  up.' 

"I  found  his  'Journey'  the  common  topic  of 
conversation  in  London  at  this  time,  wherever  I 
happened  to  be.  At  one  of  Lord  Mansfield's  for- 
mal Sunday  evening  conversations,  strangely  call- 
ed levees,  his  Lordship  addressed  me,  'We  have 
all  been  reading  your  Travels,  Mr.  Boswell.'  I  an- 
swered, 'I  was  but  the  humble  attendant  of  Dr. 
Johnson.'  The  Chief- Justice  replied,  with  that 
air  and  manner  wliich  none  who  ever  heard  or 
saw  him  can  forget,  'He  speaks  ill  of  nobody  but 
Ossian.' 

"Johnson  was  in  high  spirits  this  evening  at 
the  club,  and  talked  with  great  animation  and 
success.  He  attacked  Swift,  as  he  used  to  do  upon 
all  occasions :  "  The  Tale  of  a  Tub"  is  so  much  su 
perior  to  his  other  writings,  that  we  can  hardly 
believe  he  was  the  author  of  it :  there  is  in  it  such 
a  vigoijr  of  mind,  such  a  swarm  of  thoughts,  so 
much  of  nature,  and  art,  and  life.'  I  wondered  to 
hear  him  say  of  'Gulliver's  Travels,'  'When 
once  you  have  thought  of  big  and  httle  men,  it  is 
very  easy  to  do  all  the  rest.'  I  endeavoured  to 
make  a  stand  for  Swift,  and  tried  to  rouse  those 
who  were  much  more  able  to  defend  him;  but  in 
vain.  Johnson  at  last,  of  his  own  accord,  allowed 
very  great  merit  to  the  inventory  of  articles  found 
in  the  pocket  of  'the  Man  Mountain,'  particular- 
ly the  description  of  his  watch,  which  it  was  con- 
jectured was  his  god,  as  he  consulted  it  upon  all 
occasions.  He  observed,  that  'Swift  put  his  name 
but  to  two  things  (after  he  had  a  name  to  put), 
the  "Plan  of  the  Improvement  of  the  EngUsh 
Language,"  and  the  last  "Drapier's  Letters.'" 

"From  Swift  there  was  an  easy  transition  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Sheridan,  Johnson,  '  Sheridan  is  a 
wonderful  admirer  of  the  tragedy  of  Douglas,  and 
presented  its  author  with  a  gold  medal.  Some 
years  ago,  at  a  Coffee-house  in  Oxford,  I  called  to 
him  "Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr.  Sheridan,  how  came  you 
to  give  a  gold  medal  to  Home,  for  writing  that 
foolish  play?"  This,  you  see,  was  wanton  and  in- 
solent; but  I  meant  to  be  wanton  and  insolent. 
A  medal  has  no  value  but  as  a  stamp  of  merit. 
And  was  Sheridan  to  assume  to  himself  the  right  of 
giving  that  stamp?  If  Sheridan  was  magnificent 
cno\igh  to  bestow  a  gold  modal  as  an  honorary  !©• 


34 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


ward  of  dramatic  excellence,  he  should  have  re- 
quested one  of  the  universities  to  choose  the  per- 
son on  whom  it  should  be  conferred.  Sheridan 
had  no  right  to  give  a  stamp  of  merit:  it  was 
counterfeiting  Apollo's  coin,' " 

Now  that  Goldsmith  had  acquired  fame  as  a 
poet  of  the  first  rank,  and  was  associated  with 
the  wit  and  talent  that  belonged  to  this  cele- 
brated club,  his  publisher,  Mr.  Newberry,  thought 
he  might  venture  to  give  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield" 
to  the  world.  It  was  accordingly  brought  out  in 
1766,  and  not  only  proved  a  most  lucrative  specu- 
lation for  the  bookseller,  but  brought  a  fresh  ac- 
cession of  literary  celebrity  to  ite  author.  Notv^rith- 
standing  the  striking  merit  of  this  work,  it  is  a 
fact  not  less  singular  than  true,  that  the  literary 
friends  to  whom  Goldsmith  submitted  it  for  criti- 
cism, before  publication,  were  divided  in  opinion  as 
to  the  probabiUty  of  its  success ;  and  it  is  still  more 
singular  that  Dr.  Johnson  himself  should  have  en- 
tertained doubts  on  the  subject.  It  has  been  as- 
serted, that  the  publisher  put  it  to  press  in  the 
crude  state  in  which  he  found  it,  when  the  bar- 
gain was  made  with  Johnson  for  the  manuscript; 
but  such  a  conclusion  is  obviously  erroneous. 
Goldsmith  was  at  that  time  on  the  best  terms  witli 
Newberry,  and  engaged  in  the  completion  of  vari- 
ous minor  pieces  for  him;  and  as  the  fame  of  the 
one  as  well  as  the  profit  of  the  other  were  equally 
at  stake  on  the  success  of  the  performance,  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly improbable  that  both  author  and  pub- 
lisher should  be  regardless  of  such  revisal  and  cor- 
rection as  was  clearly  for  the  benefit  of  both. 
That  Goldsmith  did  alter  and  revise  this  work  be- 
fore publication,  may  be  gathered  from  a  conversa- 
tion which  took  place  between  Johnson  and  Mr. 
Boswell.  "  Talking  of  a  friend  of  ours,"  says  the 
latter,  "who  associated  with  persons  of  very  dis- 
cordant principles  and  characters,  I  said  he  was  a 
very  universal  man,  quite  a  man  of  the  world." 
"Yes,  sir,"  said  Johnson,  "but  one  may  be  so 
much  a  man  of  the  world,  as  to  be  nothing  in  the 
world.  I  remember  a  passage  in  Goldsmith's '  Vi- 
car of  Wakefield,'  which  he  was  afterwards  fool 
enough  to  expunge;  '7  do  not  love  a  man  who  is 
zealous  for  nothing  y^  Boswell,  "That  was  a  fine 
passage."  Johnson,  "Yes,  sir;  there  was  another 
fine  passage  which  he  struck  out:  'When  I  was  a 
young  man  ,  being  anxious  to  distinguish  my- 
self, I  was  perpetually  starting  new  propositions; 
but  I  soon  gave  this  over;  for  I  found  that  gener- 
ally what  was  new  was  false  J  " 

The  "Vicar  of  Wakefield"  has  long  been  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  interesting  tales  in  our 
language.  It  is  seldom  that  a  story  presenting 
merely  a  picture  of  common  life,  and  a  detail  of 
domestic  events,  so  powerfully  affects  the  reader. 
The  irresistible  cliarm  this  novel  possesses,  evinces 


how  much  may  be  done,  without  the  aid  of  extra- 
vagant incident,  to  excite  the  imagination  and  in- 
terest the  feeUngs.  Few  productions  of  the  kind 
afford  greater  amusement  in  the  perusal,  and  stUI 
fewer  inculcate  more  impressive  lessons  of  morali- 
ty. Though  wit  and  humour  abound  in  every 
page,  yet  in  the  whole  volume  there  is  not  one 
thought  injurious  in  its  tendency,  nor  one  senti- 
ment that  can  offend  the  chastest  ear.  Its  language, 
in  the  words  of  an  elegant  writer,  is  what  "angels 
might  have  heard  and  virgins  told."  In  the  deli- 
neation of  his  characters,  in  the  conduct  of  his  fa- 
ble, and  in  the  moral  of  the  piece,  the  genius  of  the 
author  is  equally  conspicuous.  The  hero  displays 
with  unaffected  simplicity  the  most  striking  virtues 
that  can  adorn  social  life :  sincere  in  his  professions, 
humane  and  generous  in  his  disposition,  he  is  him- 
self a  pattern  of  the  character  he  represents.  The 
other  personages  are  drawn  with  similar  discrimi- 
nation. Each  is  distinguished  by  some  peculia. 
feature;  and  the  general  grouping  of  the  whole  has 
this  particular  excellence,  that  not  one  could  be 
wanted  without  injuring  the  unity  and  beauty  of 
the  design.  The  drama  of  the  tale  is  also  managed 
with  equal  skill  and  effect.  There  are  no  extra- 
vagant incidents,  and  no  forced  or  improbable  situ- 
ations; one  event  rises  out  of  another  in  the  same 
easy  and  natural  manner  as  flows  the  language  of 
the  narration;  the  interest  never  flags,  and  is  kept 
up  to  the  last  by  the  expedient  of  concealing  the 
real  character  of  Burchell.  But  it  is  the  moral  of 
the  work  which  entitles  the  author  to  the  praise  of 
supereminent  merit  in  this  species  of  writing.  No 
writer  has  arrived  more  successfully  at  the  great 
ends  of  a  moralist.  By  the  finest  examples,  he  in- 
culcates the  practice  of  benevolence,  patience  in 
suffering,  and  reliance  on  the  providence  of  God. 
A  short  time  after  the  publication  of  the  "Vicar 
of  Wakefield,"  Goldsmith  printed  his  beautiful 
ballad  of  the  "Hermit."  His  friend  Dr.  Percy 
had  published,  in  the  same  year,  "Reliques  of  An- 
cient English  Poetry;"  and  as  the  "Hermit"  wa» 
found  to  bear  some  resemblance  to  a  tale  in  that 
collection,  entitled  "  The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray," 
the  scribblers  of  the  time  availed  themselves  of  the 
circumstance  to  tax  him  with  plagiarism.  Irritated 
at  the  charge,  he  published  a  letter  in  the  St. 
James's  Chronicle,  vindicating  the  priority  of  his 
own  poem,  and  asserting  that  the  plan  of  the  other 
must  have  been  taken  from  his.  It  is  probable, 
however,  that  both  poems  were  taken  from  a  very 
ancient  ballad  in  the  same  collection,  beginning 
"Gentle  Heardsman."  Our  author  had  seen  and 
admired  this  ancient  poem,  in  the  possession  of 
Dr.  Percy,  long  before  it  was  printed;  and  some  of 
the  stanzas  he  appears,  perhaps  undesignedly,  to 
have  imitated  in  the  "Hermit,"  as  the  reader  wiD 
perceive  on  examining  the  following  specimens:— 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


FROM  THE  OLD  BALLAD. 

And  grew  soe  coy  and  nice  to  please, 

As  women's  lookes  are  often  soe, 
Ho  might  not  kisse,  nor  hand  forsoothe, 

Unless  I  willed  him  so  to  doe. 

Thus  being  wearyed  with  delayes, 

To  see  I  pittyed  not  his  greeffe, 
fle  gott  him  to  a  secrett  place, 

And  there  hee  dyed  without  releeffe. 

And  for  his  sake  these  weeds  I  weare, 

And  sacrifice  my  tender  age; 
And  every  day  I'll  beg  my  bread, 

To  imdergo  this  pilgrimage. 

Thus  every  day  I  fast  and  pray, 

And  ever  will  doe  till  I  dye ; 
And  gett  mo  to  some  secrett  place; 

For  soe  did  hee,  and  soe  will  L 

FROM  THE  HERMIT. 

For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  heart, 

I  triumph'd  in  his  pain. 

Till,  quite  dejected  by  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  sohtude  he  sought. 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die; 
Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did. 

And  so  for  him  will  L 

There  has  been  an  attempt,  in  later  days,  to  cast 
a  doubt  upon  the  title  of  Goldsmith  to  the  whole 
of  this  poem.  It  has  been  asserted  that  the  "Her- 
mit" was  a  translation  of  an  ancient  French  poem 
entitled  "Raimond  and  Angcline."  The  pretend- 
ed original  made  its  appearance  in  a  trifling  peri- 
odical publication,  entitled  "The  Cluiz."  It  bears 
internal  evidence  of  being  in  reality  an  imitation  of 
Goldsmith's  poem.  The  frivolous  source  of  this 
flippant  attack,  and  its  transparent  falsity,  wotdd 
have  caused  it  to  pass  unnoticed  here,  had  it  not 
been  made  a  matter  of  grave  discussion  in  some 
periodical  journals.  To  enter  into  a  detailed  refu- 
tation would  be  absurd. 

The  poem  of  "The  Hermit"  was  at  first  in- 
scribed to  the  Countess  (afterwards  Duchess)  of 
Northumberland,  who  had  shown  a  partiality  for 
productions  of  this  kind,  by  patronizing  Percy's 
"Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  "  This  led 
to  a  renewed  intercourse  with  the  drjce,  to  whom 
we  have  already  narrated  Goldsmith's  first  visit; 
but  the  time  had  gone  by  when  his  grace  could 
have  been  politically  useful,  and  we  do  not  know 
that  our  author  reaped  any  other  advantage  from 
the  notice  that  nobleman  took  of  him,  than  the 


[gratification  of  being  recognized  by  a  man  of  the 
duke's  high  rank  as  a  literary  friend. 

This  distinguished  peer  and  his  duchess  were 
accustomed  to  spend  part  of  each  summer  at  Bath; 
and  one  year,  after  their  return  to  London,  her 
grace  related  to  Dr.  Percy,  with  considerable  hu- 
mour, the  following  occurrence,  characteristic  of 
our  author's  occasional  abstraction  of  mind.  On 
one  of  the  parades  at  Bath,  the  duke  and  Lord 
Nugent  had  hired  two  adjacent  houses.  Gold- 
smith, who  was  then  resident  on  a  visit  with  the 
latter,  one  morning  walked  up  into  the  duke's  din- 
ing room,  as  he  and  the;  duchess  were  preparing  to 
sit  down  to  breakfast.  In  a  manner  the  most  free 
and  easy  he  threw  hiijaself  on  a  sofa;  and,  as  he 
was  then  perfectly  known  to  them  both,  they  in- 
quired of  him  the  Bath  news  of  the  day.  But  per- 
ceiving him  to  be  rather  in  a  meditative  humour, 
they  rightly  guessed  there  was  some  mistake,  and 
endeavoured,  by  easy  and  cheerful  conversation  to 
prevent  his  becoming  embarrassed.  When  break- 
fast was  served  up,  they  invited  him  to  stay  and 
partEdie  of  it ;  and  then  poor  Goldsmith  awoke  from 
his  reverie,  declared  he  thought  he  had  been  in  the 
house  of  his  friend  Lord  Nugent,  and  with  confu- 
sion hastily  withdrew;  not,  however,  till  the  good- 
humoured  duke  and  duchess  had  made  him  promise 
to  dine  with  them. 

Sometliing  akin  to  this  incident,  is  the  well 
known  blunder  committed  by  our  author  during  a 
conversation  with  the  Earl  of  Shelbourne.  One 
evening,  while  in  company  with  this  nobleman, 
Goldsmith,  after  a  variety  of  conversation,  fell  into 
a  fit  of  musing.  At  last,  as  if  suddenly  recovering 
from  his  abstraction,  he  addressed  his  lordship  ab- 
ruptly in  this  manner; — "My  lord,  I  have  often 
wondered  why  every  body  should  call  your  lordship 
Malagrida;  for  Malagrida,  you  know,  was  a  very 
good  man."  The  well  bred  peer  only  replied  to 
this  awkward  compliment  by  a  smile,  and  the 
heedless  poet  went  on  totally  unconscious  of  his 
error.  It  was  afterwards  remarked  by  Dr.  John- 
son, that  this  mistalie  of  Goldsmith  was  only  a 
blunder  in  emphasis,  and  that  the  expression  meant 
nothing  more  than,  "I  wonder  they  should  use 
Malagrida  as  a  term  of  reproach." 

About  this  period,  or  perhaps  a  little  earlier, 
Goldsmith,  in  addition  to  the  apartjncnts  he  occu- 
pied in  the  Temple,  took  a  country-house  on  the 
Edgeware-road,  in  conjunction  with  a  Mr.  Bott, 
one  of  his  Uterary  friends,  for  the  benefit  of  good 
air,  and  the  convenience  of  retirement.  .To  this 
little  mansion  he  gave  the  jocular  appellation  of  Shoe- 
maker^ s  Paradise,  the  architecture  being  in  a  fan- 
tastic style,  after  the  taste  of  its  original  possessor, 
who  was  one  of  the  craft.  Here  he  began  and 
finished  one  of  his  most  pleasing  and  successful 
compilations,  a  "  History  of  England,  in  a  Series 
of  Letters  from  a  Nobleman  to  his  Son."     This 


36 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


little  work  was  at  first  published  anonymously, 
and  was  very  generadly  ascribed  to  the  pen  of  Lord 
"SLyttleton,  That  nobleman  then  held  some  rank 
in  the  world  of  letters,  and  as  the  chief  feature  in 
the  performance  was  an  easy  elegance  of  language, 
without  much  depth  of  thought,  or  investigation, 
the  public  were  the  more  easily  betrayed  into  a  be- 
lief that  it  was  the  work  of  his  lordship.  It  had 
likewise  the  honour  to  be  ascribed  to  the  Earl  of 
Orrery,  and  some  other  noble  authors  of  that  period. 
That  it  was  really  the  production  of  Goldsmith, 
nowever,  was  soon  afterwards  generally  known;  a 
circumstance,  which  in  all  probability,  greatly  en- 
hanced its  value  in  the  estimation  of  the  world. 
Few  books  have  had  a  more  extensive  sale  or 
wider  circulation. 

The  fame  our  author  had  now  acquired  as  a 
critic,  a  novelist,  and  a  poet,  prompted  liim  to  ad- 
venture in  the  drama.  His  first  effort  produced 
"  The  Good-natured  Man."  This  comedy  was 
oflfered  to  Garrick,  to  be  brought  out  at  his  theatre 
of  Drury-Lane;  but  after  much  fiuctuation  between 
doubt  and  encouragement,  with  his  customary  hesi- 
tation and  uncertainty,  he  at  length  declined  it.  The 
conduct  of  Garrick  in  this  instance  was  the  more  sur- 
prising, as  the  piece  had  been  read  and  applauded  in 
manuscript  by  most  of  the  author's  literary  friends, 
and  had  not  only  the  sanction  of  Burke's  critical 
judgment,  but  Johnson  himself  had  engaged  to 
write  the  prologue.  Colman,  the  manager  of  Gov- 
ent-Garden  Theatre,  was,  however,  not  so  scrupu- 
lous; especially  when  he  found  it  presented  under 
such  patronage.  It  was  therefore  agreed  that  it 
should  be  produced  at  his  theatre ;  and  it  was  repre- 
sented there  for  the  first  time  on  the  29th  of  Janu- 
ary, 1768.  Contrary  to  the  expectations  of  the  au- 
thor and  his  friends,  it  did  not  meet  with  unquali- 
fied applause ;  and  though  it  kept  possession  of  the 
stage  nine  nights,  it  was  finally  withdrawn.  The 
peculiar  genius  of  its  author  was  apparent  in  the 
ease  and  elegance  of  the  dialogue,  and  throughout 
the  whole  there  were  many  keen  remarks  on  men 
and  manners;  but  the  piece  was  deficient  in  stage- 
efl!ect.  The  Bailiff"  scene,  in  particular,  was  gene- 
rally reprobated,  though  the  characters  were  well 
drawn.  This  scene  was  afterwards  greatly  abridg- 
ed. Whatever  were  the  faults  of  the  piece  as  a 
whole,  it  was  admitted  that  many  of  the  parts  pos- 
sessed great  comic  effect,  and  these  were  highly 
applauded.  The  part  of  Croaker,  in  particular,  was 
allowed  to  be  excellent.  It  was  admirably  sup- 
ported by  Shuter,  the  most  popular  comedian  of  his 
day.  The  ilrollery  of  his  manner  while  reading 
the  incendiary  letter  in  the  fourth  act,  and  liis  ex- 
pression of  the  different  passions  by  which  he  was 
agitated,  were  so  irresistibly  comical,  that  he  brought 
down  thimders  of  applause.  Goldsmith  himself  was 
so  overcome  with  the  acting  of  Shuter,  that  he  ex- 
pressed his  delight  before  the  whole  company,  a»- ' 


suring  him  that  "he  had  exceeded  his  own  idea 
of  the  character,  and  that  the  fine  comic  richnesi 
of  his  colouring  made  it  almost  appear  as  new  te 
him  as  to  any  other  person  in  the  house."  Dr. 
Johnson  furnished  the  prologue,  and  publicly  de- 
clared, that  in  his  opinion,  "  The  Good-natured 
Man"  was  the  best  comedy  that  had  appeared 
since  "  The  Provoked  Husband."  He  dwelt  with 
much  complacency  on  the  character  of  Croaker, 
and  averred  that  none  equal  to  it  in  originaUty 
had  for  a  long  time  been  exhibited  on  the  stage. 
Goldsmith  used  to  acknowledge,  that  for  his  con- 
ception of  this  character  he  was  indebted  to  John- 
son's Suspirius  in  the  "Rambler."  That  of  Honey  • 
wood,  in  its  undistinguishing  benevolence,  bear» 
some  resemblance  to  his  own.  "The  Good-na- 
tured Man"  has  undoubtedly  great  merit;  and 
though  deficient  in  effect  for  the  stage,  will  always 
be  a  favourite  in  the  closet.  Mr.  Cumberland  re- 
marks, that  it  "  has  enough  to  justify  the  good 
opinion  of  its  literary  patrons,  and  secure  its  au- 
thor against  any  loss  of  reputation;  for  it  has  the 
stamp  of  a  man  of  talents  upon  it,  though  its  popu- 
larity with  the  audience  did  not  quite  keep  pace  with 
the  expectations  that  were  grounded  on  the  fiat  it 
had  antecedently  been  honoured  with."  Short  aa 
its  career  was,  however,  its  author  by  the  sale  of  the 
copy,  and  the  profits  of  his  three  nights,  acquired 
not  less  than  five  hundred  pounds,  a  sum  which 
enabled  him  to  enlarge  liis  domestic  establishment 
and  improve  his  style  of  hving,  though  it  is  beUev- 
cd  on  rather  a  too  expensive  scale.  On  removing, 
at  this  time  from  an  attic  in  the  Inner-Temple,  to 
elegant  chambers  in  Brick-court,  Middle-Temple, 
he  is  said  to  have  laid  out  upwards  of  four  hundred 
pounds. 

Goldsmith's  improved  circumstances,  did  not, 
however,  compensate  for  the  vexations  he  suffered 
from  the  virulence  of  some  of  the  periodical  critics. 
"  At  that  time,"  says  Mr.  Cumberland,  "  there 
was  a  nest  of  vipers  in  league  against  every  name 
to  which  any  degree  of  celebrity  was  attached;  and 
they  kept  their  hold  upon  the  papers  till  certain  of 
their  leaders  were  compelled  to  fly  their  country, 
some  to  save  their  ears,  and  some  to  save  their 
necks.  They  were  well  known ;  and  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  some  men  whose  minds  should  have  been 
superior  to  any  terrors  they  could  hold  out,  made 
suit  to  them  for  favour,  nay  even  combined  witn 
them  on  some  occasions,  and  were  mean  enough 
to  enrol  themselves  under  their  despicable  ban- 
ners." From  tliis  class  of  critics,  poor  Goldsmith's 
sensitive  feelings  suffTered  the  horrors  of  crucifixion. 
To  add  to  his  mortification,  the  comedy  of  "  False 
Delicacy,"  written  by  his  friend  Kelly,  came  out  at 
Drury-Lane  Theatre  about  the  same  time  with 
"  The  Good-natured  Man"  at  Covent-Garden,  and 
had  such  an  unexampled  run  of  success,  that  it 
was  said  to  have  driven  itg  opponent  fairly  off  the 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


^ 


field,  ^his  might,  perhaps,  be  in  some  measure 
owing  to  the  able  management  of  Garrick,  under 
whose  special  superintendence  it  was  got  up;  but 
at  that  time  sentimental  writing  was  the  prevailing 
taste  of  the  town,  and  Kelly's  piece  was  the  finest 
specimen  of  the  sentimental  school  that  had  ap 
peared.  Although  "  False  Delicacy,"  according 
to  Dr.  Johnson,  was  *'  totally  devoid  of  character," 
no  less  than  ten  thousand  copies  were  sold  in  the 
course  of  only  one  season;  and  the  booksellers  con- 
cerned in  the  copyright,  as  a  mark  of  the  sense 
they  entertained  of  the  comedy,  evinced  by  its  ex- 
traordinary sale,  presented  Kelly  with  a  piece  of 
plate  of  considerable  value,  and  gave  a  sumptuous 
entertainment  to  him  and  his  friends.  These  cir- 
cumstances so  wrought  upon  the  irritable  feelings 
of  Goldsmith,  in  whose  disposition,  warm  and 
generous  as  it  was,  envy  had  an  unhappy  predomi- 
nance, that  he  renounced  the  friendship  of  Kelly, 
and  could  with  difficulty  be  brought  to  forgive  him 
this  temporary  success.  Our  author,  though  in 
the  chief  features  of  his  character  the  original  of  his 
own  "  Good-natured  Man,"  was  yet  strangely 
jealous  of  the  success  of  others,  and  particularly 
in  whatever  regarded  literary  fame. 

We  find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  the  possession 
of  so  odious  a  quality  with  affectionate  habits  and 
benevolent  propensities  like  his.  True  it  is,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  prone  to  indulge  this  unamiable 
passion  to  so  ridiculous  an  excess,  that  tlie  instances 
of  it  are  hardly  credible.  When  accompanying 
two  beautiful  young  ladies,*  with  their  mother,  on 
a  tour  in  France,  he  was  amusingly  angry  that 
more  attention  was  paid  to  them  than  to  him.  And 
once,  at  the  exhibition  of  the  Fantoccini  in  Lon- 
don, when  those  who  sat  next  him  observed  with 
what  dexterity  a  puppet  was  maJe  to  toss  a  pike, 
he  could  not  bear  that  it  should  have  such  praisCj 
and  exclaimed  with  some  warmth,  "Pshaw!  I  can 
do  it  better  myself"  In  fact,  on  his  way  home 
with  Mr.  Burke  to  supper,  he  broke  his  shin,  by 
attempting  to  exhibit  to  the  company  how  much 
better  he  could  jump  over  a  stick  than  the  puppets. 
His  envy  of  Johnson  was  one  day  strongly  ex- 
hibited at  the  house  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
While  the  doctor  was  relating  to  the  circle  there 
assembled  the  particulars  of  his  celebrated  inter- 
view with  the  king,  Goldsmitii  remained  unmoved 
upon  a  sofa  at  some  distance,  affecting  not  to  join 
in  the  least  in  the  eager  curiosity  of  the  company. 
At  length,  however,  the  frankness  and  simplicity 
of  his  natural  character  prevailed.  He  sprung 
from  the  sofa,  advanced  to  Johnson,  and  in  a  kind 
of  flutter,  from  imagining  himself  in  the  situation 
he  had  just  been  hearing  described,  exclaimed, 
"  Well,  you  acquitted  yourself  in  this  conversation 


better  than  I  should  have  done;  for  I  should  have 
bowed  and  stammered  through  the  whole  of  it," 

On  another  occasion,  during  an  interesting  ar- 
gument carried  on  by  Johnson,  Mayo,  and  Top- 
lady,  at  the  table  of  Messrs.  Dilly,  the  booksellers, 
'  Goldsmith  sat  in  restless  agitation,  from  a  wish  to 
get  in  and  shine.     Finding  himself  excluded,  he 
had  taken  his  hat  to  go  away,  but  remained  for 
some  time  with  it  in  his  hand,  Uke  a  gamester  who, 
at  the  close  of  a  long  night,  lingers  for  a  little  while, 
to  see  if  he  can  have  a  favourable  opening  to  finish 
with  success.     Once  when  he  was  beginning  to 
speak,  he  found  himself  overpowered  by  the  loud 
voice  of  Johnson,  who  was  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  table,  and  did  not  perceive  Goldsmith's  attempt. 
Thus  disappointed  of  his  wish  to  obtain  the  atten- 
tion of  the  company.  Goldsmith  in  a  passion  threw 
down  his  hat,  looking  angrily  at  Johnson,  and  ex- 
claiming in  a  bitter  tone  "  Take  zY."     Wlien  Top- 
lady  was  going  to  speak,  Johnson  uttered  some 
sound,  which  led  Goldsmith  to  think  that  he  was 
beginning  again,  and  taking  the  words  from  Top- 
lady.     Upon  which  he  seized  this  opportunity  of 
venting  his  own  spleen,  under  the  pretext  of  sup- 
porting another  person ;  "Sir,"  said  he  to  Johnson, 
"the  gentleman  has  heard  you  patiently  for  an 
hour:  pray  allow  us  now  to  hear  him."     Johnson 
replied,   "  Sir,  1  was  not  interrupting  the  gentle- 
man ;  I  was  onl^tgiving  him  a  signal  of  my  atten- 
tion.    Sir,  you  are  impertinent."     Goldsmith  made 
no  reply.     Johnson,  Boswell,  and  Mr.  Langton, 
towards  the  evening,  adjourned  to  the  club,  where 
they  found  Burke,  Garrick,  and  some  other  mem- 
bers, and  amongst  them  their  friend  Goldsmith, 
who  sat  silently  brooding  over  Johnson's  reprimand 
to  him  after  dinner.     Johnson  perceived  this,  and 
said  aside  to  some  of  them,  "  I'll  make  Goldsmith 
forgive  me;"   and  then  called  to  him  in  a  loud 
voice,  "  Dr.  Goldsmith, — something  passed  to-day 
where  you  and  I  dined ;  I  ask  your  pardon."  Gold- 
smith answered  placidly,   "  It  must  be  much  from 
you,  sir,  that  I  take  ill."     And  so  at  once  the  dif- 
ference was  over ;  they  were  on  as  easy  terms  as 
ever,  and  Goldsmith  rattled  away  as  usual.' 

The  tinclure  of  envy  thus  conspicuous  in  the  dis- 
position of  our  author,  was  accompanied  by  another 
characteristic  feature,  more  innocent  but  withal  ex- 
ceedingly ridiculous.  He  was  vain  of  imaginary 
qualifications,  and  had  an  incessant  desire  of  being 
conspicuous  in  company ;  and  this  was  the  occasion 
of  his  sometimes  appearing  to  such  disadvantage  as 
one  should  hardly  have  supposed  possible  in  a  man 
of  his  genius.  When  his  literary  reputation  had 
risen  deservedly  high,  and  his  society  was  much 
coiirted,  his  jealousy  of  the  great  attention  paid  to 
Johnson  was  more  strikingly  apparent.  One  eve- 
ning, in  a  circle  of  wits,  he  found  fault  with  Bos- 
*  The  Miss  Homecks,  one  of  wtvom  was  afterwaads  married  1  ^^^  ^^^'  talking  of  Johnson  as  entitled  to  the  honour 
to  Henry  Bunbury,  Esq,  and  the  other  to  Colonel  Gwyn.        'of  unquestionable  superiority.     "  Sir,"  said  he, 


38 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


"you  are  for  making  a  monarchy  of  what  should 
be  a  republic." 

He  was  still  more  mortified,  when,  talking  in  a 
company  with  fluent  vivacity,  and,  as  he  flattered 
himself,  to  the  admiration  of  all  who  were  present, 
a  German  who  sat  next  him,  and  perceived  Johnson 
rolling  himself,  as  if  about  to  speak,  suddenly  stop- 
ped him,  saying,  "  Stay,  stay ;  Toctor  Shonson  is 
going  to  say  something."  This  was  very  provok- 
ing to  one  so  irritable  as  Goldsmith,  who  frequently 
mentioned  it  with  strong  expressions  of  indigna- 
tion. 

There  is  thus  much  to  be  said,  however,  for  the 
envy  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  rarely  excited  but  on  oc- 
casions of  mere  literary  competition ;  and,  perhaps, 
appeared  much  more  conspicuous  in  him  than  other 
men,  because  he  had  less  art,  and  never  attempted 
to  conceal  it.  Mr.  Boswell  used  to  defend  him. 
against  Dr.  Johnson  for  this  fault,  on  the  groimd 


of  his  frank  and  open  avowal  of  it  on  all  occasions;  George  Walker,  a  clergyman  who  happened  to 


grace  and  simplicity,  peculiar  to  the  general  styfc 
of  their  author,  and  are  well  calculated  to  attract 
young  readers  by  the  graces  of  composition.  But 
the  more  advanced  student  of  history  must  resort 
to  other  sources  for  information. 

In  the  History  of  England,  in  particular,  there 
are  several  mis-statements ;  and  one  instance  may 
be  given  from  his  account  of  a  remarkable  occur- 
rence in  the  affairs  of  his  own  country,  to  which 
it  might  have  been  expected  he  would  have  paid 
more  than  ordinary  attention.  This  is  to  be  foimd 
in  his  narrative  of  the  famous  siege  of  London- 
derry, in  1689,  sustained  against  the  French  army 
during  a  hundred  and  four  days,  after  the  city  was 
found  to  be  without  provisions  for  little  more  than 
a  week,  and  had  besides  been  abandoned  by  the 
military  commanders  as  utterly  untenable.  For 
this  memorable  defence  the  country  was  indebted 
to  the  courage,  conduct,  and  talents  of  the  Rev. 


but  Johnson  had  the  best  of  the  argument.  "  He 
talked  of  it  to  be  sure  often  enough,"  said  the  latter, 
"but  he  had  so  much  of  it  that  he  could  not  con- 
ceal it.  Now,  sir,  what  a  man  avows,  he  is  not 
ashamed  to  think ;  though  many  a  man  thinks  what 
he  is  ashamed  to  avow.  We  are  all  envious  na- 
turally ;  but  by  checking  envy,  we  get  the  better 
of  it.  So  we  are  all  thieves  naturally ;  a  child  al- 
ways tries  to  get  at  what  it  wants  the  nearest  way : 
.  by  good  instructions  and  good  habits  tliis  is  cured, 
till  a  man  has  not  even  an  inclination  to  seize  what 
is  another's ;  has  no  struggle  with  himself  about 
it."  But,  after  all,  if  ever  envy  was  entitled  to  be 
called  innocent,  it  certainly  was  so  in  the  person 
of  Goldsmith.  Whatever  of  this  kind  appeared  in 
his  conduct  was  but  a  momentary  sensation,  which 
he  knew  not  like  other  men  how  to  disguise  or  con 
ceal.  Rarely  did  it  influence  the  general  tenor  of 
Kis  conduct,  and,  it  is  believed,  was  never  once 
knovni  to  have  embittered  his  heart. 

While  Goldsmith  was  occupied  with  his  comedy 
of  the  "Good-natured  Man,"  he  was,  as  usual, 
busily  employed  in  the  compilation  of  various  pub- 
lications for  the  booksellers,  particularly  a  series 
of  histories  for  the  instruction  of  young  readers. 
These  were,  his  "  History  of  Rome,"  in  2  vols.  8vo. 
and  the  "  History  of  England,"  in  4  vols.  Svo. 
The  "  History  of  Greece,"  in  2  vols.  Svo.  pub- 
lished under  his  name  after  his  death,  can  not 
with  certainty  be  ascribed  to  his  pen.  For  the 
"History  of  England,"  Davies  the  bookseller  con- 
tracted to  pay  him  500Z.  and  for  an  abridgment  of 
the  Roman  history,  the  sum  of  fifty  guineas.* 

These  historical  compilations  possess  all  the  ease. 


take  refuge  in  the  city  after  it  was  abandoned  by 
the  military.  Under  the  direction  of  Walker,  as- 
sisted by  two  officers  accidentally  in  the  place,  the 
defence  was  conducted  with  so  much  skill,  courage, 
and  perseverance,  and  the  citizens  displayed  such 
valour,  patience,  and  fortitude,  under  innumerable 
hardships  and  privations,  that  the  city  was  finally 
saved.*     For  his  services  on  this  occasion  Mr. 


*  The  articles  of  agreement  relative  to  these  works  between 
the  bookseller  and  Goldsmith  having  been  preserved,  we  quote 
them  for  the  gratification  of  our  reader's  curiosity,  especially 
aa  they  were  drawn       by  the  doctor  himself. 


"  MEMORANDUM. 

"  Russell  street,  Coveni  Garden. 
"  It  is  agreed  between  Oliver  Goldsmith,  M.  B.,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  Thomas  Davies,  bookseller,  of  Russell  street  Covent 
Garden,  on  the  other,  that  Oliver  Goldsmith  shall  write  for 
Thomas  Davies,  a  History  of  England,  from  the  birth  of  the 
British  Empire,  to  the  death  of  George  the  II.,  in  four  volumes, 
octavo,  of  the  si7.e  and  letter  of  the  Roman  History,  written  by 
Oliver  Goldsmith.  The  said  History  of  England  shall  be 
written  and  compiled  in  the  space  of  two  years  from  the  date 
hereof.  And  when  the  said  History  is  written  and  delivered 
in  manuscript,  the  printer  giving  his  opinion  that  the  quantity 
above  mentioned  is  completed,  that  then  Oliver  Goldsijiith 
shall  be  paid  by  Thomas  Davies  the  sum  of  5001.  sterling,  for 
having  written  and  compiled  the  same.  It  is  agreed  also,  tha: 
Oliver  Goldsmith  shaU  print  his  name  to  the  said  work.  In 
witness  whereof  we  have  set  our  names  the  13th  of  June,  1769. 

"  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

"  TViomas  Davies." 

"MEMORANDUM. 

"  September  15, 1770, 
"  It  is  agreed  between  Oliver  Goldsmith,  M.B.,  and  Thomas 
Davies,  of  Covent  Garden,  bookseller,  that  Oliver  Goldsmith 
shall  abridge,  for  Thomas  Davies,  the  book  entitled  Gold- 
smith's Roman  History,  in  two  volumes,  Svo,  into  one  volume 
in  12mo,  so  as  to  fit  it  for  the  use  of  such  as  will  not  be  at  the 
expense  of  that  in  Svo.    For  the  abridging  of  the  said  history, 
and  for  putting  his  name  thereto,  said  Thomas  Davies  shall 
pay  Oliver  Goldsmith  fifty  guineas;  to  be  paid  him  on  the 
at)ridgment  and  delivering  of  the  copy.  As  witness  our  hands. 
"  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
"  Thomas  Davies." 
*  A  curious  journal  which  Mr.  Walker  had  kept  of  all  the 
occiu:rences  during  the  siege,  was  pubhshed  at  that  period,  in 
4to,  and  was  afterwards  republished  by  the  late  Dr.  Brown, 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


39 


Walker,  who  belonged  to  the  Established  Church, 
was  afterwards  created  Bishop  of  Dromore  by  King 
William ;  but  his  military  zeal  prompted  him  to 
volunteer  his  services  at  the  battle  of  the  Boyne, 
where  he  was  unfortunately  killed.  Of  this  ex- 
traordinary character  Goldsmith  takes  a  very  slight 
and  rather  disrespectful  notice,  stating  him  to  have 
been  a  dissenting  minister,  which  he  was  not,  and 
neglecting  to  record  either  his  promotion  or  his 
death.* 

Goldsmith,  besides  his  regular  emplojonent  in  the 
compilation  of  these  histories,  had  now  all  the  other 
business  of  an  author  by  profession.  Either  through 
friendship  or  for  money,  but  oftener  from  charity  to 
the  needy  or  unsuccessful  of  his  brethren,  he  was 
frequently  engaged  in  the  composition  of  prefaces, 
dedications,  and  introductions  to  the  performances 
of  other  writers.  These  exhibit  ingenious  proofs 
of  his  ready  talent  at  general  writing,  and  for  the 
most  part  gave  a  much  better  display  of  the  subject! 
treated  of  than  could  have  been  done  by  their  own 
authors.  But  in  this  view  he  is  rather  to  be  con- 
sidered as  an  advocate  pleading  the  cause  of  ano- 
ther, than  as  delivering  the  sentiments  of  his  own 
mind;  for  he  often  recommends  the  doubtful  pecu- 
liarities, and  even  the  defects  of  a  work,  which  it  is 
obvious,  had  been  engaged  on  the  other  side,  lie 
could  with  equal  ability  have  detected  and  exposed. 
Something  like  this  our  readers  will  find  in  an  Ad- 
dress to  the  Public,  which  was  to  usher  in  propo- 
sals for  "A  New  History  of  the  World,  from  the 
creation  to  the  present  time,"  in  12  vols,  8vo.  by 
Guthrie  and  others,  to  be  printed  for  Newberry. 
This  undertaking  was  to  form  an  abridgment  of  all 
the  volumes  of  the  ancient  and  modern  universal  his- 
tories; and  our  author  urges  a  great  variety  of  topics 
in  praise  of  such  contractions  and  condensing  of  his- 
torical materials,  which,  with  equal  ingenuity,  he 


author  of  the  Estimate,  etc.  One  very  providential  circum- 
stance happened  to  the  besieged.  Being  reduced  by  the  ex- 
tremity of  famine  to  eat  every  kind  of  unwholesome  food,  they 
were  dying  in  great  numbers  of  the  bloody  flux ;  but  the  acci- 
dental discovery  of  some  concealed  barrels  of  starch  and  tal- 
low, relieved  their  hunger,  and  cured  the  dysentery  at  the 
eame  time. 

*  Our  author's  inaccui-acy,  with  regard  to  Mr.  Walker,  was 
corrected  in  the  following  letter  addref^ed  to  him  by  Mr. 
Woolsey,  of  Dundalk :  "  To  Dr.  Goldsmith.— Sir,  I  beg  leave 
to  acquaint  you,  there  is  a  mistake  in  your  abridgment  of  the 
History  of  England,  respecting  Dr.  Walker,  viz.  '  one  Walker, 
a  dissenting  minister.' 

"I  venture  to  assure  you,  Mr.  Walker  was  a  clergyman  of 
the  Established  Church  of  Ireland,  who  was  appointed  Bishop 
of  Dromore  by  King  William,  for  his  services  at  Derry,  but 
was  unfortunately  killed  at  the  battle  of  the  Boyne;  which  I 
hope  you  will  be  pleased  to  insert  in  future  editions  of  your 
late  book. 

"  The  Duke  of  Schomberg  was  certainly  killed  in  passing 
the  river  Boyne.  I  am,  Sir,  with  great  respect,  your  most 
eljedient  humble  servant, 

"  Thomas   Woolsey." 

"Dundalk,  April  10, 1772." 


could  have  opposed  and  refuted.     But  the  whole  is 
truly  excellent  as  a  composition.     About  the  same 
time,  he  drew  up  a  preface  or  introduction  to  Dr. 
Brookes's  "  System  of  Natural  History,"  in  6  vols. 
12mo,  in  itself  a  very  dull  and  uninteresting  work; 
but  such  an  admirable  display  of  the  subject  wab 
given  in  the  preface,  which  he  rendered  doubly  cap- 
tivating by  the  charms  of  his  style,  that  the  book- 
sellers immediately  engaged  him  to  undertake  his 
own  larger  work  of  the  ''History  of  the  Earth  and 
Animated  Nature."     It  was  this  work  which  Dr. 
Johnson  emphatically  said,  its  author  would  "  make 
as  entertaining  as  a  Persian  Tale."     The  result 
proved  the  accuracy  of  the  judgment  thus  passed  on 
it;  for,  although  it  contains  numerous  defects,  yet 
the  witchery  of  its  language  has  kept  it  buoyant  in 
spite  of  criticism.  The  numerous  editions  through 
which  it  has  passed  attest,  that,  if  not  a  profound, 
it  is  at  least  a  popular  work;  and  few  will  be  dispos- 
ed to  deny,  that  with  all  its  faults,  if  not  the  most 
instructive,  it  is  undoubtedly  the  most  amusing  work 
of  the  kind  yet  published.     It  would  be  absurd  to 
aver,  that  an  adept  would  find  himself  enhghtened 
by  the  doctor's  labours  in  that  science :  but  a  com- 
mon reader  will  find  his  curiosity  gratified,  and  that 
time  agreeably  disposed  of  which  he  bestows  on  this 
work.     When  our  author  engaged  in  this  compi- 
lation, he  resolved  to  make  a  translation  of  Phny, 
and,  by  the  help  of  a  commentary,  to  make  that 
agreeable  writer  more  generally  acceptable  to  the 
public;  but  the  appearance  of  Buffon's  work  induced 
him  to  change  his  plan,  and  instead  of  translating 
an  ancient  writer,  he  resolved  to  imitate  the  last 
and  best  of  the  moderns  who  had  written  on  the 
same  subject.  To  this  illustrious  Frenchman  Gold- 
smith acknowledges  the  highest  obligations,  but, 
unluckily,  he  has  copied  him  without  discrimina- 
tion, and,  while  he  selected  his  beauties,  heedlessly 
adopted  his  mistakes. 

In  a  serio-comical  apostrophe  to  the  author,  Mr. 
Cumberland  observes,  on  the  subject  of  this  work, 
that  "  distress  drove  Goldsmith  upon  undertakings 
neither  congenial  with  his  studies,  nor  worthy  of  his 
talents.  I  remember  him,  when,  in  his  chambers  in 
the  Temple,  he  showed  me  the  beginning  of  his 
'  Animated  Nature;'  it  was  with  a  sigh,  such  as  ge- 
nius draws,  when  hard  necessity  diverts  it  from  its 
bent  to  drudge  for  bread,  and  talk  of  birds,  and  beasts, 
and  creeping  things,  which  Pidcock's  showman 
would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fellow,  he  hardly 
knew  an  ass  from  a  mule,  nor  a  turkey  from  a  goose, 
but  when  he  saw  it  on.  the  table.  But  publishers 
hate  poetry,  and  Paternoster-row  is  not  Parnassus. 
Even  the  mighty  Dr.  Hill,  who  was  not  a  very  deli- 
cate feeder,  could  not  make  a  dinner  out  of  the 
press,  till,  by  a  happy  transformation  into  Hannah 
Glass,  he  turned  himself  into  a  cook,  and  sold  re- 
ceipts for  made-dishes  to  all  the  savoury  readers  m 
the  kingdom.     Then,  indeed,  the  press  acknow- 


40 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


ledged  him  second  in  fame  only  to  John  Bunyan: 
his  feasts  kept  pace  in  sale  with  Nelson's  Fasts ; 
and  when  his  own  name  was  fairly  written  out  of 
credit,  he  wrote  himself  into  immortality  under  an 
alias.  Now,  though  necessity,  or  I  should  rather 
say,  the  desire  of  finding  money  for  a  masquerade, 
drove  Oliver  Goldsmith  upon  abridging  histories, 
and  turning  BuiTon  into  English,  yet  I  much  doubt, 
if,  without  that  spur,  he  would  ever  have  put  his 
Pegasus  into  action  :  no,  if  he  had  been  rich,  the 
world  would  have  been  poorer  than  it  is,  by  the 
loss  of  all  the  treasures  of  his  genius,  and  the  con- 
tributions of  his  pen." 

Much  in  the  same  style  was  Goldsmith  himself 
accustomed  to  talk  of  his  mercenary  labours.  A 
poor  writer  consulted  him  one  day  on  what  subjects 
he  might  employ  his  pen  with  most  profit :  "  My 
dear  fellow,"  said  Goldsmith,  laughing,  indeed,  but 
in  good  earnest,  "  pay  no  regard  to  the  draggle-tail 
Muses;  for  my  part,  I  have  always  found  produc- 
tions in  prose  more  sought  after  and  better  paid 
for." 

On  another  occasion,  one  of  his  noble  friends, 
whose  classical  taste  he  knew  and  admired,  lament- 
ed to  him  his  neglect  of  the  Muses,  and  enquired 
of  him  why  he  forsook  poetry,  to  compile  histories, 
and  write  novels'?  "My  lord,"  said  our  author, 
"by  courting  the  Muses  I  shall  starve,  but  by  my 
other  labours,  I  eat,  drink,  and  have  good  clothes, 
and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life."  This  is,  no  doubt, 
the  reason  that  his  poems  bear  so  small  a  propor- 
tion to  his  other  productions ;  but  it  is  said,  that  he 
always  reflected  on  these  sacrifices  to  necessity  with 
the  bitterest  regret. 

Although  Goldsmith  thus  toiled  for  a  livehhoou 
in  the  drudgery  of  compilation,  we  do  not  find  that 
he  had  become  negligent  of  fame.  His  leisure 
hours  were  still  devoted  to  his  Muse ;  and  the  next 
voluntary  production  of  his  pen  was  the  highly 
finished  poem  of  "  The  Deserted  Village."  Pre- 
vious to  its  publication,  the  bookseller  who  had  bar- 
gained for  the  manuscript,  gave  him  a  note  for  one 
hundred  guineas.  Having  mentioned  this  soon 
afterwards  to  some  of  his  friends,  one  of  them  re- 
marked, that  it  was  a  very  great  sura  for  so  short  a 
performance.  "In  truth,"  said  Goldsmith,  "I 
think  so  too;  it  i^  much  more  than  the  honest  man 
can  afford,  or  the  piece  is  worth :  I  have  not  been 
easy  since  I  received  it;  I  will  therefore  go  back  and 
return  him  his  note :"  which  he  actually  did,  and 
left  it  entirely  to  the  bookseller  to  pay  him  accord- 
ing to  the  success  of  the  sale  and  the  profits  it  might 
produce.  His  estimate  of  the  value  of  this  perform- 
ance was  formed  from  data  somewhat  singular 
for  a  poet,  who  most  commonly  appreciates  his  la- 
bours rather  by  tiieir  quality  than  their  quantity. 
He  computed,  that  a  hundred  guineas  was  equal  to 
five  shillings  a  couplet,  which,  he  modestly  observ 


ed,  "  was  certainly  too  much,  because  more  than  he 
thought  any  publisher  could  afford,  or,  indeed,  than 
any  modern  poetry  whatever  could  be  worth." 
The  sale  of  this  poem,  however,  was  so  rapid  and 
extensive,  that  the  bookseller  soon  paid  him  the  full 
amount  of  the  note  he  had  returned,  with  an  ac- 
knowledgment for  the  disinterestedness  he  had 
evinced  on  the  occasion. 

Although  criticism  has  allotted  the  highest  rank 
to  "  The  Traveller,"  there  is  no  doubt  that  "  The 
Deserted  Village"  is  the  most  popular  and  favourite 
poem  of  the  two.  Perhaps  no  poetical  piece  of 
equal  length  has  been  more  universally  read  by  all 
classes  or  has  more  frequently  supplied  extracts 
for  apt  quotation.  It  abounds  with  couplets  and 
single  lines,  so  simply  beautiful  in  sentiment,  so 
musical  in  cadence,  and  so  perfect  in  expression, 
that  the  ear  is  delighted  to  retain  them  for  theii 
truth,  while  their  tone  of  tender  melancholy  indeli 
bly  engraves  them  on  the  heart. — The  character- 
istic of  our  author's  poetry  is  a  prevailing  simplici- 
ty, which  conceals  all  the  artifices  of  versification : 
but  it  is  not  confined  to  his  expression  alone,  for  it 
pervades  every  feature  of  the  poem.  His  delinea- 
tion of  rural  scenery,  his  village  portraits,  his  moral, 
political,  and  classical  allusions,  while  marked  by 
singular  fidelity,  chasteness,  and  elegance,  are  all 
chiefly  distinguished  for  this  pleasing  and  natural 
character.  The  finishing  is  exquisitely  delicate, 
without  being  overwrought;  and,  with  the  feehngs 
of  tenderness  and  melancholy  which  runs  thjrough 
the  poem,  there  is  occasianally  mixed  up  a  slight 
tincture  of  pleasantry,  which  gives  an  additional 
interest  to  the  whole. 

"The  Deserted  Village"  is  written  in  the  same 
style  and  measure  with  "  The  Traveller,"  and  may 
in  some  degree  be  considered  a  suite  of  that  poem  : 
pursuing  some  of  the  views  and  illustrating  in  their 
results  some  of  the  principles  there  laid  down.  But 
the  poet  is  here  more  intimately  interested  in  his 
subject.  The  case  is  taken  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, the  scenery  drawn  from  his  own  home,  and 
the  application  especially  intended  for  his  own 
country. 

The  main  intention  of  the  poem  is  to  contrast 
agriculture  with  commerce,  and  to  maintain  that 
the  former  is  the  most  worthy  pursuit,  both  as  it 
regards  individual  happiness  and  national  prosperi- 
ty. He  proceeds  to  show  that  commerce,  while  it 
causes  an  influx  of  wealth,  introduces  also  luxury, 
and  its  attendant  vices  and  miseries.  He  dwells 
with  pathos  on  the  effects  of  those  lordly  fortunes 
which  create  little  worlds  of  solitary  magnificence 
around  them,  swallowing  up  the  small  farms  in 
their  wide  and  useless  domains ;  thus  throwing  an 
air  of  splendour  over  the  country,  while  in  fact  they 
hedge  and  wall  out  its  real  life  and  soul — its  hardy 
peasantry. 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


41 


m  fares  the  land,  to  hast'ning  iUa  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  he  supplied. 

The  poet,  again  personified  in  the  traveller,  re- 
turns from  his  wanderings  in  distant  countries  to 
the  village  of  his  childhood.  In  the  opening  of  the 
poem  he  draws  from  memory  a  minute  and  beauti- 
ful picture  of  the  place,  and  fondly  recalls  its  sim- 
ple sports  and  rustic  gambols.  In  all  his  journey- 
ings,  his  perils,  and  his  sufferings,  he  had  ever  look- 
ed forward  to  this  beloved  spot,  as  the  haven  of  re- 
pose for  the  evening  of  his  days. 

And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
\  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexatioas  past, 
;Iere  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

With  these  expectations  he  returns,  after  the 
lapse  of  several  years,  and  finds  the  village  deserted 
and  desolate.  A  splendid  mansion  had  risen  in  its 
neighbourhood ;  the  cottages  and  hamlets  had  been 
demolished;  their  gardens  and  fields  were  thrown 
into  parks  and  pleasure-grounds;  and  their  rustic 
inhabitants,  thrust  out  from  their  favourite  abodes, 
had  emigrated  to  another  hemisphere. 

To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between. 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Dejected  at  this  disappointment  of  his  cherished 
hope,  the  poet  wanders  among  the  faint  traces  of 
past  scenes,  contrasting  their  former  Ufe  and  gaiety 
with  their  present  solitude  and  desolation.  This 
gives  occasion  for  some  of  the  richest  and  mellow- 
est picturing  to  be  found  in  any  poetry.  The 
village-preacher  and  his  modest  mansion;  the 
schoolmaster  and  his  noisy  troop;  the  ale-house 
and  its  grotesque  frequenters,  are  all  masterpieces 
of  their  kind. 

The  village  alluded  to  in  this  poem  is  at  present 
sufficiently  ascertained  to  be  Lishoy,  near  Bally- 
mahon,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath,  Ireland,  in 
which  Goldsmith  passed  his  youth.  It  has  been 
remarked,  that  the  description  of  the  place  and 
the  people,  together  with  the  introduction  of  the 
nightingale,  a  bird,  it  is  said,  unknown  in  the  Irish 
ornithology,  savour  more  of  the  rural  scenery  and 
rustic  life  of  an  English  than  an  Irish  village.  But 
this  presents  no  insuperable  difficulty.  Such  h- 
censes  are  customary  in  poetry;  and  it  is  notorious^ 
that  the  clear  blue  sky  and  the  delicious  tempera- 
ture of  Italy,  have  with  much  greater  freedom 
been  appropriated  by  English  bards  to  deck  out 
their  descriptions  of  an  English  spring.  It  is  evi- 
dent, indeed,  that  Goldsmith  meant  to  represent 
his  village  as  an  English  one.  He  took  from  Lis- 
hoy, therefore,  only  such  traits  and  characteristics 


as  might  be  applied  to  village-life  in  England,  and 
modified  them  accordingly.  He  took  what  be- 
longed to  human  nature  in  rustic  life,  and  adapted 
it  to  the  allotted  scene.  In  the  same  way  a  painter 
takes  his  models  from  real  life  around  him,  even 
when  he  would  paint  a  foreign  or  a  classic  group. 
There  is  a  verity  in  the  scenes  and  characters  of 
"The  Deserted  Village"  that  shows  Goldsmith  to 
have  described  what  he  had  seen  and  felt;  and  it 
is  upon  record  that  an  occurrence  took  place  at 
Lishoy,  during  his  life  time,  similar  to  that  which 
produced  the  desolation  of  the  village  in  the  poem. 
This  occurrence  is  thus  related  by  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Strean,  of  the  diocese  of  Elphin,  in  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Mangin,  and  inserted  in  that  gentleman's  "Essay 
on  light  reading." 

"The  poem  of 'The  Deserted  Village,' "  says 
Dr.  Strean,  "took  its  origin  from  the  (ircumstance 
of  General  Robert  Napier,  the  grandfather  of  the 
gentleman  who  now  lives  in  the  house,  within 
half  a  mile  of  Lishoy,  built  by  the  general,  having 
purchased  an  extensive  tract  of  the  country  sur- 
rounding Lishoy,  or  Auburn;  in  consequence  of 
which,'many  families,  here  called  cottiers,  were  re- 
moved to  make  room  for  the  intended  improve- 
ments of  what  was  now  to  become  the  wide  do- 
main of  a  rich  man,  warm  with  the  idea  of  chang- 
ing the  face  of  his  new  acquisition,  and  were  forc- 
ed, 'with  fainting  steps,'  to  go  in  search  of  Horrid 
tracts,'  and  'distant  climes.' 

"This  fact  might  be  sufficient  to  establish  the 
seat  of  the  poem;  but  there  can  not  remain  a  doubt 
in  any  unprejudiced  mind,  when  the  following  are 
added ;  viz.  that  the  character  of  the  village -preach- 
er, the  above-named  Henry,  the  brother  of  the  poet, 
is  copied  from  nature.  He  is  described  exactly  as 
he  lived:  and  his 'modest  mansion' as  it  existed. 
Burn,  the  name  of  the  village-master,  and  the  site 
of  his  school-house,  and  Catherine  Giraghty,  a 
lonely  widow,  • 

The  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  broolc  with  mantling  cresses  spread. 

(and  to  this  day  the  brook  and  ditches  near  the 
spot  where  her  cabin  stood  abound  with  cresses), 
still  remain  in  the  memory  of  the  inhabitants,  and 
Catherine's  children  live  in  the  neighbourhood. 
The  pool,  the  busy  mill,  the  house  where  'nut- 
brown  draughts  inspired,'  are  still  visited  as  the 
poetic  scene;  and  the  'hawthorn  bush,'  growing 
in  an  open  space  in  front  of  the  house,  which  I 
knew  to  have  three  trunks,  is  now  reduced  to  one, 
the  other  two  having  been  cut,  from  time  to  time, 
by  persons  carrying  pieces  of  it  away  to  be  made 
into  toys,  etc.  in  honour  of  the  bard,  and  of  the 
celebncy  of  his  poem.  All  these  contribute  to  the 
same  proof;  and  the  'decent  church,'  which  I  at- 
tended for  upwards  of  eighteen  years,  and  which 
'tops  the  neighbouring  hill,'  is  exactly  described  • 


49 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


as  seen  from  Lishoy,  the  residence  of  the  preach- 
er." 

To  the  honour  of  Ireland,  and  in  particular  of 
a  gentleman  named  Hogan,  grandson  to  General 
Napier  the  destroyer,  we  are  enabled  to  add  that 
the  village  of  Lishoy,  now  bearing  its  poetical 
name  of  Auburn,  has  been  renovated  and  restor- 
ed, at  least  as  to  its  localities,  to  what  it  was  in  its 
happiest  days.  The  parsonage,  rescued  from 
a  legion  of  pigs  and  poultry,  which  had  taken 
possession  of  its  lower  apartments,  and  relieved 
from  loads  of  grain  and  fodder,  under  which  its 
upper  chambers  had  for  some  years  groaned,  has 
resumed  its  ancient  title  of  Lishoy-house :  the 
church  yet  crowns  the  hill,  and  is  again  entitled 
to  the  appellation  of  decent;  the  school-house 
maintains  its  station ;  and  the  village-inn,  with  its 
sign  repainted,  its  chambers  re- white  washed,  and 
the  varnished  clock  replaced  in  its  corner,  echoes 
once  more  with  the  voices  of  rustic  politicians, 
merry  peasants,  and  buxom  maids. 

Half  willing  to  be  press'd, 
Who  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

To  render  the  dispensation  of  poetical  justice  still 
more  complete,  the  usurping  mansion,  the  erection 
of  which  occasioned  the  downfall  of  the  village, 
has  become  dismantled  and  dilapidated,  and  has 
been  converted  into  a  barrack.* 


Goldsmith  dedicated  "  The  Deserted  Village"  to 
his  friend  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  from  motives  of  af- 
fection. "  I  can  have  no  expectations,"  said  the 
poet,  "in  an  address  of  this  kind,  either  to  add  to 
your  reputation,  or  to  estabUsh  my  own.  You  can 
gain  nothing  from  my  admiration,  as  I  am  igno- 
rant of  that  art  in  which  you  are  said  to  excel : 
and  I  may  lose  much  by  the  severity  of  your  judg- 
ment, as  few  have  a  juster  taste  in  poetry  than 
you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside,  to  which  1 
never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be  indulged  at 
present  in  following  my  affections.  The  only 
dedication  I  ever  made  was  to  my  brother,  because 
I  loved  him  better  than  most  other  men.  He  is 
since  dead.  Permit  me  to  inscribe  this  poem  to 
you." 


*  The  following  account  of  the  renovation  of  this  village 
ia  extracted  from  a  number  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine. 
"About  three  miles  from  Ballymahon,  a  very  central  town  in 
the  sister  kingdom,  is  the  mansion  and  village  of  Auburn,  so 
called  by  their  present  possessor,  Captain  Hogan.  Through 
the  taste  and  improvement  of  this  gentleman,  it  is  now  a  beau 
tiful  spot,  although  fifteen  years  since  it  presented  a  very  bare 
and  unpoetical  aspect.  This,  however,  was  owing  to  a  cause 
which  serves  strongly  to  corroborate  the  assertion,  that  Gold- 
smith had  this  scene  in  view  when  he  wrote  his  poem  of  'Tlie 
Deserted  VUlage.'  The  then  possessor.  General  Napier,  turn- 
ed all  his  tenants  out  of  their  farms,  that  he  miglu  enclose 
them  in  his  own  private  domain.  Littleton,  the  mansion  of 
the  General,  stands  not  far  off;  a  complete  emblem  of  the  deso- 
lating spirit  lamented  by  the  poet,  dilapidated  and  convened 
into  a  barrack. 

"The  chief  object  of  attraction  is  I>ishoy,  once  tlie  pai-son- 
age-house  of  Henry  Goldsmith,  that  brother  to  Avhom  the 
poet  dedicated  his 'Traveller,'  and  who  is  represented  as  the 
Village  Pastor, 

Passing  rich  with  forty  younds  a-year. 

"When  I  was  in  the  country,  the  lower  chambers  were  in- 
habited by  pigs  and  sheep,  and  the  drawing-rooms  by  oats. 
Captain  Hogan,  however,  has,  I  believe,  got  it  since  into  his 
possession,  and  has,  of  course,  improved  its  condition. 

"Though  at  first  strongly  inclined  lo  'dispute  the  identity  of 
Auburn,  Lishoy-house  overcame  my  scruples.  As  I  clambered 
®ver  the  rotten  gate,  and  crossed  the  grass-grown  lawn,  or 
court,  the  tide  of  association  became  too  strong  for  casuistry : 
here  the  poet  dwelt  and  wrote,  and  here  his  thoughts  fondly 
recurred  when  composing  his '  Traveller,'  in  a  foreign  land. 
Yonder  was  >he  decent  church,  that  literally  '  topped  the  neigh- 


bouring hill.'  Before  me  lay  the  little  hill  of  Knockrue,  on 
which  he  declares,  in  one  of  his  letters,  he  had  rather  sit  with 
a  book  in  hand,  than  mingle  in  the  proudest  assemblies.  And 
above  all,  startingly  true,  beneath  my  feet  was 

Yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild. 

"A  painting  from  the  life  could  not  be  more  exact.  'The 
stubborn  currant-bush'  lifts  its  head  above  the  rank  grass,  ani 
the  proud  hollyhock  flaunts  where  its  sisters  of  the  flower- 
knot  are  no  more. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  village  stands  the  old  'hawthorn- 
tree,'  built  up  with  masomy,  to  distinguish  and  preserve  it  • 
it  is  old  and  stunted,  and  suflers  much  from  the  depreda 
tions  of  post-chaise  travellers,  who  generally  stop  to  procure  a 
twig.  Opposite  to  it  is  the  village  ale-house,  over  the  door  of 
which  swings  'The  Three  .lolly  Pigeons.'  Within,  every 
thing  is  arranged  according  to  the  letter: 

Tlie  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor, 
The  vamish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose. 

"  Captain  Hogan,  I  have  heard,  found  great  difficulty  Jn 
ol)taining 'the  twelve  good  rules,' but  at  length  purchased 
them  at  some  London  book-stall,  to  adorn  the  white-washed 
parlour  of  the  'Three  Jolly  Pigeons.'  However  laudable  this 
may  be,  nothing  shook  my  faith  in  tlie  reality  of  Auburn  so 
much  as  this  exactness,  which  had  the  disagreeable  air  of  be- 
ing got  up  for  the  occasion.  The  last  object  of  pilgrimage  is 
the  quondam  habitation  of  the  schoolmaster, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule. 

"It  is  surrounded  with  fragrant  proofs  of  its  identity  in 

The  blossora'd  furze  unprofitably  gay. 

"Here  is  to  be  seen  the  chair  of  the  poet, which  fell  into  (ha 
hands  of  its  presents  possessors  at  the  wreck  of  the  parson- 
age-house :  they  have  frequently  refused  large  offers  of  pur. 
chase ;  but  more,  I  dare  say,  for  the  sake  of  drawing  contri- 
butions from  the  curious  than  from  any  reverence  for  the 
bard.  The  chair  is  of  oak,  with  back  and  seat  of  cane,  which 
precluded  all  hopes  of  a  secret  drawer,  like  that  lately  disco- 
vered in  Gay's.  There  is  no  fear  of  its  being  worn  out  by  the 
devout  eai-nastness  of  sitters— as  the  cocks  and  hens  have 
usurped  undisputed  possession  of  it,  and  protest  most  cla- 
morously against  all  attemps  to  get  it  cleansed,  or  to  Seat  one's 
self. 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


43 


The  warm  friendship  which  had  subsisted  for 
years  between  the  painter  and  the  poet,  warranted 
this  dedication ;  while  the  fine  qualities  which  dis- 
tinguished that  eminent  artist,  richly  merited  the 
elegant  compliment  thus  paid  him  by  Goldsmith. 
"Reynolds,"  says  Mr.  Cumberland,  "was  a  per- 
fect gentleman ;  had  good  sense,  great  propriety, 
with  all  the  social  attributes,  and  all  the  graces  of 
hospitality,  equal  to  any  man.  He  well  knew  how 
to  appreciate  men  of  talents,  and  how  near  akin 
the  muse  of  poetry  was  to  that  art  of  which  he  was 
so  eminent  a  master.  From  Goldsmith  he  caught 
the  subject  of  his  famous  Ugolino ;  what  aids  he 
got  from  others,  if  he  got  any,  were  worthily  be- 
stowed and  happily  applied.  Great  as  an  artist. 
Sir  Joshua  was  equally  distinguished  as  a  man ; 
and  as  few  have  better  deserved,  so  few  have  had 
a  more  ample  share  of  prosperity  dealt  out  to  them. 
He  sunned  himself,  as  it  were,  in  an  unclouded 
sky,  and  his  Muse,  that  gave  him  a  palette  dressed 
by  all  the  Graces,  brought  him  also  a  cornucopia, 
rich  and  full  as  Flora,  Ceres,  and  Bacchus  could 
conspire  to  make  it.  When  he  was  lost  to  the 
world,"  continues  Mr.  Cumberland,  "  his  death 
was  the  dispersion  of  a  bright  and  luminous  circle 
of  ingenious  friends,  whom  the  elegance  of  his 
manners,  the  equability  of  his  temper,  and  the  at- 
traction of  his  talents,  had  caused  to  assemble 
round  him  as  the  centre  of  their  society.  In  all  the 
most  engaging  graces  of  his  art,  in  disposition,  at- 
titude, employment,  character  of  his  figures,  and 
above  all,  in  giving  mind  and  meaning  to  his  por- 
traits, if  I  were  to  say  Sir  Joshua  never  was  ex- 
celled, I  am  inclined  to  believe  so  many  better 
opinions  would  be  with  me,  that  I  should  not  be 
found  to  have  said  too  much." 


"The  controversy  concerning  the  identity  of  this  Auburn 
was  formerly  a  standing  theme  of  discussion  among  the  learn- 
ed of  the  neighbourhood,  but  since  the  pros  and  cons  have 
been  all  ascertained,  the  argument  has  died  away.  Its  abet- 
tors plead  the  singular  agreement  between  the  local  history  of 
the  place  and  the  Auburn  of  the  poem,  and  the  exactness  with 
which  the  scenery  of  the  one  answers  to  the  description  of 
the  other.    To  this  is  opposed  the  mention  of  the  nightingale, 

And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made ; — 

ihere  being  no  such  bird  in  the  island.  The  objection  is  slight- 
ed, on  the  other  hand,  by  considering  the  passage  as  a  mere 
poetical  license:  'Besides,' say  they, 'the  robin  is  the  Irish 
nightingale.'  And  if  it  be  hinted,  how  unlikely  it  was  that 
Goldsmith  should  have  laid  the  scene  in  a  place  from  which 
he  was  and  had  been  so  long  absent,  the  rejoinder  is  always, 
'Pray,  sir,  was  Milton  in  hell  when  he  built  Pandemonium"?' 
"The  line  is  naturally  drawn  between;— there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  poet  intended  England  by 


*****    The  land  to  hast'ning  ills  a  prey, 
Where  weajth  accumulates  and  men  decay. 

*' But  it  la  very  natural  tp  suppose,  that  at  the  same  time 
his  imagination  had  in  vjew  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  which 
give  such  strong  feature  of  resemblance  to  the  picture." 


Soon  after  the  publication  of  "The  Deserted 
Village,"  Goldsmith  found  leisure  to  accompany  a 
party  of  ladies  on  an  excursion  to  Paris.  The 
only  memorial  which  has  been  preserved  of  this 
journey,  is  the  following  fragment  of  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  his  friend  Sir  Joshua. 

"My  dear  Friend, — We  had  a  very  quick  pas- 
sage from  Dover  to  Calais,  which  we  performed  in 
three  hours  and  twenty  minutes,  all  of  us  extreme- 
ly sea-sick,  which  must  necessarily  have  happened, 
as  my  machine  to  prevent  sea-sickness  was  not 
completed.  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dover,  be- 
cause we  hated  to  be  imposed  upon ;  so  were  in 
high  spirits  at  coming  to  Calais,  where  we  were 
told  that  a  little  money  would  go  a  great  way.  Upon 
landing  two  little  trunks,  which  was  all  we  carried 
with  us,  we  were  surprised  to  see  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen fellows,  all  running  down  to  the  ship  to  lay 
their  hands  upon  them ;  four  got  under  each  trunk, 
the  rest  surrounded,  and  held  the  hasps ;  and  in 
this  manner  our  little  baggage  was  conducted  with 
a  kind  of  funeral  solemnity,  till  it  was  safely  lodg- 
ed at  the  custom-house.  We  were  well  enough 
pleased  with  the  people's  civility,  till  they  came  to 
be  paid.  Every  creature  that  had  the  happiness 
of  but  touching  our  trunks  v^th  their  finger,  ex- 
pected sixpence ;  and  they  had  so  pretty  a  civil 
manner  of  demariding  it,  that  there  was  no  refus- 
ing them.  When  we  had  done  with  the  porters,  we 
had  next  to  speak  with  the  custom-house  officers, 
who  had  their  pretty  civil  way  too.  We  were  di- 
rected to  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  where  a  valet  de 
place  came  to  offer  his  services ;  and  spoke  to  me 
ten  minutes  before  I  once  found  out  that  he  was 
speaking  English.  We  had  no  occasion  for  his 
services,  so  we  gave  him  a  little  money  because  he 
spoke  English,  and  because  he  wanted  it.  I  can 
not  help  mentioning  another  circumstance ;  I  bought 
a  new  ribbon  for  my  wig  at  Canterbury,  and  the 
barber  at  Calais  broke  it,  in  order  to  gain  sixpence 
by  buying  me  a  new  one." 

About  this  period,  the  Royal  Academy  of  paint- 
ing was  established,  and  Sir  Joshua  seized  the  op- 
portunity it  afforded  him  of  testifying  his  regard  and 
partiality  for  Goldsmith,  by  procuring  for  him  the 
appointment  of  Professor  of  Ancient  History. 
Though  unattended  with  either  emolument  or 
trouble,  it  conferred  some  respectabiUty,  and  entitled 
him  to  a  seat  at  the  occasional  meetings  of  the  aca- 
demicians, as  well  as  at  their  annual  dinner.  He 
himself  properly  considered  it  a  more  complimenta- 
ry distinction,  and  from  a  passage  in  the  following 
letter  to  his  brother  Maurice,  it  is  evident  he  would 
have  prized  his  new  office  much  more  highly  had 
it  been  coupled  wdth  that  unpoetical  accompani- 
ment, a  salary.  Maurice  was  the  poet's  youngest 
brother.  Not  having  been  bred  to  any  business, 
he,  upon  some  occasion,  complained  to  Oliver,  that 
he  found  it  difficult  to  live  like  a  gentlemen.  On 


44 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


which  the  poet  begged  he  would  without  delay 
quit  so  unprofitable  a  pursuit,  and  betake  him- 
self to  a  trade.  Maurice  wisely  took  the  hint,  and 
bound  himself  apprentice  to  a  cabinet-maker.  He 
had  a  shop  in  Dublin  when  the  Duke  of  Rutland 
was  Lord  Lieutenant;  and  his  grace,  at  the  in- 
stance of  Mr.  Orde  (afterwards  Lord  Bolton,) 
made  him  an  inspector  of  the  Ucenses  in  that  city, 
out  of  regard  for  his  brother's  memory.  He  was 
also  appointed  mace-bearer  on  the  erection  of  the 
Royal  Irish  Academy;  both  of  them  places  very 
compatible  with  his  business.  In  the  former,  he 
gave  proofs  of  his  integrity,  by  detecting  several 
frauds  in  the  revenue  in  his  department,  by  which 
he  himself  might  have  profited,  if  he  had  not  been 
a  man  of  principle.     He  died  without  issue. 

The  letter  is  dated  January,  1770. 

"Dear  Brother, — I  should  have  answered 
your  letter  sooner,  but  in  truth  I  am  not  fond  of 
thinking  of  the  necessities  of  those  I  love,  when  it 
is  so  very  little  in  my  power  to  help  them.  I  am 
sorry  to  find  you  are  still  every  way  unprovided 
for;  and  what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  I  have 
received  a  letter  from  my  sister  Johnson,*  by  which 
I  learn  that  she  is  pretty  much  in  the  same  circtim- 
stances.  As  to  myself,  I  believe  I  could  get  both 
you  and  my  poor  brother-in-law  something  like 
that  which  you  desire,  but  I  am  determined  never 
to  ask  for  little  things,  nor  exhaust  any  little  inter- 
est I  may  have,  until  I  can  serve  you,  him,  and 
myself  more  effectually.  As  yet,  no  opportunity 
has  offered,  but  I  believe  you  are  pretty  well  con- 
vinced that  I  will  not  be  remiss  when  it  arrives. 
The  king  has  lately  been  pleased  to  make  me  Pro- 
fessor of  Ancient  History  in  a  Royal  Academy  of 
Painting,  which  he  has  just  established,  but  there 
is  no  salary  annexed;  and  I  took  it  rather  as  a  com- 
pliment to  the  institution,  than  any  benefit  to  my- 
felf.  Honours  to  one  in  my  situation  are  something 
like  ruffles  to  a  man  that  wants  a  shirt.  You  tell 
me  that  there  arc  fourteen  or  fifteen  pounds  left  me 
in  the  hands  of  my  cousin  Lawder,  and  you  ask 
me  what  I  would  have  done  witli  them.  My  dear 
brother,  I  would  by  no  means  give  any  directions  to 
my  dear  worthy  relations  at  Kilmore  how  to  dis- 
pose of  money,  which  is,  properly  speaking,  more 
theirs  than  mine.  All  that  I  can  say,  is,  that  I  en- 
tirely, and  this  letter  will  serve  to  witness,  give  up 
any  right  and  title  to  it;  and  I  am  sure  they  will 
dispose  of  it  to  the  best  advantage.  To  them  I  en- 
tirely leave  it,  whether  they  or  you  may  think  the 
whole  necessary  to  fit  you  out,  or  whether  our  poor 
sister  Johnson  may  not  want  the  half,  I  leave  en- 
tirely to  their  and  your  discretion.  The  kindness 
of  that  good  couple  to  our  poor  shattered  family, 
demands  our  sincerest  gratitude :  and  though  they 
have  almost  forgot  me,  yet,  if  good  things  at  last  ar- 1 


rive,  I  hope  one  day  to  return,  and  increase  theii 
good-humour  by  adding  to  my  own.  I  have  sent 
my  cousin  Jenny  a  miniature  picture  of  myself,  as  1 
believe  it  is  the  most  acceptable  present  I  can  offer. 
I  have  ordered  it  to  be  left  for  her  at  George  Faulk- 
ner's, folded  in  a  letter.  The  face,  you  well  kiww, 
is  ugly  enough,  but  it  is  finely  painted.  I  will  short- 
ly also  send  my  friends  over  the  Shannon  somir 
mezzotinto  prints  of  myself,  and  some  more  of  my 
friends  here,  such  as  Burke,  Johnson,  Reynolds, 
and  Colman.  I  believe  I  have  written  a  hundred 
letters  to  different  friends  in  your  country,  and 
never  received  an  answer  from  any  of  them.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  account  for  this,  or  why  they  are 
unwilling  to  keep  up  for  me  those  regards  which  I 
must  ever  retain  for  them.  If  then  you  have  a  mind 
to  oblige  me,  you  will  write  often,  whether  I  an- 
swer you  or  not.  Let  me  particularly  have  the  news 
of  our  family  and  old  acquaintances.  For  instance, 
you  may  begin  by  telling  me  about  the  family 
where  you  reside,  how  they  spend  their  time,  and 
whether  they  ever  make  mention  of  me.  Tell  me 
about  my  mother,  my  brother  Hodson,  and  his  son, 
my  brother  Harry's  son  and  daughter,  my  sister 
Johnson,  the  family  of  Ballyoughter,  what  is  be- 
come of  them,  where  they  live,  and  how  they  do. 
You  talked  of  being  my  only  brother;  I  don't  un- 
derstand you :  Where  is  Charles?  A  sheet  of  pa- 
per occasionally  filled  with  news  of  this  kind  would 
make  me  very  happy,  and  would  keep  you  nearer 
my  mind.  As  it  is,  my  dear  brother,  believe  me  to 
be  yours  most  affectionately."* 

The  lives  of  Lord  Bolingbroke  and  Dr.  Parnell, 
undertaken  for  the  booksellers,  were  the  next  pro- 
ductions that  came  from  his  pen.  They  were  pre- 
fixed to  the  respective  works  of  these  writers,  pub- 
lished about  1770  or  1771 .  Both  performances  are 
executed  with  his  wonted  taste  and  felicity  of  ex- 
pression ;  and,  in  his  memoir  of  Parnell,  the  pover- 
ty of  incident  peculiar  to  the  life  of  a  scholar  is  in- 
geniously supplied  by  the  author's  own  reflections. 
When  Dr.  Johnson  afterwards  undertook  to  write 
the  "Lives  of  the  Poets,"  he  concluded  the  series 
with  that  of  Parnell,  and  seized  the  opportunity  it 
afforded  him  of  paying  an  elegant  compliment  to 
the  memory  of  his  deceased  friend.  "  The  life  of 
Dr.  Parnell,"  said  he,  "  is  a  task  which  I  should 
very  willingly  decline,  since  it  has  lately  been  writ- 
ten by  Goldsmith;  a  man  of  such  variety  of  powers, 
and  such  fehcity  of  performance,  that  ho  always 
seemed  to  do  best  that  which  he  was  doing;  a  man 
who  had  the  art  of  being  minute  without  tedious- 
ness,  and  general  without  confusion;  whose  lan- 
guage was  copious  without  exuberance,  exact  with- 
out constraint,  and  easy  witliout  weakness. 


To  the  original  of  this  letter  there  is  annexed  a  receipt, 
which  shows  the  sum  of  15?.  was  paid  to  aiamice  Goldsmitli, 

— ' ;  for  a  legacy  bequeathed  to  Oliver  Goldsmith  by  the  late  Rev. 

•  His  youngest  sister,  who  had  made  an  unfortunate  maniage.  Thomas  Contarine,  dated  4th  February,  U70. 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


45 


"  What  such  an  author  told,  who  would  tell  it 
again?  I  have  made  an  abstract  from  his  larger  nar- 
ration; and  have  this  gratification  from  my  attempt, 
that  it  gives  me  an  opportunity  of  paying  due  tri- 
bute to  the  memory  of  Goldsmith." 

Amongst  his  various  undertakings  for  the  boot 
sellers  at  this  period,  there  was  one,  however,  in 
which  Goldsmith  was  peculiarly  unfortunate.  He 
had  been  employed  by  Griffin  to  make  a  selection 
of  elegai^it  poems  from  the  best  English  classics,  for 
the  use  of  boarding-schools,  and  to  prefix  to  it  one 
of  his  captivating  prefaces.  In  noting  the  selections 
for  the  printer,  Goldsmith  imluckily  marked  ofl'  one 
of  the  most  indecent  tales  in  Prior, — a  circumstance 
that  efifectually  ruined  the  reputation  and  the  sale 
of  the  Work  at  the  same  time.  It  has  been  said, 
that  the  error  in  this  instance  must  have  arisen 
from  inadvertency  or  carelessness;  but  the  inadver- 
tency must  have  been  excessive,  as  the  tale  is  actu- 
ally introduced  with  a  criticism. 

Goldsmith,  when  conversing  on  the  subject  of  his 
labours  at  this  time  as  a  compiler,  used  to  refer  to 
the  "  Selection  of  English  Poetry,"  as  a  striking 
instance  of  the  facility  with  which  such  work  might 
sometimes  be  performed.  He  remarked  "  that  of 
all  his  compilations,  this  showed  most  the  art  of  the 
profession."  To  furnish  copy  for  it  required  no  in- 
vention, and  but  little  thought:  he  had  only  to 
mark  with  a  pencil  the  particular  passages  for  the 
printer,  so  that  he  easily  acquired  two  hundred 
pounds;  "but  then,"  said  he,  "lest  the  premium 
should  be  deemed  more  than  a  compensation  for  the 
labour,  a  man  shows  his  judgment  in  these  selec- 
tions, and  he  may  be  often  twenty  years  of  liis  life 
cultivating  that  judgment." 

In  1771,  Goldsmith  was  invited  by  Mr.  Bennet 
Langton  and  his  lady,  the  Countess  of  Rothes,  to 
spend  some  part  of  the  autumn  with  them  at  their 
seat  in  Lincolnshire.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  it 
would  seem,  had  promised  to  accompany  him  on 
this  visit;  but,  from  the  following  letter  to  Mr. 
Langton,  neither  he  nor  Sir  Joshua  were  able  at 
that  time  to  avail  themselves  of  the  invitation.  The 
letter  is  dated  Temple,  Brick-court,  September  7, 
1771. 

"My  Dear  Sir, — Since  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  last,  I  have  been  almost  wholly  in  the 
country  at  a  farmer's  house  quite  alone,  trying  to 
write  a  comedy.  It  is  now  finished ,  but  when,  or 
how  it  will  be  acted,  or  whether  it  will  be  acted  at 
all,  are  questions  I  can  not  resolve.  I  am  therefore 
so  much  employed  upon  that,  that  I  am  under  the 
necessity  of  putting  off  my  intended  visit  to  Lin- 
colnshire for  this  season. — Reynolds  is  just  return- 
ed from  Paris,  and  finds  himself  now  in  the  case  of 
a  truant,  that  must  make  up  for  his  idle  time  by 
diligence.  We  have  therefore  agreed  to  postpone 
our  journey  till  next  summer,  when  we  hope  to 
have  the  honour  of  waiting  upon  Lady  Rothes  and 


you,  and  staying  double  the  time  of  our  late  intend- 
ed visit.  We  often  meet,  and  never  without  re- 
membering you.  I  see  Mr.  Beauclerk  very  often, 
both  in  town  and  country.  He  is  now  going  di- 
rectly forward  to  become  a  second  Boyle:  deep  in 
chemistry  and  physics.  Johnson  has  been  down 
upon  a  visit  to  a  country  parson,  Dr.  Taylor,  and 
is  returned  to  his  old  haunts  at  Mrs  Thrale's. 
Burke  is  a  farmer,  en  attendant  a  better  place;  but 
visiting  about  too.  Every  soul  is  visiting  about, 
and  merry,  but  myself:  and  that  is  hard,  too,  as  1 
have  been  trying  these  three  months  to  do  some- 
thing to  make  people  laugh.  There  have  I  been 
stroUing  about  the  hedges,  studying  jests,  with  a 
most  tragical  countenance.  The  '  Natural  Histo- 
ry' is  about  half  finished,  and  I  wiU  shortly  finish 
the  rest.  God  knows  I  am  tired  of  this  kind  of 
finishing,  which  is  but  bungUng  work;  and  that 
not  so  much  my  fault  as  the  fault  of  my  scur- 
vy circumstances.  They  begin  to  talk  in  town  of 
the  Opposition's  gaining  ground;  the  cry  of  liberty 
is  still  as  loud  as  ever.  I  have  published,  or  Davies 
has  published  for  me,  '  An  Abridgment  of  the  His- 
tory of  England,'  for  which  I  have  been  a  good 
deal  abused  in  the  newspapers  for  betraying  the 
liberties  of  the  people.  God  knows  I  had  no  thought 
for  or  against  liberty  in  my  head;  my  whole  aim 
being  to  make  up  a  book  of  a  decent  size,  that,  as 
Squire  Richard  says,  '  would  do  no  harm  to  nobo- 
dy.' However,  they  set  me  down  as  an  arrant 
Tory,  and  consequently  an  honest  man.  When 
you  come  to  look  at  any  part  of  it,  you  vdll  say  that 
I  am  a  sour  Whig.  God  bless  you;  and,  with  my 
most  respectful  compliments  to  her  ladyship,  I  re- 
main, dear  sir,  your  most  affectionate  humble  ser- 
vant." 

Goldsmith's  residence  at  the  farmer's  house  men- 
tioned in  this  letter,  appears  to  have  been  continu- 
ed for  a  considerable  time.  It  was  situated  near  to 
the  six-mile  stone  on  the  Edgeware-road;  and  Mr. 
Boswell  mentions  that  he  and  Mr.  Mickle,  transla- 
tor of  "The  Lusiad,"  paid  him  a  visit  there,  in 
April,  1772.  Unfortunately  they  did  not  find  him 
at  home ;  but  having  some  curiosity  to  see  his  apart- 
ment, they  went  in,  and  found  curious  scraps  of 
descriptions  of  animals  scrawled  upon  the  wall, 
with  a  black  lead  pencil.  He  had  carried  down  his- 
books  thither,  that  he  might  pursue  his  labours- 
with  less  interruption.  According  to  the  testimo- 
ny of  a  literary  friend,  who  had  close  intercourse- 
with  him  for  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  the  fol- 
lowing was  his  mode  of  study  and  living,  while  in 
the  country.  He  first  read  in  a  morning  from  the 
original  works  requisite  for  the  compilation  he  had 
in  hand,  as  much  as  he  designed  for  one  letter  or 
chapter  marking  down  the  passages  referred  to  on 
a  sheet  of  paper,  with  remarks.  He  then  rode  or 
walked  out  with  a  friend  or  two,  returned  to  dinner, 
spent  the  day  generally  convivially,  without  much 


46 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


drinking,  to  which  he  was  never  addicted;  and  besides  a  critic  of  acknowledged  taste  and  acumea 
when  he  retired  to  his  bed-chamber,  took  up  his  His  reluctance  to  accept  of  our  author's  play, 


books  and  papers  with  him,  where  he  generally 
wrote  the  chapter,  or  the  best  part  of  it,  before  he 
went  to  rest.  This  latter  exercise,  he  said,  cost 
him  very  little  trouble ;  for  having  all  his  materi- 
als duly  prepared,  he  wrote  it  with  as  much  ease  as 
a  common  letter.  The  mode  of  life  and  study  thus 
described.  Goldsmith,  however,  only  pursued  by 
fits.  He  loved  the  gaieties,  amusements,  and  so- 
ciety of  London;  and  amongst  these  he  would  oc- 
casionally lose  himself  for  months  together.  To 
make  up  for  his  lost  time  he  would  again  retire  to 
the  farm-house,  and  there  devote  himself  to  his  la- 
bours with  such  intense  application,  that,  for  weeks 
successively,  he  would  remain  in  his  apartments 
without  taking  exercise.  This  desultory  system  is 
supposed  to  have  injured  his  health,  and  to  have 
brought  on  those  fits  of  the  strangury  to  which  he 
was  subject  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  He  used 
to  say,  that  "  he  believed  the  farmer's  family  with 


therefore,  and  his  decided  condemnation  of  it  at  its 
last  rehearsal,  was  almost  considered  decisive  of  its 
fate.     Goldsmith,  however,  did  not  despair  of  it 
himself;  and  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson,  without 
being  sanguine,  leaned  to  the  favourable  side.     In 
a  letter  to  Mr.  Boswell  he  says,  "Dr.  Goldsmith 
has  a  new  comedy,  which  is  expected  in  the  spring. 
No  name  is  yet  given  to  it.     The  chief  diversion 
arises  from  a  stratagem,  by  which  a  lover  is  made 
to  mistake  his  future  father-in-law's  house  for  an 
inn.     This,  you  see,  borders  upon  farce.     The  di- 
alogue is  quick  and  gay,  and  the  incidents  are  ^o 
prepared  as  not  to  seem  improbable."     And  after- 
wards, when  Colman  had  actually  consented  to 
bring  it  out,  Johnson  wrote  thus  to  the  Rev.  Mr. 
White  :  "  Dr.  Goldsmith  has  a  new  comedy  in  re- 
hearsal at  Covent  Garden,  to  which  the  manager 
predicts  ill  success.     I  hope  he  will  be  mistaken : 
1  think  it  deserves  a  very  kind  reception."   Others 


whomhelodgedthoughthimanoddcharacter,simi-  of  Goldsmith's  friends  also  entertained  favourable 
lar  to  that  in  which  the  Spectator  appeared  to  his  opinions  of  the  piece ;  and  a  few  of  them  even  pro- 


landlady  and  her  children:  he  was  The  Gentleman^ 
About  this  period  he  was  concerned  in  a  work 
called  "The  Gentleman's  Journal,"  published  once 
a  fortnight.  It  was  conducted  under  the  joint  ma- 
nagement of  Kenrick,  Bickerstaff,  and  others;  but 
was  soon  discontinued.  When  a  friend  was  talk- 
ing to  our  author  one  day  on  the  subject  of  this 
work,  he  concluded  his  remarks  by  observing, 
what  an  extraordinary  sudden  death  it  had.  "Not 
at  all,  sir,"  said  Goldsmith;  "a  very  common  case; 
it  died  of  too  many  doctors." 

His  next  performance  was  his  second  attempt 
as  a  dramatist.  Not  discouraged  by  the  cold  re- 
ception which  his  first  play  had  met  with,  he  re- 
solved to  try  his  fate  with  a  second,  and,  maugre  a 
host  of  adverse  critics,  succeeded.  In  his  letter  to 
Mr.  Langton  he  mentions,  that  he  had  been  occu- 
pied in  writing  a  comedy,  "trying  these  three 
months  to  do  something  to  make  the  people  laugh," 
and  "strolling  about  the  hedges,  studying  jests, 
with  a  most  tragical  countenance."  This  was  the 
drama  which  he  afterwards  christened  "She  Stoops 
to  Conquer;  or.  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night."  Al- 
though then  just  finished,  its  publication  was  de- 
layed till  it  should  be  acted  at  one  of  the  theatres; 
and  from  the  various  obstacles  and  delays  which 
are  there  thrown  in  an  author's  way,  it  was  not 
produced  till  March,  1773.  Much  difference  of 
oj>inion  existed  as  to  the  probability  of  its  success. 
The  majority  of  critics  to  whom  it  had  been  sub- 
mitted were  apprehensive  of  a  total  failure;  and  it 
was  not  till  after  great  solicitation,  that  Mr.  Col- 
man, the  manager  of  Covent  Garden  theatre,  con- 
sented to  put  it  in  rehearsal.  That  gentleman  had 
himself  given  incontestable  proofs  of  dramatic  ge- 
nius, in  the  production  of  various  pieces,  and  was 


phetically  anticipated  a  triumph  over  the  judgment 
of  the  manager.   Perhaps,  however,  the  strong  and 
decided  interest  taken  by  these  friends  in  the  fate 
of  the  play  was  one  great  cause  of  its  success.     A 
large  party  of  them,  with  Johnson  at  their  head, 
attended  to  witness  the  representation,  and  a  scheme 
to  lead  the  plaudits  of  the  house,  which  had  been 
preconcerted  with  much  address,  was  carried  into 
execution  with  triumphant  effect.     This  contri- 
vance, and  the  circumstances  which  led  to  it  are 
detailed  by  Mr.  Cumberland  in  his  Memoirs.    "  It 
was  now,"  says  Mr.  Cumberland,  "that  I  first  met 
him  at  the  British  Coffee-house.    He  dined  with 
us  as  a  visiter,  introduced,  as  I  think,  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds,  and  we  held  a  consultation  upon  the 
naming  of  his  comedy,  which  some  of  the  company 
had  read,  and  which  he  detailed  to  the  rest  after 
his  manner  with  a  great  deal  of  good  humour. 
Somebody  suggested — She  Stoops  to  Conquer;  and 
that  title  was  agreed  upon.     When  I  perceived  an 
embarrassment  in  his  manner  towards  me,  which 
I  could  readily  account  for,  I  lost  no  time  to  put 
him  at  his  ease;  and  I  flatter  myself  I  was  success- 
ful.  As  my  heart  was  ever  warm  towards  my  con- 
temporaries, I  did  not  counterfeit,  but  really  felt  a 
cordial  interest  in  his  behalf;  and  I  had  soon  the 
pleasure  to  perceive,  that  he  credited  me  for  my 
sincerity. — 'You  and  I,'  said  he,  'have  very  differ- 
ent motives  for  resorting  to  the  stage.     I  write  for 
money,  and  care  little  about  fame." — I  was  touched 
by  this  melancholy  confession,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment busied  myself  assiduously  amongst  all  my 
connexions  in  his  cause.     The  whole  company 
pledged  themselves  to  the  support  of  the  ingenu- 
ous poet,  and  faithfully  kept  their  promise  to  him. 
In  fact,  he  needed  all  that  could  be  done  for  him, 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


47 


BS  Mr.  Colman,  then  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
theatre,  protested  against  the  comedy,  when  as  yet 
he  had  not  struck  upon  a  name  for  it.  Johnson 
at  length  stood  forth  in  all  his  terrors  as  champion 
for  the  piece,  and  backed  by  us,  his  clients  and  re- 
tainers, demanded  a  fair  trial.  Colman  again  pro- 
tested; but,  with  that  salvo  for  his  own  reputation, 
liberally  lent  his  stage  to  one  of  the  most  eccentric 
productions  that  ever  found  its  way  to  it;  and 
*  She  Stoops  to  Conquer'  was  put  into  rehearsal. 

"  We  were  not  over  sanguine  of  success,  but 
perfectly  determined  to  struggle  hard  for  our  au- 
thor: we  accordingly  assembled  our  strength  at  the 
Shakspeare  Tavern  in  a  considerable  body  for  an 
early  dinner,  where  Samuel  Johnson  took  the 
chair  at  the  head  of  a  long  table,  and  was  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  corps :  the  poet  took  post  silently 
by  his  side,  with  the  Burkes,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
Fitzherbert,  Caleb  Whitefoord,  and  a  phalanx  of 
North  British  predetermined  applauders,  under 
the  banner  of  Major  Mills,  all  good  men  and  true. 
Our  illustrious  president  was  in  inimitable  glee: 
and  poor  Goldsmith  that  day  took  all  his  raillery 
as  patiently  and  complacently  as  my  friend  Bos- 
well  would  have  done  any  day,  or  every  day  of  his 
life.  In  the  mean  time  we  did  not  forget  our  du- 
ty ;  and  though  we  had  a  better  comedy  going,  in 
which  Johnson  was  chief  actor,  we  betook  our- 
selves in  good  lime  to  our  separate  and  allotted 
posts,  and  waited  the  awful  drawing  up  of  the  cur- 
tain. As  our  stations  were  preconcerted,  so  were 
our  signals  for  plaudits  arranged  and  determined 
upon  in  a  manner  that  gave  every  one  his  cue 
where  to  look  for  them,  and  how  to  follow  them  up. 
"  We  had  amongst  us  a  very  worthy  and  efficient 
member,  long  since  lost  to  his  friends  and  the 
world  at  large,  Adam  Drummond,  of  amiable  me- 
mory, who  was  gifted  by  nature  with  the  most  so- 
norous, and  at  the  same  time  the  most  contagious, 
laugh  that  ever  echoed  from  the  human  lungs. 
The  neigliing  of  the  horse  of  the  son  of  Hystaspes 
was  a  whisper  to  it ;  the  whole  thunder  of  the  thea- 
tre could  not  drown  it.  This  kind  and  ingenu- 
ous friend  fairly  forewarned  us,  that  he  knew  no 
more  when  to  give  his  fire  than  the  cannon  did 
that  was  planted  on  a  battery.  He  desired,  there- 
fore, to  have  a  flapper  at  his  elbow,  and  I  had  the 
honour  to  be  deputed  to  that  office.  I  planted  him 
in  an  upper  box,  pretty  nearly  over  the  stage,  in 
full  view  of  the  pit  and  galleries,  and  perfectly  well 
situated  to  give  the  echo  all  its  play  through  the 
hollows  and  recesses  of  the  theatre.  The  success 
of  our  manoeuvres  was  complete.  All  eyes  were 
upon  Johnson,  who  sat  in  a  front  row  of  a  side 
box;  and  when  he  laughed,  every  body  thought 
themselves  warranted  to  roar.  In  the  mean  time 
my  friend  followed  signals  with  a  rattle  so  irresisti- 
oly  comic,  that,  when  he  had  repeated  it  several 


grossed  by  his  person  and  performances,  that  the 
progress  of  the  play  seemed  Ukely  to  become  a  se 
condary  object,  and  I  found  it  prudent  to  insinuate 
to  him  that  he  might  halt  his  music  without  any 
prejudice  to  the  author ;  but,  alas !  it  was  now  too 
late  to  rein  him  in :  he  had  laughed  upon  my  sig- 
nal where  he  found  no  joke,  and  now  unluckily  he 
fancied  that  he  found  a  joke  in  almost  every  thing 
that  was  said;  so  that  nothing  in  nature  could  be 
more  mal-a-propos  than  some  of  his  bursts  every 
now  and  then  were.  These  were  dangerous  mo- 
ments, for  the  pit  began  to  take  mnbrage;  but  we 
carried  our  point  through,  and  triumphed  not  only 
over  Colman's  judgment  but  our  own." 

The  victory  thus  achieved  was  a  source  of  infi- 
nite exultation  to  Goldsmith,  not  more  from  the 
pride  of  success,  than  from  the  mortification  he 
imagined  it  caused  to  the  manager,  at  whom  he 
was  not  a  little  piqued  in  consequence  of  the  fol- 
lowing circumstance. 

On  the  first  night  of  performance  he  did  not 
come  to  the  house  till  towards  the  close  of  the  re- 
presentation, having  rambled  into  St.  James's 
Park  to  ruminate  on  the  probable  fate  of  his  piece; 
and  such  was  his  anxiety  and  apprehension,  that 
he  was  with  much  difficulty  prevailed  on  to  repair 
to  the  theatre,  on  the  suggestion  of  a  friend,  who 
pointed  out  the  necessity  of  his  presence,  in  order 
to  mark  any  objectionable  passages,  for  the  purpose 
of  omission  or  alteration  in  the  repetition  of  the 
performance.  With  expectation  suspended  be- 
tween hope  and  fear,  he  had  scarcely  entered  the 
passage  that  leads  to  the  stage,  when  his  ears  were 
shocked  with  a  hiss,  which  came  from  the  audience 
as  a  token  of  their  disapprobation  of  the  farcical 
supposition  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle  being  so  deluded 
as  to  suppose  herself  at  a  distance  of  fifty  miles 
from  home  while  she  was  actually  not  distant  fifty 
yards.  Such  was  our  poor  author's  tremor  and 
agitation  on  this  unwelcome  salute,  that  running 
up  to  the  manager,  he  exclaimed,  "  What's  that? 
what's  that?" — "Pshaw,  doctor!"  replied  Colman, 
in  a  sarcastic  tone,  "don't  be  terrified  at  squibs, 
when  we  have  been  sitting  these  two  hours  upon 
a  barrel  oi gunpowder.^'  The  pride  of  Goldsmith 
was  so  mortified  by  this  remark,  that  the  friendship 
which  had  before  subsisted  between  him  and  the 
manager  was  from  that  moment  dissolved. 

The  play  of  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer"  is  found- 
ed upon  the  incident  already  related,  which  befel 
the  author  in  his  younger  days,  when  he  mistook 
a  gentleman's  house  for  an  inn.  Although,  from 
the  extravaganie  of  the  plot,  and  drollery  of  the 
incidents,  we  must  admit  that  the  piece  is  very 
nearly  allied  to  farce,  yet  the  dialogue  is  carried  on 
in  such  pure  and  elegant  language,  and  the  strokes 
of  wit  and  humour  are  so  easy  and  natural,  that 
few  productions  of  the  drama  afford  more  pleasure 


times,  the  attention  of  the  spectators  was  so  en-  in  the  representation,      l  still  keeps  possession  of 


48 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


the  stage  as  a  stock  play,  and  is  frequently  acted ; 
a  circumstance  which  proves  the  accuracy  of  the 
opinion  expressed  by  Dr.  Johnson,  "that  he  knew 
of  no  comedy  for  many  years  that  had  so  much 
exhilarated  an  audience;  that  had  answered  so 
much  the  great  end  of  comedy — ^that  of  making  an 
audience  merry."  In  publishing  this  play,  Gold- 
smith paid  his  friend  Johnson  the  compliment  of 
a  dedication,  and  expressed  in  the  strongest  man- 
ner the  high  regard  he  entertained  for  him.  "By 
inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,"  said  he, 
"  I  do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as 
myself.  It  may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the 
public,  that  I  have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy 
with  you.  It  may  serve  the  interests  of  manldnd 
also  to  inform  them,  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be 
found  in  a  character  without  impairing  the  most 
unaffected  piety." 

The  good  fortune  which  attended  this  drama 
was  productive  of  its  usual  concomitants — a  mixed 
portion  of  applause  and  censure,  with  instances  of 
fulsome  flattery  and  furious  detraction.  While 
from  less  fortunate  bards,  whose  poverty  induced 
them  to  soUcit  his  bounty,  he  received  the  incense 
of  adulation  in  a  torrent  of  congratulatory  address- 
es; from  others,  more  independent,  who  were 
jealous  of  his  reputation,  and  envied  his  success, 
he  experienced  all  the  virulence  of  malignant  cri- 
ticism and  scun-ilous  invective.  A  single  instance 
of  each  may  gratify  the  curiosity  of  our  readers. 


Packet"  of  the  24th  March,  1773,  pubUshed  by 
Mr.  Thomas  Evans,  bookseller  in  Patemoster- 
row.  Both  the  manner  and  the  matter  are  un- 
worthy of  Kenrick,  who  was  a  man  of  talents.  It 
was  probably  the  work  of  a  more  obscure  hand. 

"  FOR  THE  LONDON  PACKET. 

"  TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 
"  Vous  vous  noyez  par  vanity. 


"ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  COMEDY 

'she    stoops   to   CONaUER.' 

*'  Quite  sick  in  her  bed  Thalia  was  laid, 

A  sentiment  puke  had  quite  kill'd  the  sweet  maid, 

Her  bright  eyes  lost  all  of  their  fire; 
When  a  regular  doctor,  one  Goldsmith  by  name, 
Found  out  her  disorder  as  soon  as  he  came, 
And  has  made  her  (for  ever  'twill  crown  all  his  fame) 

As  lively  as  one  can  desire. 

*'  Oh !  doctor,  assist  a  poor  bard  who  lies  ill. 
Without  e'er  a  nurse,  e'er  a  potion,  or  pill : 

From  your  kindness  he  hopes  for  some  ease. 
You're  a  'good-natured  man'  all  the  world  does  allow, 
O  would  your  good-nature  but  shine  forth  just  now, 
In  a  manner— I'm  sure  your  good  sense  will  tell  how, 

Your  servant  most  humbly  'twould  please ! 

"  The  bearer  is  the  author's  wife,  and  an  an- 
swer from  Dr.  Goldsmith  by  her,  will  be  ever  grate- 
fully acknowledged  by  his  humble  servant, 

'John  Oakman.' 
"Saturday,  March  27,  1773." 

The  other  instance  exhibits  an  attempt  to  check 
the  author's  triumph  on  the  ninth  night  after  the 
representation  of  his  play.  It  was  a  most  illiberal 
personal  attack,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  (supposed 
to  be  written  by  Dr.  Kenrick.)  addressed  to  Gold- 
smith himself,   and  inserted  in   '•  The  London 


"  Sir, — The  happy  knack  which  you  have 
learnt  of  puffing  your  own  compositions,  provokes 
me  to  come  forth.  You  have  not  been  the  editor 
of  newspapers  and  magazines,  not  to  discover  the 
trick  of  literary  humbug:  but  the  gauze  is  so  thin, 
that  the  very  fooUsh  part  of  the  world  see  through 
it,  and  discover  the  doctor's  monkey  face,  and 
cloven  foot.  Your  poetic  vanity  is  as  unpardona- 
ble as  your  personal.  Would  man  believe  it,  and 
will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told,  that  for  hours  the 
great  Goldsmith  will  stand  surveying  his  grotesque 
orang-outang's  figure  in  a  pier  glass?  Was  but  the 

lovely  H k  as  much  enamoured,  you  would  not 

sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in  vain.   But  your  vanity  is 
preposterous.    How  will  this  same  bard  of  Bedlam 
ring  the  changes  in  the  praise  of  Goldy !  But  what 
has  he  to  be  either  proud  or  vain  of?  '  The  Trav- 
eller' is  a  flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  principles — 
principles  diametrically  opposite  to  liberty.  What  is 
'  The  Good-natured  Man'  but  a  poor,  water-gruel, 
dramatic  dose?    What  is  the  '  Deserted  Village' 
but  a  pretty  poem,  of  easy  numbers,  without  fancy, 
dignity,  genius,  or  fire?  And  pray  what  may  be 
the  last  speaking  pantomime,  so  praised  by  the 
doctor  himself,  but  an  incoherent  piece  of  stuill 
the  figure  of  a  woraan  with  a  fish's  tail,   without 
plot,  incident,  or  intrigue?  We  are  made  to  laugh 
at  stale  dull  jokes,  wherein  we  mistake  pleasantry 
for  wit,  and  grimace  for  humour ;  wherein  every 
scene  is  unnatural,  and  inconsistent  with  the  rules, 
the  laws  of  nature,  and  of  the  drama :  viz.   two 
gentlemen  come  to  a  man  of  fortune's  house,  eat, 
drink,  etc.  and  take  it  for  an  inn.     The  one  is  in- 
tended as  a  lover  for  the  daughter :  he  talks  with 
her  for  some  hours  :  and  when  he  sees  her  again  in 
a  different  dress,  he  treats  her  as  a  bar-girl,  and 
swears  she  squinted.   He  abuses  the  master  of  the 
house,  and  threatens  to  kick  him  out  of  his  own 
doors.     The  'squire,  whom  we  are  told  is  to  be  a 
fool,  proves  the  most  sensible  being  of  the  piece ; 
and  he  makes  out  a  whole  act,  by  bidding  his  mo- 
ther lie  close  behind  a  bush,  persuading  her  that 
his  father,  her  own  husband,  is  a  highwayman, 
and  that  he  has  come  to  cut  their  throats,  and,  to 
give  his  cousin  an  opportunity  to  go  off,  he  drives 
his  mother  over  hedges,  ditches,  and  thi'ough  ponds. 
There  is  not,  sweet  sucking  Johnson,  a  natural 
stroke  in  the  whole  play,  but  the  young  fellow's 


i 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


giving  the  stolen  jewels  to  the  mother,  supposing 
her  to  be  the  landlady.  That  Mr.  Colman  did  no 
justice  to  this  piece,  I  honestly  allow;  that  he  told 
his  friends  it  would  be  damned,  1  positively  aver ; 
and,  from  such  ungenerous  insinuations,  without  a 
dramatic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice ;  and  it  is 
now  the  ton  to  go  and  see  it,  though  I  never  saw 
a  person  that  either  liked  it,  or  approved  it,  any 
more  than  the  absurd  plot  of  Home's  tragedy  of 
*  Alonzo.'  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct  your  arrogance, 
reduce  your  vanity :  and  endeavour  to  believe,  as  a 
man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort ;  and,  as  an  au- 
thor, but  a  mortal  piece  of  mediocrity. 

"  Brise  le  miroir  le  infidele, 
"  Qui  vous  cache  la  vdritS. 

"Tom  Tickle." 

Indignant  at  the  wanton  scurrility  of  this  letter, 
which  was  pointed  out  to  him  by  the  officious  kind- 
ness of  a  friend,  and  enraged  at  the  indelicacy  of  in- 
troducing the  name  of  a  lady  with  whom  he  was  ac- 
quainted, Goldsmith,  acccompanied  by  one  of  his 
countrymen,  waited  on  Mr.  Evans,  and  remonstrat- 
ed vsdth  him  on  the  malignity  and  cruelty  of  such  an 
immerited  attack  upon  private  character.  After  ar- 
guing upon  the  subject,  Evans,  who  had  really  no 
concern  in  the  paper,  except  as  publisher,  went  to 
examine  the  file;  and  while  stooping  down  for  it,  the 
author  was  rashly  advised  by  his  friend  to  take  that 
opportunity  of  using  his  cane,  which  he  imme- 
diately proceeded  to  do,  and  applied  it  to  the  pub- 
Usher's  shoulders.   The  latter,  however,  unexpect- 
edly made  a  powerful  resistance,  and  being  a  stout. 
hiPi-blooded  Welshman,  very  soon  returned  the 
blows  with  interest.    Perceiving  the  turn  that  mat- 
iters  were  taking,  Goldsmith's  hot-headed  friend 
jfled  out  of  the  shop,  leaving  him  in  a  sad  plight, 
and  nearly  overpowered  by  the  fierce  Welshman. 
[n  the  mean  time.  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  happened  to 
be  in  a  private  room  of  the  publisher's,  came  forward 
Dn  hearing  the  noise,  and  interposed  between  the 
combatants,  so  as  to  put  an  end  to  the  fight.     The 
iuthor,  sorely  bruised  and  battered,  was  then  con- 
i^eyed  toacoach;  and  Kenrick,  though  suspected 
;o  be  the  writet  of  the  libel,  affecting  great  com- 
passion for  his  condition,  conducted  him  home. 
This  ridiculous  quarrel  afforded  considerable  sport 
or  the  newspapers  before  it  was  finally  made  up. 
I^n  action  was  threatened  by  Evans  for  the  assault, 
)ut  it  was  at  length  compromised.     Many  para- 
graphs appeared,  however,  reflecting  severely  on 
he  impropriety  of  Goldsmith's  attempting  to  beat 
,  person  in  his  own  house;  and  to  these  he  con- 
eived  it  incumbent  on  him  to  make  a  reply.     Ac- 
ordingly  the  following  justificatory  address  ap- 
€ared  in  "  The  Daily  Advertiser"  of  Wednesday, 
.larch  31, 1773. 
4 


"  TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

"  Lest  it  may  be  supposed,  that  I  have  been  wil- 
ling to  correct  in  others  an  abuse  of  what  1  have 
been  guilty  myself,  I  beg  leave  to  declare,  that  in 
all  my  life  I  never  wrote  or  dictated  a  single  para- 
graph, letter,  or  essay  in  a  newspaper,  except  a  few 
moral  essays,  under  the  character  of  a  Chinese, 
about  ten  years  ago,  in  the  '  Ledger;'  and  a  letter, 
to  which  I  signed  my  name,  in  the  '  St.  James's 
Chronicle.'  If  the  liberty  of  the  press,  therefore, 
has  been  abused,  1  have  had  no  hand  in  it. 

"  I  have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  pro- 
tector of  our  freedom; — as  a  watchful  guardian, 
capable  of  uniting  the  weak  against  the  encroach- 
ments of  power.  What  concerns  the  public  most 
properly  admits  of  a  public  discussion.  But,  of 
late,  the  press  has  turned  from  defending  public 
interest  to  making  inroads  upon  private  life;  from 
combating  the  strong  to  overwhelming  the  feeble. 
No  condition  is  now  too  obscure  for  its  abuse;  and 
the  protector  is  become  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  In 
this  manner,  the  freedom  of  the  press  is  beginning 
to  sow  its  own  dissolution;  the  great  must  oppose 
it  from  principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear;  till  at 
last  every  ranli  of  mankind  shall  be  found  to  give 
up  its  benefits,  content  with  security  from  its  in- 
sults. 

"How  to  put  a  stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by 
which  all  are  indiscriminately  abused,  and  by  which 
vice  consequently  escapes  in  the  general  censure, 
I  am  unable  to  tell.  All  I  could  wish  is,  that  as 
the  law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the  injury, 
so  it  should  give  calumniators  no  shelter  after 
having  provoked  correction.  The  insults  which 
we  receive  before  the  public,  by  being  more  open, 
arc  the  more  distressing.  By  treating  them  with 
silent  contempt,  we  do  not  pay  a  suflicient  defer- 
ence to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring  to 
legal  redress,  we  too  often  expose  the  weakness  of 
the  law,  which  only  sei-ves  to  increase  our  morti- 
fication by  failing  to  relieve  us.  In  short,  every 
man  should  singly  consider  himself  as  a  guardian 
of  the  liberty  of  the  press;  and,  as  far  as  his  influ- 
ence  can  extend,  should  endeavour  to  prevent  its  li- 
centiousness becoming  at  last  the  grave  of  its  free- 
dom. 

"Oliver  Goldsmith." 

The  composition  of  this  address  is  so  much  in 
the  style  of  Dr.  Johnson,  that  it  was  at  first  gener- 
ally believed  to  be  the  production  of  his  pen.  John- 
son, however,  always  disclaimed  any  participation 
in  it ;  and  liis  disavowal  has  since  been  recorded  in 
the  volumes  of  Mr,  Boswell.  "On  Saturday, 
April  3,"  says  that  gentleman,  "the  day  after  my 
arrival  in  London  this  year,  I  went  to  his  (Dr. 
Johnson's)  house  late  in  the  evening,  and  sat  with 
Mrs.  Williams  till  he  came  home.     I  found,  in  the 


50 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


*  London  Chronicle,'  Dr.  Goldsmith's  apology  to 
the  public  for  beating  Evans,  a  bookseller,  on  ac- 
count of  a  paragraph  in  a  newspaper  published  by 
him,  which  Goldsmith  thought  impertinent  to  him 
and  to  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  The  apology 
was  written  so  much  in  Dr.  Johnson's  manner, 
that  both  Mrs.  Williams  and  I  supposed  it  to  be 
his;  but  when  he  came  home  he  soon  undeceived 
us  when  he  said  to  Mrs.  Williams,  '  Well,  Dr. 
Goldsmith's  manifesto  has  got  into  your  paper,'  I 
asked  him  if  Dr.  Goldsmith  had  written  it,  with  an 
air  that  made  him  see  I  suspected  it  was  his,  though 
subscribed  by  Goldsmith. — Johnson,  'Sir,  Dr. 
Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  write 
such  a  thing  as  that  for  him,  than  he  would  have 
asked  me  to  feed  him  with  a  spoon,  or  to  do  any 
thing  else  that  denoted  his  imbecility.  I  as  much 
believe  that  he  wrote  it,  as  if  I  had  seen  him  do  it. 
Sir,  had  he  shown  it  to  any  one  friend,  he  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  publish  it.  He  has,  in- 
deed, done  it  very  well ;  but  it  is  a  foolish  thing  well 
done.  I  suppose  he  has  been  so  much  elated  with  the 
success  of  his  new  comedy,  that  he  has  thought 
every  thing  that  concerned  him  must  be  of  impor- 
tance to  the  public'  Boswell;  'I  fancy,  sir,  this  is  the 
first  time  that  he  has  been  engaged  in  such  an  ad- 
venture.' Johnson;  'Why,  sir,  I  believe  it  is  the 
first  time  he  has  beat;  he  may  have  been  beaten  be- 
fore.    This,  sir,  is  a  new  plume  to  him.'  " 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  painful  and  ludicrous 
circumstances  attending  this  unlucky  squabble, 
Goldsmith,  in  all  probability,  would  have  felt  more 
than  sufficiently  elated  with  the  success  of  his  new 
comedy.  Independent  of  the  literary  triumph  it 
afforded  him  over  the  judgments  of  Colman  and 
others  as  critics,  the  pecuniary  advantages  he  reap- 
ed from  it  were  equally  satisfactory.  He  cleared, 
by  this  performance  alone,  upwards  of  eight  hun- 
dred pounds.  Indeed,  the  emolument  which  at 
this  period  Goldsmith  derived  from  his  various  pro- 
ductions was  considerable.  In  less  than  two  years, 
it  is  computed  that  he  realised  not  less  than  eighteen 
hundred  pounds.  This  comprises  the  profits  of 
both  his  comedies,  various  sums  received  on  ac- 
count of  his  "Animated  Nature,"  which  was  still 
in  progress,  and  the  copy-money  of  his  lives  of 
Bolingbroke  and  Parnell.  Nevertheless,  within 
little  more  than  a  year  after  the  receipt  of  these 
sums,  his  circumstances  were  by  no  means  in  a 
prosperous  condition.  The  profuse  liberality  with 
which  he  assisted  indigent  authors  was  one  of  the 
causes  which  led  to  such  a  state  of  things.  Pur- 
don,  Pilkington,  Hiffernan,  and  others,  but  parti- 
cularly some  of  his  own  countrymen,  hung  per- 
petually about  him,  played  upon  his  credulity,  and, 
under  pretence  of  borrowing,  literally  robbed  him 
of  his  money.  Though  dupdd  again  and  again 
by  some  of  these  artful  men,  he  never  could  steel 
liis  heart  against  their  applications.     A  story  of 


distress  always  awakened  his  sensibility,  and  emp. 
tied  his  purse.  But  what  contributed  more  than 
any  other  cause  to  exhaust  his  means  and  embar- 
rass his  afilairs,  was  the  return  of  his  passion  for 
gaming.  The  command  of  money  had  unfortu- 
nately drawn  him  again  into  that  pernicious  habit, 
and  he  became  the  easy  prey  of  the  more  knowing 
and  experienced  in  the  art.  Notwithstanding  the 
amount  of  his  receipts,  therefore,  poor  Goldsmith, 
from  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  and  his  indiscretion 
at  play,  instead  of  being  able  to  look  forward  to 
affluence,  was  involved  in  all  the  perplexities  of 
debt. 

It  is  remarkable  that  about  this  time  he  attempt- 
ed to  discard  the  ordinary  address  by  which  he 
had  been  long  recognised ;  rejecting  the  title  of 
Doctor,  and  assuming  that  of  plain  Mr.  Gold- 
smith. The  motives  that  induced  this  innovation 
have  never  been  properly  explained.  Some  have 
supposed  that  it  was  owing  to  a  resolution  never 
more  to  engage  as  a  practical  professor  in  the  heal- 
ing art;  while  others  have  imagined  that  it  was 
prompted  by  his  dislike  to  the  constraint  imposed 
by  the  grave  deportment  necessary  to  support  the 
appellation  and  character  of  Doctor,  or  perhaps 
from  ambition  to  be  thought  a  man  of  fashion  ra- 
ther than  a  mere  man  of  letters.  Whatever  were 
the  motives,  he  found  it  impossible  to  throw  off  a 
designation  by  which  he  had  been  so  long  and  gene- 
rally known ;  the  world  continued  to  call  him  Doc- 
tor (though  he  was  only  Bachelor  of  Medicine) 
till  the  day  of  his  death,  and  posterity  has  perpetu- 
ated the  title. 

"  The  History  of  the  Earth  and  Animated  Na- 
ture," on  which  he  had  been  engaged  alwut  four 
years,  at  length  made  its  appearance  in  the  begin- 
ning of  1774,  and  finally  closed  the  literary  labour* 
of  Goldsmith.  During  the  progress  of  this  under- 
taking, he  is  said  to  have  received  from  the  publish- 
er eight  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  copy-money.. 
Its  character,  as  a  work  of  literature  and  science^ 
we  have  already  noticed. 

The  unfinished  poem  of  "Retaliation,"  the  only 
performance  that  remains  to  be  noticed,  owed  ita 
birth  to  some  circumstances  of  festive  merrimeni 
that  occurred  at  one  of  the  meetings  in  St.  James's. 
Coffee-house.  The  occasion  that  produced  it  i* 
thus  adverted  to  by  Mr.  Cumberland  in  his  Me- 
moirs: "It  was  upon  a  proposal  started  by  Edmund 
Burke,  that  a  party  of  friends,  who  had  dined  to- 
gether at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  and  my  house, 
should  meet  at  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house; 
which  accordingly  took  place,  and  was  occasion- 
ally repeated  with  much  festivity  and  good  fellow-  J 
ship.  Dr.  Barnard,  dean  of  Derry,  a  very  amia-  1 
ble  and  old  friend  of  mine.  Dr.  Douglas,  since 
bishop  of  Salisbury,  Johnson,  David  Garrick,  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Edmund  and 
Richard  Burke,  Ilickcy,  with  two  or  three  others 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


51 


constituted  our  party.  At  one  of  these  meetings, 
an  idea  was  suggested  of  extemporary  epitaphs  upon 
the  parties  present ;  pen  and  ink  were  called  for, 
and  Garrick  off  hand  wrote  an  epitaph  with  a  good 
deal  of  humour  upon  poor  Goldsmith,  who  was  the 
first  in  jest,  as  he  proved  to  be  in  reality,  that  we 
committed  to  the  grave.  The  dean  also  gave  him 
an  epitaph,  and  Sir  Joshua  illuminated  the  dean's 
verses  with  a  sketch  of  his  bust  in  pen  and  ink, 
inimitably  caricatured.  Neither  Johnson  nor  Burke 
wrote  any  thing ;  and  when  I  perceived  Oliver  was 
rather  sore,  and  seemed  to  watch  me  with  that  kind 
of  attention  which  indicated  his  expectation  of 
something  in  the  same  kind  of  burlesque  with 
theirs,  I  thought  it  time  to  press  the  joke  no  far- 
ther, and  wrote  a  few  couplets  at  a  side-table; 
which,  when  I  had  finished,  and  was  called  upon 
by  the  company  to  exhibit.  Goldsmith,  with  much 
agitation,  besought  me  to  spare  him ;  and  I  was 
about  to  tear  them,  when  Johnson  wrested  them 
out  of  my  hand,  and  in  a  loud  voice  read  them  at 
the  table.  I  have  now  lost  all  recollection  of  them, 
and  in  fact  they  were  little  worth  remembering; 
but  as  they  were  serious  and  complimentary,  the 
effect  they  had  upon  Goldsmith  was  the  more  pleas- 
ing for  being  so  entirely  unexpected.  The  con- 
cluding line,  which  is  the  only  one  I  can  call  to 
mind,  was — 

'All  mourn  the  poet,  I  lament  the  man.' 

This  I  recollect,  because  he  repeated  it  several 
times,  and  seemed  much  gratified  by  it.  At  our 
next  meeting,  he  produced  his  epitaphs  as  they 
stand  in  the  little  posthumous  poem  abovemen- 
tioned ;  and  this  was  the  last  time  he  ever  enjoyed 
the  company  of  his  friends." 

The  delicacy  with  which  Mr.  Cumberland  acted 
on  this  occasion,  and  the  compliment  he  paid  to 
our  author,  were  not  thrown  away.  In  drawing 
the  character  of  Cumberland  in  return.  Goldsmith, 
■while  he  demonstrated  his  judgment  as  a  critic, 
proved  his  gratitude  and  friendship  at  the  same 
time,  in  designating  him, 

"  The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts." 
Other  members  of  the  club,  however,  were  hit  off 
with  a  much  smaller  portion  of  compliment,  and 
for  the  most  part  with  more  truth  than  flattery ; 
yet  the  wit  and  humour  with  which  he  discrimi- 
nated their  various  shades  of  character,  is  happily 
free  from  the  slightest  tincture  of  ill-nature.  His 
epitaph  on  Mr.  Burke  proves  him  to  have  been  in- 
timately acquainted  with  the  disposition  and  quaU- 
uies  of  that  celebrated  orator.  The  characteristics 
Df  Mr.  Burke's  brother  are  humorously  delineated, 
md  were  highly  appropriate ;  the  portrait  of  Dr. 
:  Douglas  is  critically  true ;  but  the  most  masterly 
ketch  in  the  piece  is  undoubtedly  the  character  of 
jrarrick,  who  had  been  peculiarly  severe  in  his 
spitaph  on  Goldsmith, 


On  the  evening  that  Goldsmith  produced  "Re- 
taUation"  he  read  it  in  full  club,  and  the  members 
were  afterwards  called  on  for  their  opinions.  Some 
expatiated  largely  in  its  praise,  and  others  seemed 
to  be  delighted  with  it;  yet,  when  its  pubUcation 
was  suggested,  the  prevailing  sentiment  was  de- 
cidedly hostile  to  such  a  measure.  Goldsmith  hence 
discovered,  that  a  little  sprinkling  of  fear  was  not 
an  unnecessary  ingredient  in  the  friendship  of  the 
world;  and  though  he  meant  not  immediately  to 
publish  his  poem,  he  determined  to  keep  it,  as  he 
expressed  himself  to  a  friend,  "  as  a  rod  in  pickle 
for  any  future  occasion  that  might  occur."  But 
this  occasion  never  presented  itself:  a  more  awful 
period  was  now  approaching. 

A  short  time  previous  to  this,  he  had  projected 
an  important  literary  work,  under  the  title  of  "  A 
Universal  Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences."  In 
this  undertaking  he  is  said  to  have  engaged  all  his 
literary  friends,  including  most  of  the  members  of 
the  Literary  Club,  particularly  Johnson,  Reynolds, 
and  Burke,  who  promised  to  promote  the  design 
with  all  their  interest,  and  to  furnish  him  with 
original  articles  on  various  subjects  to  be  embraced 
by  the  work.  So  much  had  he  this  project  at 
heart, — so  sanguine  was  he  of  its  success, — and  so 
Uttle  doubt  did  he  entertain  of  encouragement  from 
the  booksellers,  that  without  previous  concert  with 
any  one  of  the  trade,  he  actually  printed  and  pub- 
lished the  Prospectus  at  his  own  expense.  These 
gentlemen,  however,  were  not,  at  that  time,  dis- 
posed to  enter  upon  so  heavy  an  undertaking,  and 
of  course  received  his  proposals  so  coldly,  that  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  abandon  the  design.  It  is 
supposed  that  he  had  fondly  promised  himself  re- 
lief from  his  pecuniary  difficulties  by  this  scheme, 
and  consequently  his  chagrin  at  the  disappointment 
was  the  more  keenly  felt.  He  frequently  lamented 
the  circumstance  to  his  friends ;  and  there  is  little 
doubt  that  it  contributed,  with  other  vexations,  to 
aggravate  the  disease  which  ended  in  his  dissolu- 
tion. 

Goldsmith  had  been,  for  some  years,  occasionally 
afflicted  with  a  strangury.  The  attacks  of  this 
disease  had  latterly  become  more  frequent  and  vio- 
lent; and  these,  combined  with  anxiety  of  mind  on 
the  subject  of  his  accumulating  debts,  embittered 
his  days,  and  brought  on  almost  habitual  despon- 
dency. While  in  this  unhappy  condition,  he  was 
attacked  by  a  nervous  fever  in  the  spring  of  1774. 

On  Friday,  the  25th  of  March,  that  year,  finding 
himself  extremely  ill,  he  sent  at  eleven  o'clock  at 
night  for  Mr.  Ilawes,  an  apothecary,  to  whom  he 
complained  of  a  violent  pain  extending  all  over  the 
fore-part  of  his  head ;  his  tongue  was  moist,  he  had 
a  cold  shivering,  and  his  pulse  beat  about  ninety 
strokes  in  a  minute.  He  said  he  had  taken  two 
ounces  of  ipecacuanha  wine  as  a  vomit,  and  that  it 
war  nis  intention  to  take  Dr.  James's  fever  pow- 


62 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


ders,  which  he  desired  might  be  sent  him.  Mr. 
Hawes  repUed,  that  in  his  opinion  this  medicine 
was  very  improper  at  that  time,  and  begged  he 
would  not  think  of  it;  but  every  argument  used 
seemed  only  to  render  him  more  determined  in  his 
own  opinion. 

Mr.  Hawes  knowing  that  on  former  occasions 
Goldsmith  had  always  consulted  Dr.  Fordyce,  and 
that  he  entertained  the  highest  opinion  of  his  abili- 
ties as  a  physician,  requested  permission  to  send 
for  him.  To  this,  with  great  reluctance,  he  gave 
consent,  as  the  taking  of  Dr.  James's  powders,  ap- 
peared to  be  the  only  object  that  employed  his  at- 
tention ;  and  even  after  he  had  given  his  consent, 
he  endeavoured  to  throw  an  obstacle  in  the  way, 
by  saying,  that  Dr.  Fordyce  was  gone  to  spend  the 
evening  in  Gerrard-street,  "where,"  added  he,  "I 
should  also  have  been  myself,  if  t  had  not  been  indis- 
posed." Mr.  Hawes  immediately  dispatched  a  mes- 
.senger  for  Dr.  Fordyce,  whom  he  found  at  home, 
and  who  instantly  waited  upon  Goldsmith. 

Dr.  Fordyce,  on  perceiving  the  symptoms  of  the 
disease,  was  of  the  same  opinion  with  Mr.  Hawes 
respecting  Dr.  James's  powders;  and  strongly  re- 
presented to  the  patient  the  impropriety  of  his  tak- 
ing that  medicine  in  his  'present  situation.  Un- 
happily, however,  he  was  deaf  to  all  remonstrances, 
and  persevered  in  his  own  resolution. 

On  the  following  morning  Mr.  Hawes  visited 
his  patient,  and  found  him  very  much  reduced; 
his  voice  feeble,  and  his  pulse  very  quick  and  small. 
When  he  inquired  of  him  how  he  did,  Goldsmith 
sighed  deeply,  and  in  a  very  low  and  languid  tone 
said,  "  he  wished  he  had  taken  his  friendly  advice 
last  night," 

Dr.  Fordyce  arrived  soon  after  Mr.  Hawes,  and 
saw  with  alarm  the  danger  of  their  patient's  situa- 
tion. He  therefore  proposed  to  send  for  Dr.  Tur- 
ton,  of  whose  talents  and  skill  he  knew  Goldsmith 
had  a  great  opinion :  to  this  proposal  the  patient 
readily  consented,  and  ordered  his  servant  to  go  di- 
rectly. Doctors  Fordyce  and  Turton  accordingly 
met  at  the  time  appointed,  and  had  a  consultation. 
This  they  continued  twice  a  day  till  the  4th  of 
April,  1774,  when  the  disorder  terminated  in  the 
death  of  the  poet,  in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his  age. 
Goldsmith' s  sudden  and  unexpected  dissolution 
created  a  general  feeling  of  regret  among  the  litera- 
ry circles  of  that  period.  The  newspapers  and  pe- 
riodical publications  teemed  with  tributary  verses 
to  his  memory ;  and  perhaps  no  poet  was  ever  more 
lamented  in  every  possible  variety  of  sonnet,  elegy, 
epitaph,  and  dirge.  Mr.  Woty's  hnes  on  the  oc- 
casion we  select  from  the  general  mass  of  eulogy. 


Another's  woe  thy  heart  could  always  meh ; 
None  gave  more  free,— for  none  more  deeply  fdt 
Sweet  bard,  adieu !  thy  own  harmonious  lays 
Have  sculptured  out  thy  monument  of  praise; 
Yes,— these  survive  to  time's  remotest  day, 
While  drops  the  bust,  and  boastful  tombs  decay. 
Reader,  if  number'd  in  the  Muses'  train, 
Go,  tune  the  lyre,  and  imitate  his  strain; 
But,  if  no  poet  thou,  reverse  the  plan, 
Depart  in  peace,  and  imitate  the  man." 


"Adieu,  sweet  bard!  to  each  fine  feeling  true, 
Thy  virtues  many,  and  thy  foibles  few ; 
Those  form'd  to  charm  e'en  vicious  minds— and  these 
With  harmkoi  mirth  the  social  soul  to  please. 


"  Of  poor  Dr.  Goldsmith,"  said  Johnson^  in  an- 
swer  to  a  query  of  Boswell's,  "there  is  little  to  bo 
told  more  than  the  papers  have  made  public.  He 
died  of  a  fever,  made,  I  am  afraid,  more  violent  by 
uneasiness  of  mind.  His  debts  began  to  be  heavy, 
and  all  his  resources  were  exhausted.  Sir  Joshua 
is  of  opinion,  that  he  owed  no  less  than  two  thou- 
sand pounds.*    Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before?" 

The  extraordinary  sum  thus  owing  by  Gold- 
smith excited  general  surprise  after  his  death,  and 
gave  rise  to  some  ill-natured  and  injurious  reflec- 
tions. To  those,  however,  who  were  intimately 
acquainted  with  his  careless  disposition  and  habits, 
the  wonder  was  not,  that  he  should  be  so  much  in 
debt,  but,  as  Johnson  remarks,  that  he  should  have 
been  so  much  trusted.  He  was  so  liberal  in  his 
donations,  and  profuse  in  his  general  disburse- 
ments ;  so  unsettled  in  his  mode  of  Uving,  and  im- 
prudent in  gaming;  and  altogether  so  little  accus- 
tomed to  regulate  his  expenses  by  any  system  of 
economy,  that  at  last  his  debts  greatly  exceeded  his 
resources ;  and  their  accumulation  towards  the  close 
of  his  hfe  was  by  no  means  matter  of  astonishment. 
These  debts,  however,  consisted  chiefly  of  sums 
that  he  had  taken  up  in  advance,  from  the  mana- 
gers of  the  two  theaters,  for  comedies  which  he  had 
engaged  to  furnish  to  each;  and  from  the  booksel- 
lers for  publications  which  he  was  to  finish  for  the 
press ; — all  which  engagements  he  fully  intended, 
and  would  probably  have  been  able  to  fulfil,  as  he 
had  done  on  former  occasions  in  similar  exigencies; 
but  his  premature  death  unhappily  prevented  the 
execution  of  his  plans. 

The  friends  of  Goldsmith,  Uterary  as  well  as  per- 
sonal, were  exceedingly  numerous,  and  so  attach- 
ed to  his  memory,  that  they  determined  to  honour 
his  remains  with  a  public  funeral,  and  to  bury  hinj 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  His  pall  was  to  have 
been  supported  by  Lord  Shelburne,  Lord  Louth, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Beauclerk, 
Mr.  Edmund  Burke,  and  Mr.  Garrick.  Some  cir- 
cumstances, which  have  never  been  explained,  oc- 
ccurred  to  prevent  this  resolution  from  being  carri- 
ed into  effect.  It  is  generally  believed  that  the  chief 
reason  was  a  feeling  of  deUcacy,  suggested  by  the 
disclosure  of  his  embarrassed  afl!airs,  and  the  extra- 
ordinary amount  of  his  debts.  He  was,  therefore^ 
privately  interred  in  the  Temple  burying-ground 

'4000L— Campbell's  Biography  of  Goldsmith 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


53 


I  few  select  friends  paying  the  last  sad  offices  to 
his  remains.  A  short  time  afterwards,  however, 
the  members  of  the  Literary  Club  suggested,  and 
zealously  promoted,  a  subscription  to  defray  the  ex 
pense  of  a  monument  to  his  memory.  The  neces 
sary  funds  were  soon  realized,  and  the  chisel  of 
Nollekens  was  employed  to  do  honour  to  the  poet. 
The  design  and  workmanship  of  this  memorial 
were  purposely  simple  and  inexpensive.  It  was 
erected  in  Poet's  Corner  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
between  the  monument  of  Gay  and  that  of  the 
Duke  of  Argyll.  On  this  occasion,  the  statuary 
^s  admitted  to  have  produced  a  good  likeness  of  the 
person  commemorated.  The  bust  of  Goldsmith  is 
exhibited  in  a  large  medallion,  embellished  wdth 
literary  ornaments,  underneath  which  is  a  tablet  of 
white  marble,  with  the  following  Latin  inscription 
by  Dr.  Johnson. 

OLIVARH  GOLDSMITH, 

Poetae,  Physici,  Historici, 
Qui  milium  fere  scribendl  genus 

non  tetigit, 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit: 

Sive  risus  essent  movendi, 

Sive  lacrymae, 

Affectuum  potena  at  lenis  dominator: 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus: 

Hoc  raonumento  memoriam  coluit 

Bodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  fides, 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibernia  Forniee  Longfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nomen  Pallas, 

Nov.  xxix,  MDCCXXXL 

Eblanse  Uteris  institutua. 

Obi  it  Londini, 

April,  iv.  MDCCLXXIV.' 


*  This  I-atin  inscription  having  been  undertaken  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  a  meetii-bg  which  took  place  in  the  house  of  Mr. 
Cumberland,  when  some  members  of  the  Literary  Club  were 
present,  .Tohnson,  either  out  of  deference  to  them,  or  from  the 
carelessness  and  modesty  which  characterised  him  as  to  his 
own  writings,  submitted  the  composition  to  the  revisal  of  Sir 
•Toshua  Reynolds,  with  a  request  to  show  it  afterwards  to  the 
Club  for  their  approval.  "  I  liave  been  kept  away  from  you," 
says  he,  in  a  card  to  Sir  Joshua,  "I  know  not  well  how;  and 
of  these  vexatious  hindrances  I  know  not  when  there  will  be 
an  end.  I  therefore  send  you  the  poor  dear  Doctor's  epitaph. 
Read  it  first  yourself;  and,  if  you  then  think  it  right,  show  it  to 
the  Club.  I  am,  you  know,  willing  to  be  corrected.  If  you  think 
any  thing  much  amiss,  keep  it  to  yourself  till  we  come  to- 
gether." The  epitaph  was  accordingly  laid  before  the  Club 
soon  afterwards,  and  though  no  alteration  was  made,  yet  it 
gave  rise  to  a  great  deal  of  discussion,  and  was  productive  of 
a  curious  literary  ^ezt  cV esprit,  not  only  singular  in  itself,  but 
remarkable  for  the  celebrated  names  connected  with  it. 

"ThisjeM  d' esprit,"  says  Sir  William  Forbes,  in  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Boswell,  "took  its  rise  one  day  at  dinner  at  our  friend  Sir 
Joshua  Rejmolds's.  All  the  company  present,  except  myself, 
were  friends  and  acquaintance  of  Dr.  Goldsmith.  The  epi- 
taph, written  for  him  by  Dr.  Johnson,  became  the  subject  of 
conversation,  and  various  emendations  were  suggested,  which 
it  was  agreed  should  be  submitted  to  the  Doctor's  cx)nsidera- 
tton.    But  the  question  weu?,  Who  should  have  the  courage  to 


In  addition  to  this  eulogium  on  the  literary  qua- 
lities of  his  friend,  Johnson  afterwards  honoured 
his  memory  with  the  following  telrastick  in  Greek. 

loV  TCK^OV  tl(rOI>CtUC  TCV  OXiCctplOtOf   KCVtHV 

A<pfio<n,  (AH  a-i/uvnv,  Suvi,  TroS'ttrvi  -TrdTU 
Ol<rt  /ui/unKi  <fu(ric  (MST^av  X°''P^^f  '^Py*  ^'*^'*'^'' 
KXctttrtTTODtTW,  la-TopMov,  <pv<rtKov. 

"Thou  beholdest  the  tomb  of  Oliver!  press  not,  O  stranger, 
with  the  foot  of  folly,  the  venerable  dust.  Ye  who  care  for 
nature,  for  the  charms  of  song,  for  the  deeds  of  ancient  days, 
weep  for  the  historian,  the  naturalist,  the  poet." 

The  general  cast  of  Goldsmith's  figure  and  phy- 
siognomy was  not  engaging,  and  the  impression 
made  by  his  writings,  on  the  mind  of  a  stranger, 


propose  them  to  himT  At  last  it  was  hinted,  that  there  could 
be  no  way  so  good  as  that  of  a  Round  Robin,  as  the  sailors 
call  it,  which  they  make  use  of  when  they  enter  into  a  conspi- 
racy, so  as  not  to  let  it  be  known  who  puts  his  name  first  or 
last  to  the  paper.  This  proposition  was  instantly  assented  to; 
and  Dr.  Barnard,  dean  of  Derry,  now  bishop  ofKillaloe,  drew 
up  an  address  to  Dr.  Johnson  on  the  occasion,  replete  with  wit 
and  humour,  but  which,  it  was  feared,  the  Doctor  might  think 
treated  the  subject  with  too  much  levity.  Mr.  Burke  then  pro- 
posed the  address  as  it  stands  in  the  paper  in  writing  [the  pa- 
per was  enclosed,]  to  which  I  had  the  honour  to  officiate  as 
clerk. 

"Sir  Joshua  agreed  to  carry  it  to  Dr.  Johnson,  who  received 
it  with  much  good-humour,  and  desired  Sir  Joshua  to  tell  the 
gentlemen  that  he  would  alter  the  epitaph  in  any  manner  they 
pleased,  as  to  the  sense  of  it;  but  he  tcould  never  consent  to 
disgrace  the  walls  of  Westminster  Abbey  with  an  English 
inscription.    I  consider  this  Round  Robin,"  continues  Sir 
William,  "  as  a  species  of  literary  curiosity  worth  preserving, 
as  it  marks,  in  a  certain  degree.  Dr.  Johnson's  character." 
The  following  transcript  of  it,  as  given  by  Mr.  Boswell,  may 
gratify  such  of  our  readers  as  are  curious  in  literary  anecdote.. 
We,  the  circumscribers,  having  read  with  great  pleasure  an 
intended  epitaph  for  the  monument  of  Dr.  Goldsmith,  which, 
considered  abstractedly,  appears  to  be,  for  elegant  composi- 
tion and  masterly  style,  in  every  respect  worthy  of  the  pen 
of  its  learned  author,  are  yet  of  opinion,  that  the  character 
of  the  deceased,  as  a  writer,  particularly  as  a  poet,  is  per- 
haps not  delineated  with  all  the  exactness  which  Dr.  .John- 
son is  capable  of  giving  it.    We,  therefore,  with  deference 
to  his  superior  judgment,  humbly  request  that  he  would  at 
least  take  the  trouble  of  revising  it,  and  of  making  such  ad- 
ditions and  alterations  as  he  shall  think  proper,  upon  a  fur- 
ther perusal.  But  if  we  might  venture  to  express  our  wishes, 
they  would  lead  us  to  request,  that  he  would  write  the  epi- 
taph inEnghsh,  rather  than  in  Latin;  as  we  think  that  the 
memory  of  so  eminent  an  English  writer  ought  to  be  pei-petu- 
aled  in  the  language  to  which  his  works  are  likely  to  be  so 
lasting  an  ornament,  which  we  also  know  to  have  been  the 
opinion  of  the  late  Doctor  himself. 
■   The  circumscribers  to  this  curious  remonstrance,  agreeably 
to  their  respective  signatures,  were  as  follows:  viz — Edm. 
Burke,  Tho.  Franklin,  Ant.  Chamier,  G.  Colman,  Wm.  Vack- 
ell,  J.  Reynolds,  W.  Forbes,  T.  Barnard,  R.  B.  Sheridan,  P. 
Metcalfe,  E.  Gibbon,  Jos.  Warton.    This  hasty  composition, 
as  remarked  by  3Ir.  Boswell,  is  one  of  the  thousand  instances 
which  evince  the  extraordinary  promptitude  of  Mr.  Burke, 
who,  while  he  was  equal  to  the  greatest  things,  could  adorn 
the  least;  could  with  equal  facility  embrace  the  vast  and  com- 
plicated speculations  of  politics^  or  the  ingenious  topics  of 
literary  investigation.    It  is  also  an  eminent  proof  of  the  re- 
verence with  which  Johneon  was  regarded  by  some  of  the 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 


was  not  confirmed  by  the  external  graces  of  their 
author.  In  stature  he  was  somewhat  under  the 
midddle  size;  his  body  was  strongly  built,  and  his 
limbs,  as  one  of  his  biographers  expresses  it,  were 
more  sturdy  than  elegant.  His  forehead  was  low. 
and  more  prominent  than  is  usual ;  his  complexion 
pallid ;  his  face  almost  round,  and  pitted  with  the 
small-pox.  His  first  appearance  was  therefore  by 
no  means  captivating :  yet  the  general  lineaments 
of  his  countenance  bore  the  stamp  of  intellect,  and 
exhibited  traces  of  deep  thinking;  and  when  he 
grew  easy  and  cheerful  in  company,  he  relaxed  in- 
to such  a  display  of  benevolent  good-humour,  as 
soon  removed  every  unfavourable  impression.  His 
pleasantry  in  company,  however,  sometimes  de- 
generated into  buffoonery;  and  this  circumstance, 
coupled  with  the  inelegance  of  his  person  and  de- 
portment, often  prevented  him  from  appearing  to 
so  much  advantage  as  might  have  been  expected 
from  his  learning  and  genius. 

The  aptitude  of  Goldsmith  to  blunder  in  conver- 
sation has  excit?ed  considerable  surprise  when  con- 
trasted with  his  powers  as  a  writer.  His  literary 
associates  used  to  be  struck  with  the  disparity,  and 
some  of  them  puzzled  themselves  to  account  for  it. 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  once  mentioned  that  he  had 
frequently  heard  Goldsmith  talk  warmly  of  the 
pleasure  of  being  liked,  and  observe  how  hard  it 
would  be  if  literary  excellence  should  preclude  a 
man  from  that  satisfaction,  which  he  perceived  it 
often  did,  from  the  envy  that  attended  it.  "I  am, 
therefore,  convinced,"  said  Sir  .Toshua,  "that  he 
was  often  intentionally  absurd  in  conversation,  in 
order  to  lessen  himself  in  social  intercourse,  trust- 
ing that  his  character  would  be  sufliciently  sup- 
ported by  his  works."  But  this  appears  to  be  the 
excess  of  refinement  in  conjecture;  and  Mr.  Bos- 
well's  reason,  which  ascribed  it  to  Goldsmith's 
"vanity,  and  an  eager  desire  to  be  conspicuous 
wherever  he  was,"  though  less  charitable,  is  more 


ablest  men  of  his  time,  in  various  departments,  and  even  by 
such  of  them  as  lived  most  with  him. 

Although  Johnson  was  in  great  good-humour  with  the  pro- 
duction as  a  je«  d' esprit,  yet,  on  seeing  Dr.  Warton's  name  to 
the  suggestion  that  the  epitaph  should  be  in  English,  he  ob- 
served to  Sir  Joshua,  "  I  wonder  that  Joe  Warton,  a  scholar  by 
profe^ion,  should  be  such  a  fool."  He  said  too,  "  I  should 
have  thought  Mund  Burke  would  have  had  more  sense."  Mr. 
Langton,  who  was  one  of  the  company  at  Sir  .Joshua's,  like  a 
sturdy  scholar,  resolutely  refused  to  sign  the  Round  Robin. 
On  another  occasion,  when  somebody  endeavoured  to  argue 
in  favour  of  its  being  in  English,  Johnson  said,  "The  lan- 
guage of  the  country  of  which  a  learned  man  was  a  native,  is 
not  the  language  fit  for  his  epitaph,  which  should  be  in  ancient 
and  permanent  language.  Consider,  sir,  how  you  should  feel 
were  you  to  find  at  Rotterdam  an  epitaph  on  Erasmus  in 
Dutch.1'-'  Perhaps  on  this  subject  Mr.  Boswell's  suggestion  is 
the  best.  "  For  my  part,"  says  he,  "  I  think  it  would  be  pro- 
per to  havf  epitaphs  written  both  in  a  learned  language  and  in 
the  language  of  the  country,  so  that  they  might  have  the  ad- 
Tanuige  of  being  more  universally  understood,  and,  at  the 
«a«a««me,  be  secured  of  clas^cal  stability." 


consistent  with  probability.  The  truth,  however, 
may  have  been,  that  Goldsmith,  having  constant- 
ly before  him  the  example  of  extraordinary  con- 
versational abilities  in  Johnson,  either  from  the 
spirit  of  competition,  or  the  ambition  to  excel  in 
such  a  fascinating  talent,  was  tempted  to  a  fre- 
quent display  of  his  own  powers  in  the  same  line. 
Our  excessive  anxiety  to  do  any  thing  well,  often 
defeats  the  end  we  have  in  view;  and  it  is  not  un- 
likely that,  on  such  occasions,  this  was  the  fate  of 
Goldsmith.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all  his  mistakes, 
he  had  gleams  of  eloquence;  and,  although  Mr. 
Boswell  studies  to  make  him  a  foil  to  Johnson, 
there  are  instances  among  the  conversations  re- 
ported by  that  gentleman,  where  Goldsmith  shines 
as  the  most  rational  and  elegant  interlocutor  of  the 
whole.  Hence  it  is  reasonable  to  conclude,  that 
the  accounts  which  have  been  transmitted  of  the 
weakness  or  absurdity  of  Goldsmith's  conversation 
are  greatly  overcharged.  Be  that  as  it  may,  if  the 
conversation  of  Goldsmith  was  so  confused  and 
inaccurate  as  has  been  generally  reported,  it  is  an 
eminent  instance,  among  many  others,  in  which 
the  conversation  of  literary  men  has  been  found 
strikingly  unequal  to  their  works.  It  forms  also 
an  illustration  of  the  observation  of  Cicero,  that  it 
is  very  possible  for  a  man  to  think  rightly,  and  yet 
want  the  power  of  conveying  his  sentiments  in  be- 
coming language:  '■'Fieri  potest  ut  rede  guts  sen- 
tiat,  sed  id  quod  sentit  "polite  eloqui  non  poss-it." 
Perhaps  the  chief  fault  of  Goldsmith  in  conversa- 
tion, as  has  been  remarked  by  one  of  his  biogra- 
phers, lay  in  his  being  always  overhurried;  so  that 
he  was  too  apt  to  speak  without  reflection,  and 
without  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  subject.  He 
himself  humorously  used  to  remark,  that  he  always 
argued  best  when  he  argued  alone.  The  same 
circumstance  was  noticed  by  Johnson,  and  gave 
rise  to  the  observation,  "  that  no  man  was  more 
foolish  when  he  had  not  a  pen  in  his  hand,  or  more 
wise  when  he  had." 

If  it  must  be  admitted  that  Goldsmith  had  no 
talent  for  oral  display,  it  will  not  be  disputed  that 
in  the  solitude  of  the  closet,  "when  he  argued 
alone,"  he  was  almost  unrivalled.  A  celebrated 
critic  remarked  of  him,  that  "  whatever  he  com- 
posed, he  did  it  better  than  any  other  man  could." 
It  has  been  objected  to  the  moral  essays  of  Gold- 
smith, that  they  present  life  under  a  gloomy  as- 
pect, and  leave  an  impression  of  despondency  on 
the  mind  of  the  reader.  Whether  to  paint  life  as 
it  is,  be  a  fault  in  a  writer,  is  a  question  that  will 
admit  of  a  considerable  dispute ;  but  it  will  not  be 
denied,  that  when  he  pictures  the  woes  and  vani- 
ties of  existence,  he  only  repeats  the  lessons  of  ex- 
perience. It  ought  also  to  be  recollected  that  an 
author's  writings  are  generally  a  transcript  of  his 
own  feelings.  If  the  moral  productions  of  Gold- 
smith are  sometimes  gloomy  and  despondent,  we 


OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 


55 


ehould  take  into  account  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  written : — when  he  was  obscure 
and  friendless,  oppressed  with  want,  sick  of  the 
past,  and  almost  despairing  of  the  future.  The 
language  of  his  prose  works,  in  general,  is  admitted 
to  be  a  model  of  perfection.  His  very  enemies 
used  to  acknowledge  the  superiority  of  his  taste  in 
composition,  and  the  unrivalled  excellence  of  his 
style.  It  was  not  without  reason,  therefore,  that 
Johnson  at  one  time  exclaimed,  *'  Where  is  there 
now  a  man  who  can  pen  an  essay  with  such  ease 
and  elegance  as  Goldsmith?" 

In  poetry  Goldsmith  confessedly  shines  with 
great  lustre.  But,  viewing  him  as  a  scholar,  it  is 
surprising  how  little  of  his  imagery  is  drawn  from 
reminiscences  of  the  classics.  His  verses  are  ut- 
terly void  of  the  machinery  of  ancient  polytheism, 
and  scarcely  a  single  mythological  person  is  ever 
invoked  by  him.  In  truth,  he  seems  to  have  had 
no  partiality  for  the  family  of  gorls,  goddesses,  and 
demi-gods,  and  to  have  discarded  as  useless  the 
whole  race  of  fauns,  satyrs,  dryads,  and  hamadry- 
ads. He  is  one  of  those  who  seek  to  please  chiefly 
by  an  exhibition  of  nature  in  her  simplest  and 
most  familiar  views.  From  these  he  selects  his 
objects  with  equal  taste  and  discretion;  and  in  no 
instance  does  he  ever  represent  what  would  excite 
disgust,  or  cause  pain.  In  the  poetry  of  Goldsmith 
there  is  nothing  that  strikes  us  as  merely  ideal. 
Every  thing  is  clear,  distinct,  and  palpable.  His 
very  imagery  is  tangible.  He  draws  it  from  ob- 
jects that  act  at  once  upon  the  senses,  and  the 
reader  is  never  for  a  moment  at  a  loss  to  discover 
its  application.  It  is  this  that  makes  Goldsmith  so 
easily  understood,  and  so  generally  admired.  His 
poetical  landscapes  and  portraits  are  so  many  tran- 
scripts from  Uving  nature;  while  every  image,  every 
thought,  and  every  sentiment  connected  with  them, 
have  a  corresponding  expression  of  unaftected  truth 
and  simplicity.  It  was  said  of  him  by  Mr.  Bos- 
well,  that  "his  mind  reseml)led  a  fertile  but  thin 
soil;  there  was  a  quick,  but  not  a  strong  vegetation 
of  whatever  chanced  to  be  thrown  upon  it.  No 
deep  root  could  be  struck.  The  oak  of  the  forest 
did  not  grow  there;  but  the  elegant  shrubbery, 
and  the  fragrant  parterre,  appeared  in  gay  suc- 
cession." This  is  a  poetical  description,  and,  with 
some  limitation,  may  be  admitted  as  an  approach 
to  the  truth.  The  characteristics  of  Goldsmith's 
poetry  are  ease,  softness,  and  beauty.  He  can  be 
commended  for  the  elegance  of  his  imagery,  the 
depth  of  his  pathos  and  the  flow  of  his  numbers. 
He  is  uniformly  tender  and  impressive,  but  rarely 
sublime.  The  commendation  which  he  himself 
has  bestowed  on  the  poetry  of  Parnell  may  justly 
be  applied  to  his  own.  "  At  the  end  of  his  course," 
says  he,  "the  reader  regrets  that  his  way  has  been 
80  short;  he  wonders  that  it  gave  him  so  little; 
trouble;  and  so  resolves  to  go  the  journey  over 


again."  A  similar  impression,  or  something  ana- 
logous to  it,  is  felt  by  every  reader  of  tho  poetry 
of  Goldsmith.  His  course  has  been  through  a  rich 
and  highly  cultivated  country,  where  sweet  fruits 
and  fragrant  flowers  regaled  his  senses  at  every  step; 
where  every  object  that  he  passed  was  blooming  in 
beauty,  and  pregnant  with  interest ;  and  where  he 
himself  never  for  a  moment  felt  any  intermission 
of  enjoyment. 

From  the  characteristics  of  the  poet  we  turn  to 
the  qualities  of  the  man.  Goldsmith  was  mild  and 
gentle  in  his  manners,  warm  in  his  friendships, 
and  active  in  his  charity  and  benevolence.  So 
strongly  did  he  use  to  be  affected  by  compassion, 
that  he  has  been  known  at  midnight  to  abandon 
his  rest  in  order  to  procure  relief  and  an  asylum 
for  a  poor  dying  object  who  was  left  destitute  in 
the  streets.  The  humanity  of  his  disposition  was 
manifested  on  every  occasion  that  called  for  its  ex- 
ercise ;  and  so  large  was  his  liberality,  that  his  last 
guinea  was  the  general  boundary  of  his  munifi- 
cence. He  had  two  or  three  poor  authors  always 
as  pensioners,  besides  several  widows  and  poor 
housekeepers;  and  when  he  happened  to  have  no 
money  to  give  the  latter,  he  sent  them  away  with 
shirts  or  old  clothes,  and  sometimes  with  the  con- 
tents of  his  breakfast  table,  saying,  with  a  smile  of 
satisfaction  after  they  were  gone,  "  Now  let  me 
suppose  I  have  eaten  a  heartier  breakfast  than 
usual,  and  I  am  nothing  out  of  pocket."  His  ge- 
nerosity, it  is  true,  used  often  to  be  carried  to  ex- 
cess. He  gave  frequently  on  the  mere  impulse  of 
the  moment,  and  without  discrimination.  If  the 
applicants  for  his  bounty  were  poor  and  friendless, 
it  was  all  that  he  asked  to  know.  Like  liis  own 
village  pastor,  he  overflowed  with  benevolence,  and 
"  Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began." 

This  profuse  and  undistinguishing  liberality  has 
sometimes  been  imputed  to  Jiim  as  a  fault;  but  it 
at  least  attested  the  excellence  of  his  intentions 
and  the  kindness  of  his  heart.  The  humanity  and 
benevolence,  however,  thatciiaracteriscd  thcpoct'3 
disposition,  were  imhappily  contaminated  by  a 
jealousy  of  the  attainments  and  the  reputation  of 
others.  He  was  feelingly  conscious  of  this  failing, 
and  often  used  to  complain  of  the  uneasiness  it  cost 
him.  In  the  minds  of  those  who  heard  him  on 
such  occasions,  all  sense  of  the  evil  ])assion  was 
lost  in  their  anuisement  at  the  novelty  and  simpli- 
city of  his  confessions.  Vanity  was  another  of  the 
weaknesses  of  Goldsmith;  but  it  was  rather  amus- 
ing than  offensive  in  its  operation.  He  was  vain 
of  his  literary  consequence,  as  was  strongly  disco- 
vered in  the  complaint  he  once  made  with  regard 
to  Lord  Camden. — "I  met  him,"  said  he,  "at 
Lord  Clare's  house  in  the  country,  and  he  took  no 
more  notice  of  me  than  if  I  had  been  an  ordinary 
man." 


o6 


LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  &c. 


He  had  also  the  foible  of  being  ambitious  of 
shining  in  such  exterior  accomphshments  as  nature 
had  denied  him.  This  was  whimsically  illustrated 
on  one  occasion,  when  he  arrayed  himself  in  a 
bloom-coloured  coat,  and  sported  his  ungainly 
figure,  with  great  self-complacency,  in  the  sunshine 
in  the  Temple  gardens.  He  declared  to  his  friends, 
that  his  tailor  was  so  confident  of  the  impression 
he  should  make,  that  he  had  entreated  him  to  in- 
form all  inquirers  of  the  name  of  the  maker  of  the 
coat. 

Such  is  the  amount  of  information  which  we 
have  procured  concerning  Goldsmith;  and  we  have 
given  it  almost  precisely  in  the  words  in  which  we 
found  it.  From  the  general  tenor  of  his  biography, 
it  is  evident  that  Goldsmith  was  one  whose  faults 
were  at  the  worst  but  negative,  not  positive  vices, 
while  his  merits  were  great  and  decided.  He  was 
no  one's  enemy  but  his  own,  his  errors  inflicted 
evil  on  none  but  himself,  and  were  so  blended  with 
humorous,  and  even  affecting  circumstances,  as  to 
^sarm  anger  and  conciliate  kindness.    Where 


eminent  talent  is  united  to  spotless  virtue,  we  are 
awed  and  dazzled  into  admiration,  but  our  admira- 
tion is  apt  to  be  cold;  while  there  is  something  in 
the  harmless  infirmities  of  poor  human  nature  that 
pleads  toucliingly  to  the  feelings,  and  the  heart 
yearns  towards  the  object  of  our  admiration,  when 
we  find  that,  like  ourselves,  he  is  mortal,  and  is 
frail.  The  epithet  so  often  heard,  and  in  such 
kindly  tones,  of  "poor  Goldsmith,"  speaks  volumes. 
Few,  who  consider  the  rich  compound  of  admira- 
ble and  whimsical  qualities  which  form  his  charac- 
ter, would  wish  to  prune  away  its  eccentricities, 
trim  its  grotesque  luxuriance,  and  cHp  it  down  to 
the  decent  formalities  of  rigid  virtue.  "Let  not 
his  frailties  be  remembered,"  said  Johnson,  "he 
was  a  very  great  man."  But,  for  our  parts,  we 
rather  say,  "let  them  be  remembered;"  for  we 
question  whether  he  himself  would  not  feel  grati- 
fied in  hearing  his  reader,  after  dwelling  with  ad- 
miration on  the  proofs  of  his  greatness,  close  the 
volume  with  the  kind  hearted  phrase,  so  fondly  and 
famiUarly  ejaculated,  of  "Poor  Goldsmith." 


fflnsa  msoaSfla^sja®^©  w®iess 


OP 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


©fie  mtm  of  wssuttmitt. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

There  are  a  hundred  faults  in  this  thing,  and  a 
hundred  things  might  be  said  to  prove  them  beau- 
ties. But  it  is  needless.  A  book  may  be  amusing 
with  numerous  errors,  or  it  maybe  very  dull  without 
a  single  absurdity.  The  hero  of  this  piece  unites  in 
himself  the  three  greatest  characters  upon  earth. 
He  is  a  priest,  a  husbandman,  and  the  father  of  a 
family.  He  is  drawn  as  ready  to  teach,  and  ready 
to  obey ;  as  simple  in  affluence,  and  majestic  in 
adversity.  In  this  age  of  opulence  and  refinement, 
whom  can  such  a  character  pleasel  Such  as  are 
fond  of  high  Hfe,  will  turn  with  disdain  from  the 
simplicity  of  his  country  fire-side.  Such  as  mis- 
take ribaldry  for  humour,  will  find  no  wit  in  his 
harmless  conversation;  and  such  as  have  been 
taught  to  deride  religion,  will  laugh  at  one  whose 
chief  stores  of  comfort  are  drawn  from  futurity. 
Oliver  Goldsmith. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  description  of  the  family  of  Wakefield,  in  which  a  kin- 
dred likeness  prevails,  as  well  of  minds  as  of  persons. 

I  WAS  ever  of  opinion,  that  the  honest  man  who 
married  and  brought  up  a  large  family,  did  more 
service  than  he  who  continued  single  and  only 
talked  of  a  population.  From  this  motive,  I  had 
scarcely  taken  orders  a  year,  before  I  began  to  think 
seriously  of  matrimony,  and  chose  my  wife,  as  she 
did  her  wedding-gown,  not  for  a  fine  glossy  sur- 
face, but  for  such  qualities  as  would  wear  well. 
To  do  her  justice,  she  was  a  good-natured  notable 
woman;  and  as  for  breeding,  there  were  few  coun- 
try ladies  who  could  show  more.  She  could  read 
any  EngUsh  book  without  much  spelling;  but  for 
pickling,  preserving,  and  cookery,  none  could  excel 
her.     She  prided  herself  also  upon  being  an  excel- 


lent contriver  in  housekeeping;  though  1  could 
never  find  that  we  grew  richer  with  all  her  con- 
trivances. 

However,  we  loved  each  other  tenderly,  and  our 
fondness  increased  as  we  grew  old.  There  was,  in 
fact,  nothing  that  could  make  us  angry  with  the 
world  or  each  other.  Wc  had  an  elegant  house 
situated  in  a  fine  country,  and  a  good  neighbour- 
hood. The  year  was  spent  in  moral  or  rural 
amusements,  in  visiting  our  rich  neighbours,  and 
relieving  such  as  were  poor.  We  had  no  revolu- 
tions to  fear,  nor  fatigues  to  undergo;  all  our  ad- 
ventures were  by  the  fire-side,  and  all  our  migra- 
tions from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown. 

As  wc  lived  near  the  road,  we  often  had  the 
traveller  or  stranger  visit  us  to  taste  our  gooseberry 
wine,  for  which  we  had  great  reputation;  and  I 
profess  with  the  veracity  of  an  historian,  that  I 
never  knew  one  of  them  find  fault  with  it.  Our 
cousins  too,  even  to  the  fortieth  remove,  all  remem- 
bered their  affinity,  without  any  help  from  the 
herald's  office,  and  came  very  frequently  to  see  us. 
Some  of  them  did  us  no  great  honour  by  these 
claims  of  kindred;  as  we  had  the  bUnd,  the  maim 
ed,  and  the  halt  amongst  the  number.  However, 
my  wife  always  insisted,  that  as  they  were  the 
sannejlesh  and  blood,  they  should  sit  with  us  at 
the  same  table.  So  that  if  we  had  not  very  rich, 
we  generally  had  very  happy  friends  about  us;  for 
this  remark  will  hold  good  througl^  life,  that  the 
poorer  the  guest,  the  better  pleased  he  ever  is  with 
being  treated:  and  as  some  men  gaze  with  admira- 
tion at  the  colours  of  a  tulip,  or  the  wings  of  a  but- 
terfly, so  I  was  by  nature  an  admirer  of  happy  hu- 
man faces.  However,  when  any  one  of  our  rela- 
tions was  found  to  be  a  person  of  very  bad  charac- 
ter, a  troublesome  guest,  or  one  we  desired  to  get 
rid  of,  upon  his  leaving  my  house,  I  ever  took  caro 
to  lend  him  a  ridin^c-coat,  or  a  pair  of  boots    or 


^ 


56 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


sometimes  a  horse  of  small  value,  and  I  alway 
had  the  satisfaction  of  fmiling  he  never  came  back 
to  return  them.  By  this  the  house  was  cleared  of 
,such  as  we  did  not  like;  but  never  was  the  family 
of  Wakefield  known  to  turn  the  traveller  or  the 
poor  dependent  out  of  doors. 

Thus  we  lived  several  years  in  a  state  of  much 
happiness,  not  but  that  we  sometimes  had  those 
little  rubs  which  Providence  sends  to  enhance  the 
value  of  its  favours.  My  orchard  was  often  robbed 
by  school  boys,  and  my  wife's  custards  plundered  by 
the  cats  or  the  children.  The  'Squire  would  some- 
times fall  asleep  in  the  most  pathetic  parts  of  my 
sermon,  or  his  lady  return  my  wife's  civilities  at 
church  with  a  mutilated  courtesy.  But  we  soon 
got  over  the  uneasiness  caused  by  such  accidents, 
and  usually  in  three  or  four  days  began  to  wonder 
how  they  vexed  us. 

My  children,  the  offspring  of  temperance,  as 
they  were  educated  without  softness,  so  they  were 
at  once  well  formed  and  healthy ;  my  sons  hardy 
and  active,  my  daughters  beautiful  and  blooming. 
When  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  little  circle,  which 
promised  to  be  the  supports  of  my  declining  age, 
I  could  not  avoid  repeating  the  famous  story  of 
Count  Abensberg,  who  in  Henry  Second's  progress 
through  Germany,  while  other  courtiers  came  with 
their  treasures,  brought  his  thirty-two  children, 
and  presented  them  to  his  sovereign  as  the  most 
valuable  offering  he  had  to  bestow.  In  this  man- 
ner, though  I  had  but  six,  I  considered  them  as  a 
very  valuable  present  made  to  my  country,  and  con- 
sequently looked  upon  it  as  my  debtor.  Our  eldest 
son  was  named  George,  after  his  uncle,  who  left 
us  ten  thousand  pounds.  Our  second  child,  a  girl, 
I  intended  to  call  after  her  auntGrissel;  but  my 
wife,  who  during  her  pregnancy  had  been  reading 
romances,  insisted  upon  her  being  called  Olivia. 
In  less  than  another  year  we  had  another  daughter, 
and  now  I  was  determined  that  Grissel  should  be 
her  name ;  but  a  rich  relation  taking  a  fancy  to 
stand  godmother,  the  girl  was,  by  her  directions, 
called  Sophia;  so  that  we  had  two  romantic  names 
in  the  family ;  but  I  solemnly  protest  I  had  no 
hand  in  it.  Moses  was  our  next,  and  after  an  in- 
terval of  twelve  years  we  had  two  sons  more. 

It  would  be  fruitless  to  deny  exultation  when. I 
saw  my  little  ones  about  me ;  but  the  vanity  and 
the  satisfaction  of  my  wife  were  even  greater  than 
mine.  When  our  visiters  would  say,  "  Well,  upon 
my  word,  Mrs.  Primrose,  you  have  the  finest  chil- 
dren in  the  whole  country;" — "Ay,  neighbour," 
she  would  answer,  "they  are  as  Heaven  made  them, 
handsome  enough  if  they  be  good  enough;  for 
handsome  is  that  handsome  does."  And  then  she 
would  bid  the  girls  hold  up  their  heads ;  who,  to 
conceal  nothing,  were  certainly  very  handsome. 
Mere  outside  is  so  very  trifling  a  circumstance  with 
me,  that  I  should  scarcely  have  remembered  to 


mention  it,  had  it  not  been  a  general  topic  of 
conversation  in  the  country.  Olivia,  now  aoout 
eighteen,  had  that  luxuriancy  of  beauty,  with  wmch 
painters  generally  draw  Hebe;  open,  sprignily, 
and  commanding.  Sophia's  features  were  not  so 
striking  at  first,  but  often  did  more  certain  execu- 
tion; for  they  were  soft,  modest  and  alluring.  The 
one  vanquished  by  a  single  blow,  the  other  by 
efforts  successfully  repeated. 

The  temper  of  a  woman  is  generally  •  formed 
from  the  turn  of  her  features,  at  least  it  was  so  with 
my  daughters.  Olivia  wished  for  many  lovers, 
Sophia  to  secure  one.  Olivia  was  often  affected 
from  too  great  a  desire  to  please.  Sophia  even  re- 
pressed excellence  from  her  fears  to  offend.  The 
one  entertained  me  with  her  vivacity  when  I  was 
gay,  the  other  with  her  sense  when  I  was  serious. 
But  these  qualities  were  never  carried  to  excess  in 
either,  and  I  have  often  seen  them  exchange  cha- 
racters, for  a  whole  day  together.  A  suit  of  mourn- 
ing has  transformed  my  coquette  into  a  prude,  and 
a  new  set  of  ribands  has  given  her  younger  sister 
more  than  natural  vivacity.  My  eldest  son  George 
was  bred  at  Oxford,  as  I  intended  him  for  one 
of  the  learned  professions.  My  second  boy  Moses, 
whom  I  designed  for  business,  received  a  sort 
of  miscellaneous  education  at  home.  But  it  is 
needless  to  atteihpt  describing  the  particular  cnar- 
acters  of  young  people  that  had  seen  but  very  little 
of  the  world.  In  short  a  family  likeness  nrevaiied 
through  all,  and  properly  speaking,  they  naa  Dui 
one  character,  that  of  being  all  equally  generous, 
credulous,  simple,  and  inoffensive. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Family  Misfortunes.— -The  loss  of  fortune  only  serves  to  u> 
crease  the  pride  of  the  worthy. 

The  temporal  concerns  of  our  family  were  cnieflv 
committed  to  my  wife's  management;  as  to  the  spi- 
ritual, I  took  them  entirely  under  my  own  direction. 
The  profits  of  my  living,  which  amounted  to  but 
thirty -five  pounds  a  year,  I  made  over  to  the  or- 
phans and  widows  of  the  clergy  of  our  diocese: 
for  having  a  fortune  of  my  own,  I  was  careiess  ot 
temporalities,  and  felt  a  secret  pleasure  m  doing 
my  duty  without  reward.  I  also  set  a  resolution 
of  keeping  no  curate,  and  of  being  acquainted  with 
every  man  in  the  parish,  exhorting  tne  married 
men  to  temperance,  and  the  bachelors  to  matrimo- 
ny ;  so  that  in  a  few  years  it  was  a  common  saying, 
that  there  were  three  strange  wants  at  Wakefield, 
a  parson  wanting  pride,  young  men  wanting  wives, 
and  ale-houses  wanting  customers. 

Matrimony  was  always  one  of  my  favourite 
topics,  and  I  wrote  several  sermons  to  prove  its 
happiness:  but  there  was  a  peculiar  tenet  which  I 
made  a  point  of  supporting ;  for  I  maintained  with 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


69 


Whiston,  that  it  was  unlawfiil  for  a  priest  of  the 
cnurch  of  England,  after  the  death  of  his  first 
wife,  to  take  a  second;  o-r  to  express  it  in  one  word, 
I  valued  myself  upon  being  a  strict  monogamist. 

I  was  early  initiated  into  this  important  dispute, 
on  which  so  many  laborious  volumes  have  been 
written.  I  pubUshed  some  tracts  upon  the  sub- 
ject myself,  which,  as  they  never  sold,  I  have  the 
consolation  of  thinking  were  read  only  by  the  hap- 
py/ew.  Some  of  my  friends  called  this  my  weak 
side;  but  alas!  they  had  not  Uke  me  made  it  the 
subject  of  long  contemplation.  The  more  I  re- 
flected upon  it,  the  more  important  it  appeared.  1 
even  went  a  step  beyond  Whiston  in  displaying  my 
principles:  as  he  had  engraven  upon  his  wife's 
tomb  that  she  was  the  only  wife  of  William  Whis- 
ton; so  I  wrote  a  similar  epitaph  for  my  wife, 
though  still  Uving,  in  which  I  extolled  her  pru- 
dence, economy,  and  obedience  till  death;  and  hav- 
ing got  it  copied  fair,  with  an  elegant  frame,  it 
was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  where  it  an- 
swered several  very  useful  purposes.  In  admon- 
ishing my  wife  of  her  duty  to  me,  and  my  fidelity 
to  her;  it  inspired  her  with  a  passion  for  fame,  and 
constantly  put  her  in  mind  of  her  end. 

It  was  thus,  perhaps,  from  hearing  marriage  so 
often  recommended,  that  my  eldest  son,  just  upon 
leaving  college,  fixed  his  affections  upon  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  who  was  a  digni- 
tary in  the  church,  and  in  circumstances  to  give 
ner  a  large  fortune.  But  fortune  was  her  smallest 
accomplishment.  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot  was 
allowed  by  all  (except  my  two  daughters)  to 
be  completely  pretty.  Her  youth,  health  and  in- 
nocence, were  still  heightened  by  a  complexion 
so  transparent,  and  such  a  happy  sensibility  of 
look,  as  even  age  could  not  gaze  on  with  in- 
difference. As  Mr.  Wilmot  knew  that  I  could 
make  a  very  handsome  settlement  on  my  son,  he 
was  not  averse  to  the  match ;  so  both  families  lived 
together  in  all  that  harmony  which  generally  pre- 
cedes an  expected  alliance.  Being  convinced  by 
experience  that  the  days  of  courtship  are  the 
most  happy  of  our  lives,  I  was  willing  enough 
to  lengthen  the  period;  and  the  various  amuse- 
ments which  the  young  couple  every  day  shared  in 
each  other's  company  seemed  to  increase  their  pas- 
sion. We  were  generally  awaked  in  the  morning 
by  music,  and  on  fine  days  rode  a  hunting.  The 
hours  between  breakfast  and  dinner  the  ladies  de- 
voted to  dress  and  study :  they  usually  read  a  page, 
and  then  gazed  at  themselves  in  the  glass,  which 
even  philosophers  might  own  often  presented  the 
page  of  greatest  beauty.  At  dinner  my  wife  took 
the  lead;  for  as  she  always  insisted  upon  carving 
every  thing  herself,  it  being  her  mother's  way,  she 
gave  us  upon  these  occasions  the  history  of  every 
dish.  When  we  had  dined,  to  prevent  the  ladies 
ieaving  us,  I  generally  ordered  J;he  table  to  be  re- 


moved; and  sometimes,  with  the  music  ma^^er's 
assistance,  the  girls  would  give  us  a  very  agreeable 
concert.  Walking  out,  drinking  tea,  country  dances, 
and  forfeits,  shortened  the  rest  of  the  day,  without 
the  assistance  of  cards,  as  I  hated  all  manner  of 
gaming,  except  backgammon,  at  which  my  old 
friend  and  I  sometimes  took  a  two-penny  hit.  Nor 
can  I  here  pass  over  an  ominous  circumstance  that 
happened  the  last  time  we  played  together;  I  only 
wanted  to  fling  a  quatre,  and  yet  I  threw  deuce 
ace  five  times  running. 

Some  months  were  elapsed  in  this  manner,  till 
at  last  it  was  thought  convenient  to  fix  a  day  for  the 
nuptials  of  the  young  couple,  who  seemed  earnest- 
ly to  desire  it.  During  the  preparations  for  the 
wedding,  I  need  not  describe  the  busy  importance 
of  my  wife,  nor  the  sly  looks  of  my  daughters : 
in  fact,  my  attention  was  fixed  on  another  object, 
the  completing  a  tract  which  I  intended  shortly  to 
publish  in  defence  of  my  favourite  principle.  As 
I  looked  upon  this  as  a  master-piece,  both  for  ar- 
gument and  style,  I  could  not  in  the  pride  of  my 
heart  avoid  showing  it  to  my  old  friend  Mr.  Wil- 
mot, as  I  made  no  doubt  of  receiving  his  approba- 
tion; but  not  till  too  late  I  discovered  that  he  was 
most  violently  attached  to  the  contrary  opinion, 
and  with  good  reason;  for  he  was  at  that  time  ac- 
tually courting  a  fourth  wife.  This  as  may  be  ex- 
pected, produced  a  dispute  attended  with  some  acri- 
mony, which  threatened  to  interrupt  our  intended 
alliance :  but  the  day  before  that  appointed  for  the 
ceremony,  we  agreed  to  discuss  the  subject  at  large. 
It  was  managed  with  proper  spirit  on  both 
sides :  he  asserted  that  I  was  heterodox,  I  retorted 
the  charge;  he  repHed  and  I  rejoined.  In  the 
mean  time,  while  the  controversy  was  hottest,  I  was 
called  out  by  one  of  my  relations,  who  with  a  face 
of  concern,  advised  me  to  give  up  the  dispute,  at 
least  till  my  son's  wedding  was  over.  "How!" 
cried  I,  "  relinquish  the  cause  of  truth,  and  let  him 
be  a  husband,  already  driven  to  the  very  verge  of 
absurdity.  You  might  as  well  advise  me  to  give 
up  my  fortune  as  my  argument."  "Your  for- 
tune," returned  my  friend,  "I  am  now  sorry  to  in- 
form you  is  almost  nothing.  The  merchant  in 
town,  in  whose  hands  your  money  was  lodged,  has 
gone  off  to  avoid  a  statute  of  bankruptcy,  and  is 
thought  not  to  have  left  a  shilling  in  the  pound. 
I  was  unwilling  to  shock  you  or  the  family  with 
the  account  until  after  the  wedding :  but  now  it 
may  serve  to  moderate  your  warmth  in  the  argu- 
ment; for,  I  suppose  your  own  prudence  will  enforce 
the  necessity  of  dissembling,  at  least  till  your  son 
has  the  young  lady's  fortune  secure." — "Well," 
returned  I,  "if  what  you  tell  me  be  true,  and  if  I 
am  to  be  a  beggar,  it  shall  never  make  me  a  rascal, 
or  induce  me  to  disavow  my  principles.  I'll  go  this 
moment  and  inform  the  company  of  my  circum- 
stances: and  as  for  the  argument,  I  even  here  ro- 


(50 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


tract  my  former  concessions  in  the  old  gentleman's 
favour,  nor  will  I  allow  liim  now  to  be  a  husliand 
in  any  sense  of  the  expression." 

It  would  be  endless  to  describe  the  different  sen 
sations  of  both  families  when  I  divulged  the  news 
of  our  misfortune :  but  what  others  felt  was  slight 
to  what  the  lovers  appeared  to  endure.  Mr.  Wil- 
mot,  who  seemed  before  sufficiently  inclined  to 
break  off"  the  match,  was  by  this  blow  soon  deter 
mined :  one  virtue  he  had  in  perfection,  which  was 
prudence,  too  often  the  only  one  that  is  left  us  at 
seventy-two. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  Migration.— The  fortunate  circumstances  of  our  lives  are 
generally  found  at  last  to  be  of  our  own  procuring. 

The  only  hope  of  our  family  now  was,  that  the 
report  of  our  misfortune  might  be  malicious  or  pre- 
mature; but  a  letter  from  my  agent  in  town  soon 
came  with  a  confirmation  of  every  particular.  The 
loss  of  fortune  to  myself  alone  would  have  been 
trifling;  the  only  uneasiness  I  felt  was  for  my  fami- 
ly, who  were  to  be  humble  without  an  education 
to  render  them  callous  to  contempt. 

Near  a  fortnight  had  passed  before  I  attempted 
to  restrain  their  affliction ;  for  premature  consola- 
tion is  but  the  remembrance  of  sorrow.  During 
this  interval,  my  thoughts  were  employed  on  some 
future  means  of  supporting  them;  and  at  last  a 
small  cure  of  fifteen  pounds  a  year  was  offered  me 
in  a  distant  neighbourhood,  where  1  could  still  en- 
joy my  principles  without  molestation.  With  this 
proposal  I  joyfully  closed,  having  determined  to 
increase  my  salary  by  managing  a  little  farm. 

Having  taken  this  resolution,  my  next  care  was 
to  get  together  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune ;  and,  all 
debts  collected  and  paid,  out  of  fourteen  thousand 
pounds  we  had  but  four  hundred  remaining.  My 
chief  attention,  therefore,  was  now  to  brjlig  down 
the  pride  of  my  family  to  their  circumstances;  fori 
well  knew  that  aspiring  beggary  is  wretchedness 
itself.  "  You  can  not  be  ignorant,  my  children," 
cried  I,  "  that  no  prudence  of  ours  could  have  pre- 
vented our  late  misfortune ;  but  prudence  may  do 
much  in  disappointing  its  effects.  We  are  now 
poor,  my  fondlings,  and  wisdom  bids  us  conform 
to  our  humble  situation.  Let  us  then,  without  re- 
pining, give  up  those  splendours  with  which  num- 
bers are  wretched,  and  seek  in  humbler  circum- 
stances that  peace  with  which  all  may  be  happy. 
The  poor  live  pleasantly  without  our  help,  why 
then  should  not  we  learn  to  five  without  theirs? 
Na,  my  cliildren,  let  us  from  this  moment  give  up 
all  pretensions  to  gentility;  we  have  still  enough 
left  for  happiness  if  we  are  wise,  and  let  us  draw 
Upon  content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune." 

As  my  eldest  son  was  bred  a  scholar,  I  deter- 


mined to  send  him  to  town,  where  his  abilities 
might  contribute  to  our  support  and  nis  own.  The 
separation  of  friends  and  families  is,  perhaps,  on« 
of  the  most  distressful  circumstances  attendant  on 
penury.  The  day  soon  arrived  on  which  we  were 
to  disperse  for  the  first  time.  My  son,  after  taking 
leave  of  his  mother  and  the  rest,  who  mingled  their 
tears  and  their  kisses,  came  to  ask  a  blessing  from 
me.  This  I  gave  him  from  my  heart,  and  which, 
added  to  five  guineas,  was  all  the  patrimony  1  had 
now  to  bestow.  "  You  are  going,  my  boy,"  cried 
I,  "  to  London  on  foot,  in  the  manner  Hooker, 
your  great  ancestor,  travelled  there  before  yt)u. 
Take  from  me  the  same  horse  that  was  given  him 
by  the  good  Bishop  Jewel,  this  staff",  and  this  book 
too,  it  will  be  your  comfort  on  the  way :  these  tvpo 
lines  in  it  are  worth  a  million.  ' I  ha>c been  young, 
and  now  am  old;  yet  never  saw  I  the  righteous 
man  forsaken,  or  his  seed  begging  their  bread.' 
Let  this  be  your  consolation  as  you  travel  on.  Go, 
my  boy ;  whatever  be  thy  fortune,  let  me  see  thee 
onc€  a-year ;  still  keep  a  good  heart,  and  farewell." 
As  he  was  possessed  of  integrity  and  honour,  I  waa 
under  no  apprehensions  from  throwing  him  naked 
into  the  amphitheatre  of  life;  for  I  knew  he  would 
act  a  good  part,  whether  vanquished  or  victorious. 
His  departure  only  prepared  the  way  for  our 
own,  which  arrived  a  few  days  afterwards.  The 
leaving  a  neighbourhood  in  which  we  had  enjoyed 
so  many  hours  of  tranquillity,  was  not  without  a 
tear  which  scarcely  fortitude  itself  could  suppress. 
Besides,  a  journey  of  seventy  miles  to  a  family  that 
had  hitherto  never  been  above  ten  from  home,  filled 
us  with  apprehension ;  and  the  cries  of  the  poor, 
who  followed  us  for  some  miles,  contributed  to  in- 
crease it.  The  first  day's  journey  brought  us  in 
safety  within  thirty  miles  of  our  future  retreat, 
and  we  put  up  for  the  night  at  an  obscure  inn  in  a 
village  by  the  way.  When  we  were  shown  a  room, 
I  desired  the  landlord,  in  my  usual  way,  to  let  us 
have  his  company,  with  which  he  compUed,  as 
what  he  drank  would  increase  the  bill  next  morn- 
ing. He  knew,  however,  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood to  which  I  was  removing,  particularly  'Squire 
Thorniiill,  who  was  to  be  my  landlord,  and  who 
lived  within  a  few  miles  of  the  place.  This  gentle- 
man he  described  as  one  who  desired  to  know  little 
more  of  the  world  than  its  pleasures,  being  particu- 
larly remarkable  for  his  attachment  to  the  fair  sex. 
He  observed  that  no  virtue  was  able  to  resist  his 
arts  and  assiduity,  and  that  scarcely  a  farmer's 
daughter  within  ten  miles  round,  but  what  had 
found  him  successful  and  faithless.  Though  this 
account  gave  me  some  pain,  it  had  a  very  different 
effect  upon  my  daughters,  whose  features  seemed 
to  brighten  with  the  expectation  of  an  approaching 
triumph;  nor  was  my  wife  less  pleased  and  confi- 
dent of  their  allurements  and  virtue.  While  our 
thoughts  were  thus  employed,  the  hostess  entered 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


61 


the  room  to  inform  her  husband,  that  the  strange 
gentleman,  who  had  been  two  days  in  the  house, 
wanted  money,  and  could  not  satisfy  them  for  his 
reckoning.  "  Want  money!"  replied  the  host 
"  that  must  be  impossible;  for  it  was  no  later  than 
yesterday  he  paid  three  guineas  to  our  beadle  to 
spare  an  old  broken  soldier  that  was  to  be  whipped 
through  the  town  for  dog-steaUng."  The  hostess, 
however,  still  persisting  in  her  first  assertion,  he 
was  preparing  to  leave  the  room,  swearing  that  he 
would  be  satisfied  one  way  or  another,  when  I  beg- 
ged the  landlord  would  introduce  me  to  a  stranger 
of  so  much  charity  as  he  described.  With  this  he 
complied,  showing  in  a  gentleman  who  seemed  to 
be  about  thirty,  dressed  in  clothes  that  once  were 
laced.  His  person  was  well  formed,  and  his  face 
marked  with  the  lines  of  thinking.  He  had  some- 
thing short  and  dry  in  his  address,  and  seemed  not 
to  understand  ceremony,  or  to  despise  it.  Upon 
the  landlord's  leaving  the  room,  I  could  not  avoid 
expressing  my  concern  to  the  stranger  at  seeing 
a  gentleman  in  such  circumstances,  and  offered 
him  my  purse  to  satisfy  the  present  demand,  "  I 
take  it  wdth  all  my  heart,  sir,"  repUed  he,  "  and  am 
glad  that  a  late  oversight,  in  giving  what  money  I 
had  about  me,  has  shown  me  that  there  are  still 
some  men  like  you.  I  must,  however,  previously 
entreat  being  informed  of  the  name  and  residence 
of  my  benefactor,  in  order  to  repay  him  as  soon  as 
possible."  In  this  I  satisfied  him  fully,  not  only 
mentioning  my  name  and  late  misfortunes,  but  the 
place  to  which  I  was  going  to  remove.  "  This," 
cried  he,  "  happens  still  more  luckily  than  I  hoped 
for,  as  I  am  going  the  same  way  myself,  having 
been  detained  here  two  days  by  the  floods,  which  I 
hope  by  to-morrow  will  be  found  passable."  I  tes- 
tified the  pleasure  I  should  have  in  his  company, 
and  my  wife  and  daughters  joining  in  entreaty,  he 
was  prevailed  upon  to  stay  supper.  The  stranger's 
conversation,  which  was  at  once  pleasing  and  in- 
structive, induced  me  to  wish  for  a  continuance  of 
it;  but  it  was  now  high  time  to  retire  and  take  re- 
freshment against  the  fatigues  of  the  following  day. 
The  next  morning  we  all  set  forward  together : 
my  family  on  horseback,  while  Mr.  Burchell,  our 
new  companion,  walked  along  the  foot-path  by  the 
road-side,  observing  with  a  smile,  that  as  we  were 
ill  mounted,  he  would  be  too  generous  to  attempt 
leaving  us  behind.  As  the  floods  were  not  yet 
subsided,  we  were  obliged  to  hire  a  guide,  who  trot- 
ted on  before,  Mr.  Burchell  and  I  bringing  up  the 
rear.  We  lightened  the  fatigues  of  the  road  with 
philosophical  disputes,  which  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand perfectly.  But  what  surprised  me  most  was, 
that  theugh  he  was  a  money-borrower,  he  defend- 
ed his  opinions  with  as  much  obstinacy  as  if  he 
had  been  ray  patron.  He  now  and  then  also  in- 
formed mc  to  whom  the  different  seats  belonged 
that  lay  in  our  view  as  we  travelled  the  road. 


"  That,"  cried  he,  pointing  to  a  very  magnificent 
house  which  stood  at  some  distance,  "  belongs  to 
Mr.  Thornhill,  a  young  gentleman  who  enjoys  a 
large  fortune,  though  entirely  dependent  on  the 
will  of  his  uncle.  Sir  WilUam  Thornhill,  a  gentle- 
man who,  content  with  a  little  himself,  permits  his 
nephew  to  enjoy  the  rest,  and  chiefly  resides  in 
town."  "  What!"  cried  I,  "  is  my  young  landlord 
then  the  nephew  of  a  man,  whose  virtues,  gene- 
rosity, and  singularities  are  so  universally  known'? 
I  have  heard  Sir  William  Thornhill  represented 
as  one  of  the  most  generous  yet  whimsical  men  in 
the  kingdom;  a  man  of  consummate  benevolence."- 
"  Something,  perhaps,  too  much  so,"  replied  Mr. 
Burchell,  "  at  least  he  carried  benevolence  to  an 
excess  when  young;  for  his  passions  were  then 
strong,  and  as  they  were  all  upon  the  side  of  vir- 
tue, they  led  it  up  to  a  romantic  extreme.  He  ear- 
ly began  to  aim  at  the  qualifications  of  the  soldier 
and  scholar ;  was  soon  distinguished  in  the  army, 
and  had  some  reputation  among  men  of  learning. 
Adulation  ever  follows  the  ambitious ;  for  such  alone 
receive  most  pleasure  from  flattery.  He  was  sur- 
rounded with  crowds,  who  showed  him  only  one 
side  of  their  character :  so  that  he  began  to  lose  a 
regard  for  private  interest  in  universal  sympathy. 
He  loved  all  mankind;  for  fortune  prevented  him 
from  knowing  that  there  were  rascals.  Physicians 
tell  us  of  a  disorder,  in  which  the  whole  body  is  so. 
exquisitely  sensible  that  the  slightest  touch  gives 
pain :  what  some  have  thus  suffered  in  their  per- 
sons, this  gentleman  felt  in  his  mind.  The  slightest 
distress,  whether  real  or  fictitious,  touched  him  to 
the  quick,  and  his  soul  laboured  under  a  sickly  sen- 
sibiUty  of  the  miseries  of  others.  Thus  disposed 
to  relieve,  it  will  be  easily  conjectured  he  found 
numbers  disposed  to  solicit;  his  profusions  began 
to  impair  his  fortune,  but  not  his  good-nature;  that, 
indeed,  was  seen  to  increase  as  the  other  seemed  to 
decay:  he  grew  improvident  as  he  grew  poor;  and 
though  he  talked  like  a  man  of  sense,  his  actions 
were  those  of  a  fool.  Still,  however,  being  sur- 
rounded with  importunity,  and  no  longer  able  to- 
satisfy  every  request  that  was  made  him,  instead  of 
money  he  gave  promises.  They  were  all  he  had 
to  bestow^,  and  he  had  not  resolution  enough  to- 
give  any  man  pain  by  a  denial.  By  this  he  drew 
round  him  crowds  of  dependents,  whom  he  was  sure 
to  disappoint,  yet  he  wished  to  relieve.  These 
hung  upon  him  for  a  time,  and  left  him  vdth  merit- 
ed reproaches  and  contempt.  But  in  proportion 
as  he  became  contemptible  to  others,  he  became 
despicable  to  himself.  His  mind  had  leaned  upon 
their  adulation,  and  that  support  taken  away,  he 
could  find  no  pleasure  in  the  applause  of  his  heart, 
which  he  had  never  learned  to  reverence.  The 
world  now  began  to  wear  a  different  aspect;  the 
flattery  of  his  friends  began  to  dwindle  into  simple 
approbation.     Approbation   soon  took  the  more 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


friendly  form  of  advice,  and  advice,  when  rejected, 
produced  their  reproaches.  He  now^  therefore  found, 
that  such  friends  as  benefits  had  gathered  round 
him,  were  httle  estimable:  he  now  found  that  a 
man's  own  heart  must  be  ever  given  to  gain  that  of 
another.  I  now  found,  that — that — I  forget  what 
I  was  going  to  observe :  in  short,  sir,  he  resolved  to 
respect  himself,  and  laid  down  a  plan  of  restoring 
his  falling  fortune.  For  this  purpose,  in  his  own 
whimsical  manner,  he  travelled  through  Europe 
on  foot,  and  now,  though  he  has  scarcely  attained 
the  age  of  thirty,  his  circumstances  are  more  afflu- 
ent than  ever.  At  present,  his  bounties  are  more 
rational  and  moderate  than  before;  but  still  he  pre- 
serves the  character  of  a  humorist,  and  finds  most 
pleasure  in  eccentric  virtues." 

My  attention  was  so  much  taken  up  by  Mr, 
Burchell's  account,  that  I  scarcely  looked  forward 
as  we  went  along,  till  we  were  alarmed  by  the  cries 
of  my  family,  when  turning,  I  perceived  my  young- 
est daughter  in  the  midst  of  a  rapid  stream,  thrown 
from  her  horse,  and  struggling  with  the  torrent 
She  had  sunk  twice,  nor  was  it  in  my  power  to 
disengage  myself  in  time  to  bring  her  relief.  My 
sensations  were  even  too  violent  to  permit  my  at- 
tempting her  rescue:  she  must  have  certainly 
perished  had  not  my  companion,  perceiving  her 
danger,  instantly  plunged  in  to  her  relief,  and,  with 
some  difficulty,  brought  her  in  safety  to  the  oppo- 
site shore.  By  taking  the  current  a  little  farther 
up,  the  rest  of  the  family  got  safely  over,  where  we 
had  an  opportunity  of  joining  our  acknowledg- 
ments to  her's.  Her  gratitude  may  be  more  readi- 
ly imagined  than  described :  she  thanked  her  de- 
liverer more  with  looks  than  words,  and  continued 
to  lean  upon  his  arm,  as  if  still  wilUng  to  receive 
assistance.  My  wife  also  hoped  one  day  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  returning  his  kindness  at  her  own 
house.  Thus,  after  we  were  refreshed  at  the  next 
inn,  and  had  dined  together,  as  Mr.  Burchell  was 
going  to  a  diflferent  part  of  the  country,  he  took 
leave;  and  we  pursued  our  journey;  my  wife  ob- 
serving as  he  went,  that  she  liked  him  extremely, 
and  protesting,  that  if  he  had  birth  and  fortune  to 
entitle  him  to  match  into  such  a  family  as  our's, 
she  knew  no  man  she  would  sooner  fix  upon.  I 
could  not  but  smile  to  hear  her  talk  in  this  lofty 
strain;  but  I  was  never  much  displeased  with  those 
harmless  delusions  that  tend  to  make  us  more 
happy. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  proof  that  even  the  humblest  fortune  may  grant  happiness, 
which  dei)ends  not  on  circumstances  but  constitution. 

The  place  of  our  retreat  was  in  a  little  neigh- 
bourhood, consisting  of  farmers,  who  tilled  their 


own  grounds,  and  were  equal  strangers  to  opu- 
lence and  poverty.  As  they  had  almost  all  the 
conveniencies  of  life  within  themselves,  they  sel- 
dom visited  towns  or  cities,  in  search  of  superflui- 
ty. Remote  from  the  polite,  they  still  retained  the 
primeval  simplicity  of  manners ;  and  frugal  by  habit, 
they  scarcely  knew  that  temperance  was  a  virtue. 
They  wrought  with  cheerfulness  on  days  of  la- 
bour; but  observed  festivals  as  intervals  of  idleness 
and  pleasure.  They  kept  up  the  Christmas  carol, 
sent  true  love-knots  on  Valentine  morning,  ate 
pancakes  on  Shrove-tide,  showed  their  wit  on  the 
first  of  April,  and  religiously  cracked  nuts  on  Mi- 
chaelmas eve.  Being  apprised  of  our  approach,  the 
whole  neighbourhood  came  out  to  meet  their  minis- 
ter, dressed  in  their  finest  clothes,  and  preceded  by 
a  pipe  and  tabor.  A  feast  also  was  provided  for 
our  reception,  at  which  we  sat  cheerfully  down; 
and  what  the  conversation  wanted  in  wit,  was  made 
up  in  laughter. 

Our  little  habitation  was  situated  at  the  foot  of 
a  sloping  hill,  sheltered  with  a  beautiful  underwood 
behind,  and  a  prattling  river  before :  on  one  side  a 
meadow,  on  the  other  a  green.  My  farm  consisted 
of  about  twenty  acres  of  excellent  land,  having 
given  a  hundred  pounds  for  my  predecessor's  good- 
will. Nothing  could  exceed  the  neatness  of  my 
little  enclosures;  the  elms  and  hedge-rows  appear- 
ing with  inexpressible  beauty.  My  house  con- 
sisted of  but  one  story,  and  was  covered  with 
thatch,  which  gave  it  an  air  of  great  snugness;  the 
walls  on  the  inside  were  nicely  white-washed,  and 
my  daught;ers  undertook  to  adorn  them  with  pic- 
tures of  their  own  designing.  Though  the  same 
room  served  us  for  parlour  and  kitchen,  that  only 
made  it  the  warmer.  Besides^  as  it  was  kept  with 
the  utmost  neatness,  the  dishes,  plates,  and  cop- 
pers being  well  scoured,  and  all  disposed  in  bright 
rows  on  the  shelves,  the  eye  was  agreeably  reliev- 
ed, and  did  not  want  richer  furniture.  There  were 
three  other  apartments,  one  for  my  wife  and  me, 
another  for  our  two  daughters,  within  our  own, 
and  the  third,  with  two  beds,  for  the  rest  of  the 
children. 

The  little  republic  to  which  I  gave  laws;  was 
regulated  in  the  following  manner :  by  sun-rise  we 
all  assembled  in  our  common  apartment;  the  fire 
being  previously  kindled  by  the  .servant.  After 
we  had  saluted  each  other  with  proper  ceremony, 
for  I  always  thought  fit  to  keep  up  some  mechani- 
cal.forms  of  good-breeding,  without  which  freedom 
ever  destroys  friendship,  we  all  bent  in  gratitude  to 
that  Being,  who  gave  us  another  day.  This  duty 
being  performed,  my  son  and  I  went  to  pursue  our 
usual  industry  abroad,  while  my  wife  and  daughters 
employed  themselves  in  providing  breakfast,  which 
was  always  ready  at  a  certain  time.  I  allowed 
half  an  hour  for  this  meal,  and  an  hour  for  dinner; 
which  time  was  taken  up  in  innocent  mirth  be 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


63 


iween  my  wife  and  daughters,  and  in  philosophical 
arguments  between  my  son  and  me. 

As  we  rose  with  the  sun,  so  we  never  pursued 
our  labours  after  it  was  gone  down,  but  returned 
home  to  the  expecting  family ;  where  smiling  looks, 
a  neat  hearth,  and  pleasant  fire,  were  prepared  for 
our  reception.  Nor  were  we  without  guests: 
sometimes  Farmer  Flamborough,  our  talkative 
neighbour,  and  often  the  blind  piper,  would  pay  us 
a  visit,  and  taste  our  gooseberry-wine ;  for  the  mak- 
ing of  which  we  had  lost  neither  the  receipt  nor  the 
reputation.  These  harmless  people  had  several 
ways  of  being  good  company ;  while  one  played,  the 
other  would  sing  some  soothing  ballad,  Johnny 
Armstrong's  last  good  night,  or  the  cruelty  of  Bar- 
bara Allen.  The  night  was  concluded  in  the  man- 
ner we  began  the  morning,  my  youngest  boys  being 
appointed  to  read  the  lessons  of  the  day ;  and  he 
that  read  loudest,  distinctest,  and  best,  was  to  have 
a  halfpenny  on  Sunday  to  put  in  the  poor's  box. 

When  Sunday  came,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of 
finery,  which  all  my  sumptuary  edicts  could  not 
restredn.  How  well  soever  I  fancied  my  lectures 
against  pride  had  conquered  the  vanity  of  my 
daughters;  yet  I  found  them  still  secretly  attached 
to  all  their  former  finery:  they  still  loved  laces,  ri- 
bands, bugles,  and  catgut ;  my  wife  herself  retained 
a  passion  for  her  crimson  paduasoy,  because  I  for- 
merly happened  to  say  it  became  her. 

The  first  Sunday  in  particular  their  behaviour 
served  to  mortify  me ;  I  had  desired  my  girls  the 
preceding  night  ,to  be  dressed  early  the  next  day ; 
for  I  always  loved  to  be  at  church  a  good  while  be- 
fore the  rest  of  the  congregation.  They  punctually 
obeyed  my  directions ;  but  when  we  were  to  assem- 
ble in  the  morning  at  breakfast,  down  came  my 
wife  and  daughters  dressed  out  in  all  their  former 
splendour :  their  hair  plastered  up  with  pomatum, 
their  faces  patched  to  taste,  their  trains  bundled  up 
in  a  heap  behind,  and  rustling  at  every  motion.  I 
could  not  help  smiling  at  their  vanity,  particularly 
that  of  my  wife,  from  whom  I  expected  more  dis- 
cretion. In  this  exigence,  therefore,  my  only  re- 
source was  to  order  my  son,  with  an  important  air, 
to  call  our  coach.  The  girls  were  amazed  at  the 
command ;  but  I  repeated  it  with  more  solemnity 
than  before — "Surely,  my  dear,  you  jest,"  cried 
my  wife,  "  we  can  walk  it  perfectly  well :  we  want 
no  coach  to  carry  us  now."  "  You  mistake,  child," 
returned  I,  "we  do  want  a  coach ;  for  if  we  walk  to 
church  in  this  trim,  the  very  children  in  the  parish 
will  hoot  after  us." — "  Indeed,"  rephed  my  wife,  "  I 
always  imagined  that  my  Charles  was  fond  of  see- 
ing his  children  neat  and  handsome  about  him." — 
"  You  may  be  as  neat  as  you  please,"  interrupted 
I,  "  and  I  shall  love  you  the  better  for  it ;  but  all 
tlus  is  not  neatness,  but  frippery.  These  rufilings, 
and  pinkings,  and  patchings,  will  only  make  us 
hated  by  all  the  wives  of  all  our  neighbours.    No, 


my  children,"  continued  I,  more  gravely,  "  those 
gowns  may  be  altered  into  something  of  a  plainei 
cut ;  for  finery  is  very  unbecoming  in  us,  who  want 
the  means  of  decency.  I  do  not  know  whether  such 
flouncing  and  shredding  is  becoming  even  in  the 
rich,  if  we  consider,  upon  a  moderate  calculation, 
that  the  nakedness  of  the  indigent  world  might  be 
clothed  from  the  trimmings  of  the  vain." 

This  remonstrance  had  the  proper  effect ;  they 
went  with  great  composure,  that  very  instant,  to 
change  their  dress ;  and  the  next  day  I  had  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  finding  my  daughters,  at  their  own  re- 
quest, employed  in  cutting  up  their  trains  into 
Sunday  waistcoats  for  Dick  and  Bill,  the  two  little 
ones,  and,  what  was  still  more  satisfactory,  the 
gowns  seemed  improved  by  this  curtaiUng. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  new  and  great  acquaintance  introduced. — What  we  place 
most  hopes  upon,  generally  proves  most  fatal. 

At  a  small  distance  from  the  house,  my  predo  ■ 
cessor  had  made  a  seat,  overshadowed  by  a  hedge 
of  hawthorn  and  honeysuckle.  Here,  when  the 
weather  was  fine  and  our  labour  soon  finished,  we 
usually  sat  together,  to  enjoy  an  extensive  land- 
scape in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  Here  too  we 
drank  tea,  which  was  now  become  an  occasional 
banquet ;  and  as  we  had  it  but  seldom,  it  difiused  a 
new  joy,  the  preparations  for  it  being  made  with  no 
small  share  of  bustle  and  ceremony.  On  these  oc- 
casions our  two  little  ones  always  read  to  us,  and 
they  were  regularly  served  after  we  had  done. 
Sometimes,  to  give  a  variety  to  our  amusements, 
the  girls  sang  to  the  guitar ;  and  while  they  thus 
formed  a  little  concert,  my  wife  and  I  would  stroll 
down  the  sloping  field,  that  was  embellished  with 
blue-bells  and  centaury,  talk  of  our  children  with 
rapture,  and  enjoy  the  breeze  that  wafted  both 
health  and  harmony. 

In  this  manner  we  began  to  find  that  every  situa- 
tion in  life  might  bring  its  awn  peculiar  pleasures : 
every  morning  awaked  us  to  a  repetition  of  toil ; 
but  the  evening  repaid  it  with  vacant  hilarity. 

It  was  about  the  beginning  of  autumn,  on  a  holi- 
day, for  I  kept  such  as  intervals  of  relaxation  from 
labour,  that  I  had  drawn  out  my  family  to  our  usual 
place  of  amusement,  and  our  young  musicians  be- 
gan their  usual  concert.  As  we  were  thus  en- 
gaged, we  saw  a  stag  bound  nimbly  by,  within 
about  twenty  paces  of  where  we  were  sitting,  and 
by  its  panting  it  seemed  pressed  by  the  hunters. 
We  had  not  much  time  to  reflect  upon  the  poor 
animal's  distress,  when  we  perceived  the  dogs  and 
horsemen  come  sweeping  along  at  some  distance 
behind,  and  making  the  very  path  it  had  taken.  I 
was  instantly  for  returning  in  with  my  family ;  but 
cither  curiosity,  or  surprise,  or  some  more  hidden 


04 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


motive,  held  my  wife  and  daughters  to  their  seats. 
The  huntsman,  who  rode  foremost,  passed  us  with 
great  swiftness,  followed  by  four  or  five  persons 
more  who  seemed  in  equal  haste.  At  last,  a  young 
gentleman  of  a  more  genteel  appearance  than  the 
rest  came  forward,  and  for  a  while  regarding  us, 
instead  of  pursuing  the  chase,  stopped  short,  and 
giving  his  horse  to  a  servant  who  attended,  ap 
proached  us  with  a  careless  superior  air.  He 
seemed  to  want  no  introduction,  but  was  going  to 
salute  my  daughters,  as  one  certain  of  a  kind  re- 
ception ;  but  they  had  early  learned  the  lesson  of 
looking  presumption  out  of  countenance.  Upon 
which  he  let  us  know  his  name  was  Thornhill,  and 
that  he  was  owner  of  the  estate  that  lay  for  some 
extent  round  us.  He  again  therefore  offered  to 
salute  the  female  part  of  the  family,  and  such  was 
the  power  of  fortune  and  fine  clothes,  that  he  found 
no  second  repulse.  As  his  address,  though  confi- 
dent, was  easy,  we  soon  became  more  familiar ;  and 
perceiving  musical  instruments  lying  near,  he  beg- 
ged to  be  favoured  with  a  song.  As  I  did  not  ap- 
prove of  such  disproportioned  acquaintances,  I 
winked  upon  my  daughters  in  order  to  prevent 
their  compliance ;  but  my  hint  was  counteracted  by 
one  from  their  mother ;  so  that,  with  a  cheerful  air, 
they  gave  us  a  favourite  song  of  Dryden's.  Mr. 
Thornhill  seemed  highly  delighted  with  their  per- 
formance and  choice,  and  then  took  up  the  guitar 
himself.  He  played  but  very  indifferently ;  how- 
ever, my  eldest  daughter  repaid  his  former  applause 
with  mterest,  and  assured  him  that  his  tones  were 
iouder  than  even  those  of  her  master.  At  this  com- 
pliment he  bowed,  which  she  returned  with  a  cour- 
tesy. He  praised  her  taste,  and  she  commended 
his  understanding :  an  age  could  not  have  made 
them  better  acquainted :  while  the  fond  mother,  too, 
equally  happy,  insisted  upon  her  landlord's  stepping 
in,  and  tasting  a  glass  of  her  gooseberry.  The 
whole  family  seemed  earnest  to  please  him :  my 
girls  attempted  to  entertain  him  with  topics  they 
thought  most  modern,  while  Moses,  on  the  con- 
trary, gave  him  a  question  or  two  from  the  an- 
cients, for  which  he  had  the  satisfaction  of  being 
laughed  at :  my  little  ones  were  iio  less  busy,  and 
fondly  stuck  close  to  the  stranger.  All  my  endea- 
vours could  scarcely  keep  their  dirty  fingers  from 
handling  and  tarnishing  the  lace  on  his  clothes, 
and  lifting  up  the  flaps  of  his  pocket-holes,  to  see 
what  was  there.  At  the  approach  of  evening  he 
took  leave ;  but  not  till  he  had  requested  permission 
to  renew  his  visit,  which,  as  he  was  our  landlord, 
we  most  readily  agreed  to. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  my  wife  called  a  coun- 
cil on  the  conduct  of  the  day.  She  was  of  opinion, 
that  it  was  a  most  fortunate  hit ;  for  that  she  had 
known  even  stranger  things  at  last  brought  to  bear. 
She  hoped  again  to  see  the  day  in  which  we  might 
hold  up  our  heads  with  the  best  of  them ;  and  con- 


cluded, she  protested  she  could  see  no  reason  why 
the  two  Miss  Wrinkles  should  marry  great  for- 
tunes, and  her  children  get  none.  As  this  last  ar- 
gument was  directed  to  me,  I  protested  1  covdd  see 
no  reason  for  it  neither,  nor  why  Mr.  Simkins  got 
the  ten  thousand  pound  prize  in  the  lottery,  and 
we  sat  down  with  a  blank.  "  1  protest,  Charles," 
cried  my  wife,  "this  is  the  way  you  always  damp 
my  girls  and  me  when  we  are  in  spirits.  Tell  me, 
Sophy,  my  dear,  what  do  you  think  of  our  new 
visiter?  Don't  you  think  he  seemed  to  be  good- 
natured  ?" — "  Immensely  so  indeed,  mamma,"  re- 
plied she,  "  I  think  he  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon 
every  thing,  and  is  never  at  a  loss ;  and  the  more 
trifling  the  subject,  the  more  he  has  to  say." — 
"  Yes,"  cried  Olivia,  "  he  is  well  enough  for  a  man ; 
but  for  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  him,  he  is  so 
extremely  impudent  and  familiar ;  but  on  the  guitar 
he  is  shocking."  These  two  last  speeches  I  inter- 
preted by  contraries.  I  found  by  this,  that  Sophia 
internally  despised,  as  much  as  Olivia  secretly  ad- 
mired him. — "  Whatever  may  be  your  opinions  of 
him,  my  children,"  cried  I,  "to  confess  the  truth, 
he  has  not  prepossessed  me  in  his  favour.  Dis- 
proportioned friendships  ever  terminate  in  disgust; 
and  I  thought,  notwithstanding  all  his  ease,  that  he 
seemed  perfectly  sensible  of  the  distance  between 
us.  Let  us  keep  to  companions  of  our  own  rank. 
There  is  no  character  more  contemptible  than  a 
man  that  is  a  fortune-hunter ;  and  I  can  see  no 
reason  why  fortune-hunting  women  should  not  be 
contemptible  too.  Thus,  at  best,  we  shall  be  con- 
temptible if  his  views  be  honourable ;  but  if  they  be 
otherwise!  I  should  shudder  but  to  think  of  that. 
It  is  true  I  have  no  apprehensions  from  the  con- 
duct of  my  children,  but  I  think  there  are  some 
from  his  character." — I  would  have  proceeded,  but 
for  the  interruption  of  a  servant  from  the  'squire, 
^vho,  with  his  compliments,  sent  us  a  side  of  veni- 
son, and  a  promise  to  dine  with  us  some  days  after. 
This  well-timed  present  pleaded  more  powerfully 
in  his  favour,  than  any  thing  I  had  to  say  could  ob- 
viate. I  therefore  continued  silent,  satisfied  with 
just  having  pointed  out  danger,  and  leaving  it  to 
their  own  discretion  to  avoid  it.  That  virtue  which 
requires  to  be  ever  guarded  is  scarcely  worth  the 
sentinel. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Tlie  Happiness,  of  a  Country  Fire-side.     ' 

As  we  carried  on  the  former  dispute  with  some 
degree  of  warmth,  in  order  to  accommodate  mat- 
ters, it  was  universally  agreed,  that  we  should  have 
a  part  of  the  venison  for  supper;  and  the  girls 
undertook  the  task  with  alacrity.  *'I  am  sorry," 
cried  I,  "  that  we  have  no  neighbour  or  stranger  to 
take  a  part  in  this  good  cheer :  feasts  cf  this  kind 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


65 


acquire  a  double  relish  from  hospitality." — "Bless 
me,"  cried  my  wife,  "here  comes  our  good  friend 
Mr.  Burchell,  that  saved  our  Sophia,  and  that  run 
you  down  fairly  in  the  argument." — "Confute  me 
in  argument,  child!"  cried  I.  "You  mistake  there, 
my  dear :  I  believe  there  are  but  few  that  can  do 
that :  I  never  dispute  your  abilities  at  making  a  goose- 
pie,  and  I  beg  you'll  leave  argument  to  me."— As 
I  spoke,  poor  Mr.  Burchell  entered  the  house,  and 
was  welcomed  by  the  family,  who  shook  him  heart- 
ily by  the  hand,  while  httle  Dick  officiously  reach- 
ed him  a  chair. 

I  was  pleased  with  the  poor  man's  friendship  for 
two  reasons :  because  I  knew  that  he  wanted  mine, 
and  I  knew  him  to  be  friendly  as  far  as  he  was 
able.  He  was  known  in  our  neighbourhood  by 
the  character  of  the  poor  gentleman  that  would  do 
no  good  when  he  was  young,  though  he  was  not  yet 
thirty.  He  would  at  intervals  talk  with  great  good 
sense;  but  in  general  he  was  fondest  of  the  com- 
pany of  children,  whom  he  used  to  call  harmless 
little  men.  He  was  famous,  I  found,  for  singing 
them  ballads,  and  telling  them  stories;  and  sel- 
dom went  out  without  something  in  his  pockets 
for  them;  a  piece  of  gingerbread,  or  a  halfpenny 
whistle.  He  generally  came  for  a  few  days  into 
our  neighbourhood  once  a-year,  and  lived  upon 
the  neighbours'  hospitality.  He  sat  down  to  sup- 
per among  us,  and  my  wife  was  not  sparing  of  her 
gooseberry-wine.  The  tale  went  round ;  he  sang 
us  old  songs,  and  gave  the  children  the  story  of  the 
Buck  of  Beverland,  with  the  history  of  Patient 
Grissel,  the  adventures  of  Catskin,  and  then  Fair 
Rosamond's  Bower.  Our  cock,  which  always  crew 
at  eleven,  now  told  us  it  was  time  for  repose;  but 
an  unforeseen  difficulty  started  about  lodging  the 
stranger — all  our  beds  were  already  taken  up,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  send  him  to  the  next  ale-house. 
In  this  dilemma  little  Dick  offered  him  his  part  of 
the  bed,  if  his  brother  Moses  would  let  him  lie 
with  him:  "And  I,"  cried  Bill,  "will  give  Mr. 
Burchell  my  part,  if  my  sisters  will  take  me  to 
theirs." — "Well  done,  my  good  children,"  cried 
I,  "hospitality  is  one  of  the  first  Christian  duties. 
The  beast  retires  to  its  shelter,  and  the  bird  flies 
to  its  nest;  but  helpless  man  can  only  find  refuge 
from  his  fellow-creature.  The  greatest  stranger 
in  this  world,  was  he  that  came  to  save  it.  He 
never  had  a  house,  as  if  willing  to  see  what  hos- 
pitality was  left  remaining  amongst  us.  Deborah, 
my  dear,"  cried  1  to  my  wife,  "give  those  boys  a 
lump  of  sugar  each,  and  let  Dick's  be  the  largest, 
because  he  spoke  first." 

In  the  morning  early  I  called  out  my  whole  fami- 
ly to  help  at  saving  an  after-growth  of  hay,  and 
our  guest  offering  his  assistance,  he  was  accepted 
among  the  number.  Our  labours  went  on  Hghtly ; 
we  turned  the  swath  to  the  wind.  I  went  fore- 
most, and  the  rest  followed  in  due  succession.  I 
5 


could  not  avoid,  however,  observing  the  assiduity 
of  Mr.  Burchell  in  assisting  my  daughter  Sophia 
in  her  part  of  the  task.  When  he  had  finished 
his  own,  he  would  join  in  her's,  and  enter  into  a 
close  conversation :  but  I  had  too  good  an  opinion 
of  Sophia's  understanding,  and  was  too  well  con- 
vinced of  her  ambition,  to  be  under  any  uneasiness 
from  a  man  of  broken  fortune.  When  we  were 
finished  for  the  day,  Mr.  Burchell  was  invited 
as  on  the  night  before;  but  he  refused,  as  he  was 
to  lie  that  night  at  a  neighbour's,  to  whose  child 
he  was  carrying  a  whistle.  When  gone,  our 
conversation  at  supper  turned  upon  our  late  unfor- 
tune  guest.  "What  a  strong  instance,"  said  I,  "is 
that  poor  man  of  the  miseries  attending  a  youth  of 
levity  and  extravagance.  He  by  no  means  wants 
sense,  which  only  serves  to  aggravate  his  fonner 
folly.  Poor  forlorn  creature,  where  are  now  the 
revellers,  the  flatterers,  that  he  could  once  inspire 
and  command !  Gone,  perhaps^  to  attend  the  bag- 
nio pander,  gi-own  rich  by  his  extravagance.  They 
once  praised  him,  and  now  they  applaud  the  pan- 
der ;  their  former  raptures  at  his  wit  are  now  cdn 
verted  into  sarcasms  at  his  folly :  he  is  poor,  and 
perhaps  deserves  poverty;  for  he  has  neither  the 
ambition  to  be  independent,  npr  the  skill  to  be  use- 
ful." Prompted  perhaps  by  some  secret  reasons, 
I  delivered  this  observation  with  too  much  acri- 
mony, which  my  Sophia  gently  leproved.  "What- 
soever his  former  conduct  may  have  been,  papa, 
his  circumstances  should  exempt  him  from  censure 
now.  His  present  indigence  is  a  sufficient  pun- 
ishment for  former  folly;  and  I  have  heard  my 
papa  himself  say,  that  we  should  never  strike  an 
unnecessary  blow  at  a  victim  over  whom  Provi- 
dence holds  the  scourge  of  its  resentment." — "You 
are  right,  Sophy,"  cried  my  son  Moses,  "and  one 
of  the  ancients  finely  represents  so  malicious  a 
conduct,  by  the  attempts  of  a  rustic  to  flay  Mar- 
syas,  whose  skin,  the  fable  tells  us,  had  been  whol- 
ly stripped  off  by  another.  Besides,  I  don't  know 
if  this  poor  man's  situation  be  so  bad  as  my  father 
would  represent  it.  We  are  not  to  judge  of  the 
feelings  of  others  by  what  we  might  feel  if  in  their 
place.  However  dark  the  habitation  of  the  mole 
to  our  eyes,  yet  the  animal  itself  finds  the  apart- 
ment sufficiently  lightsome.  And  to  confess  a 
truth,  this  man's  mind  seems  fitted  to  his  sta- 
tion :  for  I  never  heard  any  one  more  sprightly 
than  he  was  to-day,  when  he  conversed  with  you." 
— This  was  said  without  the  least  design,  however 
it  excited  a  blush,  which  she  strove  to  cover  by  an 
affected  laugh,  assuring  him,  that  she  scarcely 
took  any  notice  of  what  he  said  to  her;  but  that 
she  believed  he  might  once  have  been  a  very  fine 
gentleman.  The  readiness  with  which  she  under- 
took to  vindicate  herself,  and  her  blushing,  were 
symptoms  I  did  not  internally  approve?  but  I  re- 
pressed my  suspicions. 


66 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


As  we  expected  our  landlord  the  next  day,  my 
vsdfe  went  to  make  the  venison  pasty.  Moses  sat 
reading,  while  I  taught  the  httle  ones :  my  daugh- 
ters seemed  equally  busy  with  the  rest ;  and  I  ob- 
served them  for  a  good  while  cooking  something 
over  the  fire.  I  at  first  supposed  they  were  assist- 
ing their  mother ;  but  little  Dick  informed  me  in  a 
whisper,  that  they  were  making  a  ^cash  for  the 
face.  Washes  of  all  kinds  I  had  a  natural  antipa- 
thy to ;  for  I  knew  that  instead  of  mending  the 
complexion,  they  spoiled  it.  I  therefore  approach- 
ed my  chair  by  sly  degrees  to  the  fire,  and  grasp- 
ing the  poker,  as  if  it  wanted  mending,  seemingly 
by  accident  overturned  the  whole  composition,  and 
it  was  too  late  to  l)egin  another. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Town-wit  described— Tiie  dullest  fellows  may  leani  lo  be 
comical  for  a  night  or  two. 

When  the  morning  arrived  on  which  we  were 
to  entertain  our  young  landlord,  it  may  be  easily 
supposed  what  provisions  were  exhausted  to  make 
an  appearance.  It  may  also  be  conjectured  that 
my  wife  and  daughters  expanded  their  gayest  plu- 
mage upon  this  occasion.  Mr.  Thornhill  came 
with  a  couple  of  friends,  his  chaplain  and  feeder. 
The  servants,  who  were  numerous,  he  politely  or- 
dered to  the  next  ale-house,  but  my  wife,  in  the 
triumph  of  her  heart,  insisted  on  entertaining  them 
all;  for  which,  by  the  by,  our  family  was  pinched 
for  three  weeks  after.  As  Mr.  Burchell  had  hint- 
ed to  us  the  day  before,  that  he  was  making  some 
proposals  of  marriage  to  Miss  Wilmot,  my  son 
George's  former  mistress,  this  a  good  deal  damped 
the  heartiness  of  his  reception :  but  accident  in  some 
measure  relieved  our  embarrassment ;  for  one  of  the 
company  happening  to  mention  her  name,  Mr. 
Thornhill  observed  with  an  oath,  that  he  never 
knew  any  thing  more  absurd  than  calling  such  a 
fright  a  beauty : ,"  For  strike  me  ugly,"  continued 
he,  "  if  I  should  not  find  as  much  pleasure  in  choos- 
ing my  mistress  by  the  information  of  a  lamp  un- 
der the  clock  at  St.  Dunstan's."  At  this  he  laugh- 
ed, and  so  did  we : — the  jests  of  the  rich  are  ever 
successful.  Olivia  too  could  not  avoid  whispering 
loud  enough  to  be  heard,  that  he  had  an  infinite 
fund  of  humour. 

After  dinner,  I  began  with  my  usual  toast,  the 
Church;  for  this  1  was  thanked  by  the  chaplain, 
as  he  said  the  Church  was  the  only  mistress  of  his 
affections. — "  Come,  tell  us  honestly,  Frank,"  said 
the  'Squire,  with  his  usual  archness,  "suppose  the 
Church,  your  present  mistress,  dressed  in  lawrn 
sleeves,  on  one  hand,  and  Miss  Sophia,  with  no 
lawn  about  her,  on  the  other,  which  would  you  be 
for?" — "  For  both,  to  be  sure,"  cried  the  chaplain. 
"Right,  Frank,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "for  may  this 


glass  suffocate  me  but  a  fine  girl  is  worth  all  the 
priestcrafl  in  the  creation.  For  what  are  tithes 
and  tricks  but  an  imposition,  all  a  confounded  im- 
posture, and  I  can  prove  it." — "  I  wish  you  would," 
cried  my  son  Moses;  "and  I  think,"  continued  he, 
"that  I  should  be  able  to  answer  you." — "Very 
well,  sir,"  cried  the  'Squire,  who  immediately 
smoked  him,  and  winking  on  the  rest  of  the  compa- 
ny to  prepare  us  for  the  sport,  "  if  you  are  for  a 
cool  argument  upon  that  subject,  I  am  ready  to  ac- 
cept the  challenge.  And  first,  whether  are  you  for 
managing  it  analogically  or  dialogically  1"  "I  am 
for  managing  it  rationally,"  cried  Moses,  quite  hap- 
py at  being  permitted  to  dispute.  "Good  again," 
cried  the  'Squire,  "and  firstly,  of  the  first:  I  hope 
you'll  not  deny,  that  whatever  is,  is.  If  you  don't 
grant  me  that,  I  can  go  no  farther." — "  Why,"  re- 
turned Moses,  "  I  think  I  may  grant  that,  and 
make  the  best  of  it." — "  I  hope  too,"  returned  the 
other,  "  you'll  grant  that  a  part  is  less  than  the 
whole."  '•  1  grant  that  too,"  cried  Moses,  "  it  is 
but  just  and  reasonable." — "I  hope,"  cried  the 
'Squire,  "you  will  not  deny,  that  the  two  angles 
of  a  triangle  are  equal  to  two  right  ones." — "  No- 
thing can  be  plainer,"  returned  t'  other,  and  looked 
round  with  his  usual  importance. — "  Very  well," 
cried  the  'Squire,  speaking  very  quick,  "the  pre- 
mises being  thus  settled,  I  proceed  to  observe,  that 
the  concatenation  of  self-existence,  proceeding  in  a 
reciprocal  duplicate  ratio,  naturally  produce  a  prob- 
lematical dialogism,  which  in  some  measure  proves 
that  the  essence  of  spirituality  may  be  referred  to  the 
second  predicable." — "Hold,  hold,"  cried  the  other, 
"  I  deny  that :  Do  you  think  I  can  thus  tamely 
submit  to  such  heterodox  doctrines'?" — "What!" 
replied  the  'Squire,  as  if  in  a  passion,  "not  sub- 
mit !  Answer  me  one  plain  question :  Do  you  think 
Aristotle  right  when  he  says,  that  relatives  are  re- 
lated 7"  "  Undoubtedly,"  replied  the  other.  "  If 
so,  then,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "answer  me  directly 
to  what  I  propose:  Whether  do  you  judge  the 
analytical  investigation  of  the  first  part  of  my  en- 
thymem  deficient  secundum  quoad,  or  quoad  mi- 
nus, and  give  me  your  reasons :  give  me  your  rea- 
sons, I  say,  directly." — "  I  protest,"  cried  Moses, 
"  I  don't  rightly  comprehend  the  force  of  your  rea- 
soning; but  if  it  be  reduced  to  one  simple  proposi- 
tion, I  fancy  it  may  then  have  an  answer." — "  O 
sir,"  cried  the  'Squire,  "I  am  your  most  humble 
servant;  1  find  you  want  me  to  furnish  you  with 
argument  and  intellects  too.  No,  sir,  there  I  pro- 
test you  are  too  hard  for  me."  This  effectually 
raised  the  laugh  against  poor  Moses,  who  sat  the 
only  dismal  figure  in  a  group  of  merry  faces ;  nor 
did  he  offer  a  single  syllable  more  during  the  whole 
entertainment. 

But  though  all  this  gave  me  no  pleasure,  it  had 
a  very  different  effect  upon  Olivia,  who  mistook  it 
for  humour,  thou^jh  but  a  mere  act  of  the  memorv 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


67 


She  thought  him  therefore  a  very  fine  gentleman 
and  such  as  consider  what  powerful  ingredients  a 
good  figure,  fine  clothes,  and  fortune  are  in  that 
character,  will  easily  forgive  her.  Mr.  Thornhill, 
notwithstanding  his  real  ignorance,  talked  with 
ease,  and  could  expatiate  upon  the  common  topics 
of  conversation  with  fluency.  It  is  not  surprising 
then,  that  such  talents  should  win  the  afiections  of 
a  girl,  who  by  education  was  taught  to  value  an 
appearance  in  herself,  and  consequently  to  set  a 
value  upon  it  in  another. 

Upon  his  departure,  we  again  entered  into  a  de- 
bate upon  the  merits  of  our  young  landlord.  As 
he  directed  his  looks  and  conversation  to  Olivia,  it 
was  no  longer  doubted  but  that  she  was  the  object 
that  induced  him  to  be  our  visiter.  Nor  did  she 
seem  to  be  much  displeased  at  the  innocent  raillery 
of  her  brother  and  sister  upon  this  occasion.  Even 
Deborah  herself  seemed  to  share  the  glory  of  the 
day,  and  exulted  in  her  daughter's  victory  as  if  it 
were  her  own.  "  And  now,  my  dear,"  cried  she 
to  me,  "  I'll  fairly  own,  that  it  was  I  that  instructed 
my  girls  to  encourage  our  landlord's  addresses.  I 
had  always  some  ambition,  and  you  now  see  that  I 
was  right;  for  who  knows  how  this  may  end?" 
"Ay,  who  knows  that  indeed!"  answered  I,  with  a 
groan :  "  For  my  part,  I  don't  much  like  it:  and  I 
could  have  been  better  pleased  with  one  that  was 
poor  and  honest,  than  this  fine  gentleman  with  his 
fortune  and  infidelity ;  for  depend  on't,  if  he  be 
what  I  suspect  him,  no  free-thinker  shall  ever  have 
a  child  of  mine." 

"  Sure,  father,"  cried  Moses,  "  you  are  too  severe 
in  this ;  for  heaven  will  never  arraign  him  for  what 
he  thinks,  but  for  what  he  does.  Every  man  has 
a  thousand  vicious  thoughts,  which  arise  without 
his  power  to  suppress.  Thinking  freely  of  religion 
may  be  involuntary  with  this  gentleman ;  so  that 
allowing  his  sentiments  to  be  wrong,  yet  as  he  is 
purely  passive  in  his  assent,  he  is  no  more  to  be 
blamed  for  his  errors,  than  the  governor  of  a  city 
without  walls  for  the  shelter  he  is  obliged  to  afford 
an  invading  enemy." 

"  True,  my  son,"  cried  I ;  "  but  if  the  governor 
invites  the  enemy  there,  he  is  justly  culpable.  And 
such  is  always  the  case  with  those  who  embrace 
error.  The  vice  does  not  lie  in  assenting  to  the 
;  proofs  they  see ;  but  in  being  blind  to  many  of  the 
proofs  that  offer.  So  that,  though  our  erroneous 
opinions  be  involuntary  when  formed,  yet  as  we 
I  bave  been  wilfully  corrupt,  or  very  negligent  in 
forming  them,  we  deserve  punishment  for  our  vice, 
or  contempt  for  our  folly." 
_  My  wife  now  kept  up  the  conversation,  though 
not  the  argument :  she  observed,  that  several  very 
prudent  men  of  our  acquaintance  were  free-think- 
ers, and  made  very  good  husbands ;  and  she  knew 
some  sensible  girls  that  had  skill  enough  to  make 
converts  of  their  spouses :  "And  who  knows,  my 


dear,"  continued  she,  "  what  Ohvia  may  be  able  to 
do.  The  girl  has  a  great  deal  to  say  upon  every 
subject,  and  to  my  knowledge  is  very  well  skilled 
in  controversy." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  what  controversy  can  she  have 
read?"  cried  I :  "It  does  not  occur  to  me  that  I 
ever  put  such  books  into  her  hands  :  you  certainly 
overrate  her  merit."  "  Indeed,  i)apa,"  replied  Oli- 
via, "  she  does  not :  I  have  read  a  great  deal  of 
controversy.  I  have  read  the  disputes  between 
Thwackum  and  Square ;  the  controversy  l)etweeii 
Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday  the  savage,  and  am 
now  employed  in  reading  the  controversy  in  Reli- 
gious Courtship."  "  Very  well,"  cried  I,  "  that's 
a  good  girl,  I  find  you  are  perfectly  qualified  for 
maliing  converts ;  and  so  go  help  your  mother  to 
make  the  gooseberry-pie." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

An  amour,  which  proiTiises  little  good  fortune,  yet  may  be 
productive  of  much. 

TiiK  next  morning  we  were  again  visited  b}'-  Mr. 
Burchell,  though  I  began,  for  certain  reasons,  to  be 
displeased  with  tlie  frequency  of  his  return ;  but  I 
could  not  refuse  him  my  company  and  ray  fire-side. 
It  is  true,  his  labour  more  than  requited  his  enter- 
tainment ;  for  he  wrought  among  us  with  vigour, 
and  cither  in  the  meadow  or  at  the  hay-rick  put 
himself  foremost.  Besides,  he  had  always  some- 
thing amusing  to  say  that  lessened  our  toil,  and  was 
at  once  so  out  of  the  way,  and  yet  so  sensible,  that 
I  loved,  laughed  at,  and  pitied  him.  My  only  dis- 
like arose  from  an  attachment  he  discovered  to  my 
daughter :  he  would,  in  a  jesting  manner,  call  her 
his  little  mistress,  and  when  he  bought  each  of  the 
girls  a  set  of  ribands,  her's  was  the  finest.  I  knew 
not  how,  but  he  every  day  seemed  to  become  more 
amiable,  his  wit  to  improve,  and  his  simplicity  to 
assume  the  superior  airs  of  wisdom. 

Our  family  dined  in  the  field,  and  we  sat,  or  ra- 
ther reclined  round  a  temperate  repast,  our  cloth 
spread  upon  the  hay,  while  Mr.  Burchell  gave 
cheerfulness  to  the  feast.  To  heighten  our  satis- 
faction, two  blackbirds  answered  each  other  from 
opposite  hedges,  the  familiar  red-breast  came  and 
pecked  the  crumbs  from  our  hands,  and  every  sound 
seemed  but  the  echo  of  tranquillity.  "  I  never  sit 
thus,"  says  Sophia,  "  but  I  think  of  the  two  lovers 
so  sweetly  described  by  Mr.  Gay,  who  were  struck 
dead  in  each  other's  arms.  There  is  something  so 
pathetic  in  the  description,  that  I  have  read  it  a 
hundred  times  with  new  rapture." — "  In  my  opin- 
ion," cried  my  son,  "  the  finest  strokes  in  that  de- 
scription are  much  below  those  in  the  Acis  and 
Galatea  of  Ovid.  The  Roman  poet  understands 
the  use  of  contrast  better ;  and  upon  that  figure 
artfully  managed,  all  strength  in  the  pathetic  dc- 


68 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


pends." — "  It  is  remarkable,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell, 
"that  both  the  poets  you  mention  have  equally 
contributed  to  introduce  a  false  taste  into  their  re- 
spective countries,  by  loading  all  their  lines  with 
epithet.  Men  of  Uttle  genius  found  them  most 
easily  imitated  in  their  defects,  and  EngUsh  poetry, 
like  that  in  the  latter  empire  of  Rome,  is  nothing 
at  present  but  a  combination  of  luxuriant  images, 
without  plot  or  connexion;  a  string  of  epithets  that 
improve  the  sound,  without  carrying  on  the  sense. 
But  perhaps,  madam,  wliile  I  thus  reprehend  others, 
you'll  think  it  just  that  I  should  give  them  an  op- 
portunity to  retaliate,  and  indeed  I  have  made  this 
remark  only  to  have  an  opportunity  of  introducing 
to  the  company  a  ballad,  which,  whatever  be  its 
other  defects,  fs,  I  think,  at  least  free  from  those  I 
have  mentioned."* 

A  BALLAD. 

'•  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way. 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

"  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  1  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow; 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  length'ning  as  I  go." 

"Forbear,  my  son,"  the  hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

'"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows; 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

"No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free. 

To  slaughter  I  condemn ; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them : 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 
>  A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

"  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

AU  earth- bom  cares  are  wrong ; 
Man  wants  but  Uttle  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 


*  We  have  introduced  this  beautiful  poem  in  this  place,  be- 
cause it  appears  to  be  too  intimately  connected  with  the  story 
to  be  omitted  with  any  propriety,  though  it  is  inserted  among 
the  TMt  of  Om  dbctor'8  poetieal  productions. 


Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descendii 

His  gentle  accents  fell: 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest, 
The  hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire. 

And  cheer'd  his  pensive  guest: 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store. 
And  gaily  press' d,  and  smiled; 

And,  skill' d  in  legendary  lore. 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries. 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied. 
With  answering  care  oppress'd: 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  criec 
"  The  sorrows  of  thy  breast? 

"  From  better  habitations  spum'd, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  7 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd, 

Or  unregarded  love  7 

"  Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings. 

Are  trifling,  and  decay; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fam^ 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  7 

"  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modem  fair  one's  jest; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said; 
But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view ; 

Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

*      The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 

A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried ; 
"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

*'  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

*'  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine. 

He  had  but  only  me. 

"  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came ; 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms. 

And  felt,  or  feign'd  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove ; 

Aiiwngst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd. 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

"  Tn  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

*'  And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale. 

He  carol'd  lays  of  love. 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

'*  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined. 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

"  The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 

With  charms  inconstant  shine; 
Their  charms  were  his,  but  woe  to  me  I 

k    Their  constancy  was  mine. 
"For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art, 
L  Importunate  and  vain; 
MLnd  while  his  passion  touch'd  my  hear*. 
I  I  triumphed  in  his  pain : 
*  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride; 

And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 


"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought. 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !"  the  Hermit  cried. 
And  clasp' d  her  to  his  breast; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide- 
'Twas  Edwin's  self  that  press' d. 


"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here. 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine? 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We'll  live  and  love  so  true; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart. 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 

While  this  ballad  was  reading,  Sophia  seemed 
to  mix  an  air  of  tenderness  with  her  approbation. 
But  our  tranquillity  was  soon  disturbed  by  the  re- 
port of  a  gun  just  by  us,  and  immediately  after  a 
man  was  seen  bursting  through  the  hedge,  to  take 
up  the  game  he  had  killed.  This  sportsman  was 
the  'Squire's  chaplain,  who  had  shot  one  of  the 
blackbirds  that  so  agreeably  entertained  us.  So 
loud  a  report  and  so  near,  startled  my  daughters; 
and  I  could  perceive  that  Sophia  in  her  fright  had 
thrown  herself  into  Mr.  Burchell's  arms  for  protec- 
tion. The  gentleman  came  up,  and  asked  pardon 
for  having  disturbed  us,  affirming  that  he  was  ig- 
norant of  our  being  so  near.  He  therefore  sat 
down  by  my  youngest  daughter^  and  sportsman- 
like, offered  her  what  he  had  killed  that  morning. 
She  was  going  to  refuse,  but  a  private  look  from 
her  mother  soon  induced  her  to  correct  the  mistake, 
and  accept  his  present,  though  with  some  reluc- 
tance. My  wife,  as  usual,  discovered  her  pride  in 
a  whisper,  observing,  that  Sophy  had  made  a  con- 
quest of  the  chaplain,  as  well  as  her  sister  had  of 
the  'Squire,  I  suspected,  however,  with  more  pro- 
bability, that  her  affections  were  placed  upon  a  dif- 
ferent object.  The  chaplain's  errand  was  to  in- 
form us,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  provided  music 
and  refreshments,  and  intended  that  night  giving 
the  young  ladies  a  ball  by  moonlight,  on  the  grass- 
plot  before  our  door.  "  Nor  can  I  deny,"  continued 
he,  "  but  I  have  an  interest  in  being  first  to  deliver 
this  message,  as  I  expect  for  my  reward  to  be  hon- 


70 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ourcd  with  Miss  Sophy's  hand  as  a  partner."  To 
this  my  girl  replied,  that  she  should  have  no  objec- 
tion if  she  could  do  it  with  honour :  "But  here,"  con- 
tinued she,  "is a  gentleman,"  looking  at  Mr.  Bur- 
chell,  *'  who  has  been  my  companion  in  the  task 
for  the  day,  and  it  is  fit  he  should  share  in  its 
amusements."  Mr.  Burchell  returned  her  a  com- 
pliment for  her  intentions :  but  resigned  her  up  to 
the  chaplain,  adding  that  he  was  to  go  that  night 
five  miies,  being  invited  to  a  harvest  supper.  His 
refusal  appeared  to  me  a  little  extraordinary;  nor 
could  I  conceive  how  so  sensible  a  girl  as  my 
youngest,  could  thus  prefer  a  man  of  broken  for- 
tunes to  one  whose  expectations  were  much  greater. 
But  as  men  are  most  capable  of  distinguishing 
merit  in  women,  so  the  ladies  often  form  the  truest 
judgment  of  us.  The  two  sexes  seem  placed  as 
spies  upon  each  other,  and  are  furnished  with  dif- 
ferent abilities,  adapted  for  mutual  inspection.  "^ 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Two  Ladiea  of  great  distinction  introduced— Superior  finery 
ever  seems  to  confer  superior  breeding. 

Mr.  Burchell  had  scarcely  taken  leave,  and 
(Sophia  consented  to  dance  with  the  chaplain,  when 
my  Uttle  ones  came  running  out  to  tell  us,  that  the 
"Squire  was  come  with  a  crowd  of  company.  Upon 
our  return,  we  f  jund  our  landlord,  with  a  couple 
of  under  gentlemen  and  two  young  ladies  richly 
dressed,  whom  he  introduced  as  wcmen  of  very 
great  distinction  and  fashion  from  town.  We  hap- 
pened not  to  have  chairs  enough  for  the  whole 
company;  but  Mr.  Thornhill  hnmediately  propos- 
ed, that  every  gentleman  should  sit  in  a  lady's  lap. 
This  I  positively  objected  to,  notwithstanding  a 
look  of  disapprobation  from  my  wife.  Moses  was 
therefore  despatched  to  borrow  a  couple  of  chairs  :^ 
and  as  we  were  in  want  of  ladies  to  make  up  a  set 
at  country  dances,  the  two  gentlemen  went  with 
him  in  quest  of  a  couple  of  partners.  Chairs  and 
partners  were  soon  provided.  The  gentleman  re- 
turned with  my  neighbour  Flamborough's  rosy 
daughters,  flaunting  with  red  top-knots ;  but  an  un- 
lucky circumstance  was  not  adverted  to — though 
the  Miss  Flamboroughs  were  reckoned  the  very 
best  dancers  in  the  parish,  and  understood  the  jig 
and  round-about  to  perfection,  yet  they  were  total- 
ly unacquainted  with  country  dances.  This  at 
first  discomposed  us:  however,  after  a  little  shov- 
ing and  dragging,  they  at  last  went  merrily  on. 
Our  music  consisted  of  two  fiddles,  with  a  pipe  and 
tabor.  The  moon  shone  bright,  Mr.  Thornhill 
and  my  eldest  daughter  led  up  the  ball,  to  the  great 
delight  of  the  spectators;  for  the  neighbours,  hear- 
ing what  was  going  forward,  came  flocking  about 
<»s.  My  git]  moved  with  so  much  grace  and  vivaci- 


ty, that  my  wife  could  not  avoid  discovering  the 
pride  of  her  heart,  by  assuring  me,  that  though  the 
little  chit  did  it  so  cleverly,  all  the  steps  were  stolen 
from  herself.  The  ladies  of  the  town  strove  hard 
to  be  equally  easy,  but  without  success.  They 
swam,  sprawled,  languished,  and  frisked;  but  all 
would  not  do :  the  gazers  indeed  owned  that  it  was 
fine;  but  neighbour  Flamborough  observed,  that 
Miss  Livy's  feet  seemed  as  pat  to  the  music  as  its 
echo.  After  the  daiice  had  continued  about  an 
hour,  the  two  ladies  who  were  apprehensive  of 
catching  cold,  moved  to  break  up  the  ball.  One  of 
them,  I  thought,  expressed  her  sentiments  upon 
this  occasion  in  a  very  coarse  manner,  when  she 
observed,  that,  by  the  living  jingo  she  was  all  of  a 
muck  of  sweat.  Upon  our  return  to  the  house,  we 
found  a  very  elegant  cold  supper,  which  Mr. 
Thornhill  had  ordered  to  be  brought  with  him. 
The  conversation  at  this  time  was  more  reserved 
than  before.  The  two  ladies  threw  my  girls  quite 
into  the  shade;  for  they  would  talk  of  nothing  but 
high  life,  and  high-Uved  company;  vi^ith  other 
fashionable  topics,  such  as  pictures,  taste,  Shaks- 
peare,  and  the  musical  glasses.  'Tistrue  they  once 
or  twice  mortified  us  sensibly  by  slipping  out  an 
oath;  but  that  appeared  to  me  as  the  surest  symp- 
tom of  their  distinction  (though  I  am  since  inform- 
ed that  swearing  is  perfectly  unfashionable.)  Their 
finery,  however,  threw  a  veil  over  any  grossness  in 
their  conversation.  My  daughters  seemed  to  re- 
gard their  superior  accomplishments  with  envy; 
and  what  appeared  amiss  was  ascribed  to  tip -top 
quality  breeding.  But  the  condescension  of  the 
ladies  was  still  superior  to  their  other  accomplish- 
ments. One  of  them  observed,  that  had  Miss 
Olivia  seen  a  little  more  of  the  world,  it  would 
greatly  improve  her.  To  which  the  other  added, 
that  a  single  winter  in  town  would  make  her  little 
Sophia  quite  another  thing.  My  wife  warmly  as- 
sented to  both ;  adding,  that  there  was  nothing  she 
more  ardently  wished  than  to  give  her  girls  a  single 
winter's  polishing.  To  this  I  could  not  help  re- 
plying, that  their  breeding  was  already  suf)erior 
to  their  fortune;  and  that  greater  refinement  would 
only  serve  to  make  their  poverty  ridiculous,  and 
give  them  a  taste  for  pleasures  they  had  no  right  to 
possess. — "  And  what  pleasures,"  cried  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill, "  do  they  not  deserve  to  possess,  who  have  so 
much  in  their  power  to  bestow?  As  for  my  part," 
continued  he,  "my  fortune  is  pretty  large;  love, 
liberty,  and  pleasure,  are  my  maxims;  but  curse 
me  if  a  settlement  of  half  my  estate  could  give  my 
charming  Olivia  pleasure,  it  should  be  hers ;  and 
the  only  favour  I  would  ask  in  return  would  be  to 
add  myself  to  the  benefit."  I  was  not  such  a  stran- 
ger to  the  world  as  to  be  ignorant  that  this  was  the 
fashionable  cant  to  disguise  the  insolence  of  the 
basest  proposal ;  but  I  made  an  efibrt  to  suppress 
my  resentment.  "Sir,"  cried  I,  "the  family  wlaicv 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


71 


you  now  condescend  to  favour  with  your  company, 
has  been  bred  with  as  nice  a  sense  of  honour  as  you. 
Any  attempts  to  injure  that,  maybe  attended  with 
very  dangerous  consequences.  Honour,  sir,  is  our 
only  possession  at  present,  and  of  that  last  treasure 
we  must  be  particularly  careful." — 1  was  soon  sorry 
for  the  warmth  with  which  I  had  spoken  this,  when 
the  young  gentleman,  grasping  my  hand,  swore 
he  commended  my  spirit,  though  he  disapproved 
my  suspicions.  "As  to  your  present  hint,"  con- 
tinued he,  "I  protest  nothing  was  farther  from  my 
heart  than  such  a  thought.  No,  by  all  that's 
tempting,  the  virtue  that  will  stand  a  regular  siege 
was  never  to  my  taste ;  for  all  my  amours  are  car- 
ried by  a  coup-de-mainy 

The  two  ladies,  who  affected  to  be  ignorant  of 
the  rest,  seemed  highly  displeased  with  this  last 
stroke  of  freedom,  and  began  a  very  discreet  and 
serious  dialogue  upon  virtue ;  in  this  my  wife,  the 
chaplain,  and  I,  soon  joined:  and  the  'Squire  him- 
self was  at  last  brought  to  confess  a  sense  of  sor- 
row for  his  former  excesses.  We  talked  of  the 
pleasures  of  temperance,  and  of  the  sunshine  in 
the  mind  unpolluted  with  guilt.  I  was  so  well 
pleased,  that  my  little  ones  were  kept  up  beyond 
the  usual  time  to  be  edified  by  so  much  good  con- 
versation. Mr.  Thornhill  even  went  beyond  me, 
and  demanded  if  I  had  any  objection  to  giving 
prayers.  I  joyfully  embraced  the  proposal ;  and  in 
this  manner  the  night  was  passed  in  a  most  com- 
fortable way,  till  at  last  the  company  began  to  think 
of  returning.  The  ladies  seemed  very  unwilling 
to  part  with  my  daughters,  for  whom  they  had  con- 
ceived a  particular  affection,  and  joined  in  a  re- 
quest to  have  the  pleasure  of  their  company  home. 
The  'Squire  seconded  the  proposal,  and  my  wife 
added  her  entreaties ;  the  girls  too  looked  upon  me 
as  if  they  wished  me  to  go.  In  this  perplexity  I 
made  two  or  three  excuses,  which  my  daughters 
as  readily  removed :  so  that  at  last  I  was  obliged 
tT>  give  a  peremptory  refusal;  for  which  we  had  no- 
thing but  sullen  looks  and  short  answers  the  whole 
day  ensuing. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  family  endeavours  to  cope  with  their  betters.— The  mise- 
ries of  the  poor  when  they  attempt  to  appear  above  their 
circumstances. 

I  NOW  began  to  find,  that  all  my  long  and  pain- 
ful lectures  upon  temperance,  simplicity  and  con- 
tmtment,  were  entirely  disregarded.  The  dis- 
tinctions lately  paid  us  by  our  betters  awaked  that 
pride  which  I  had  laid  asleep,  but  not  removed. 
Our  windows,  again,  as  formerly,  were  filled  with 
washes  for  the  neck  and  face.  The  sun  was 
dreaded  as  an  enemy  to  the  skin  without  doors, 
and  the  fire  as  a  spoiler  of  the  complexion  within. 


My  wife  observed,  that  rising  too  early  would  hurt 
her  daughters'  eyes,  that  working  after  dinner 
would  redden  their  noses,  and  she  con\anced  me 
that  the  hands  never  looked  so  white  as  when  they 
did  nothing.  Instead  therefore  of  finishing  George's 
shirts,  we  now  had  them  new-modelling  their  old 
gauzes,  or  flourishing  upon  catgut.  The  poor  Miss 
Flamboroughs,  their  former  gay  companions,  were 
cast  off  as  mean  acquaintance,  and  the  whole  con- 
versation ran  upon  high  life  and  high-lived  com- 
pany, with  ])ictures,  taste,  Shakspeare,  and  the 
musical  glasses. 

But  we  could  have  borne  all  this,  had  not  a  for- 
tune-telling gipsy  come  to  raise  us  into  perfect  sub- 
Umity.  The  tawny  sibyl  no  sooner  appeared,  than 
my  girls  came  running  to  me  for  a  shilling  a-piece 
to  cross  her  hand  with  silver.  To  say  the  truth, 
I  was  tired  of  being  always  wise,  and  could  not 
help  gratifying  their  request,  because  I  loved  to  see 
them  happy.  I  gave  each  of  them  a  shilling; 
though  for  the  honour  of  the  family  it  must  be  ob- 
served, that  they  never  went  without  money  them- 
selves, as  my  wife  always  generously  let  them  have 
a  guinea  each,  to  keep  in  their  pockets,  but  with 
strict  injunctions  never  to  change  it.  After  they 
had  been  closeted  up  with  the  fortune-teller  for 
some  time,  I  knew  by  their  looks,  upon  their  re- 
turning, that  they  had  been  promised  something 
great. — "Well,  my  girls,  how  have  you  sped?  Tell 
me,  Livy,  has  the  fortune-teller  given  thee  a  penny- 
worth?"— "I  protest,  papa,"  says  the  girl,  "I  be- 
lieve she  deals  with  somebody  that's  not  right ;  for 
she  positively  declared,  that  I  am  to  be  maiTied  to 
a  'squire  in  less  than  a  twelvemonth!" — "Well, 
now  Sophy,  my  child,"  said  I,  "and  what  sort  of 
a  husband  are  you  to  have?"  "Sir,"  replied  she, 
"I  am  to  have  a  lord  soon  after  my  sister  has  mar- 
ried the  'squire."  "How!"  cried  I,  "is  that  all 
you  are  to  have  for  your  two  shillings?  Only  a 
lord  and  a 'squire  for  two  shillings!  You  fools,  1 
could  have  promised  you  a  prince  and  a  nabob  for 
half  the  money." 

This  curiosity  of  theirs,  however,  was  attended 
with  very  serious  effects :  we  now  began  to  think 
ourselves  designed  by  the  stars  to  something  exalt- 
ed, and  already  anticipated  our  future  grandeur. 

It  has  been  a  thousand  times  observed,  and  I 
must  observe  it  once  more,  that  the  hours  we  pass 
with  happy  prospects  in  view,  are  more  pleasing 
than  those  crowned  with  fruition.  In  the  first 
case,  we  cook  the  dish  to  our  own  appetite ;  in  the 
latter,  nature  cooks  it  for  us.  It  is  impossible  to 
repeat  the  train  of  agreeable  reveries  we  called  up 
for  our  entertainment.  We  looked  upon  our  for- 
tunes as  once  more  rising;  and  as  the  whole  parish 
asserted  that  the  'Squire  was  in  love  with  my 
daughter,  she  was  actually  so  with  him ;  for  they 
persuaded  her  into  the  passion.  In  this  agreeable 
interval,  my  wife  had  the  most  lucky  dreams  in  the 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


world,  which  she  took  care  to  tell  us  every  morning 
with  great  solemnity  and  exactness.  It  was  one 
night  a  coffin  and  cross-bones,  the  sign  of  an  ap- 
proaching wedding ;  at  another  time  she  imagined 
her  daughters'  pockets  filled  with  farthings,  a  cer- 
tain sign  of  their  being  shortly  stuffed  with  gold. 
The  girls  themselves  had  their  omens.  They  felt 
strange  Idsses  on  their  lips;  they  saw  rings  in  the 
candle,  purses  bounced  from  the  fire,  and  true 
love-knots  lurked  in  the  bottom  of  every  tea-cup. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week  we  received  a  card 
from  the  town  ladies ;  in  which  with  their  compli- 
ments, they  hoped  to  see  all  our  family  at  church 
the  Sunday  following.  All  Saturday  morning,  I 
could  perceive,  in  consequence  of  this,  my  wife  and 
daughters  in  close  conference  together,  and  now 
and  then  glancing  at  me  with  looks  that  betrayed 
a  latent  plot.  To  be  sincere,  I  had  strong  suspi- 
cions that  some  absurd  proposal  was  preparing  for 
appearing  with  splendour  the  next  day.  In  the 
evening  they  began  their  operations  in  a  very  regu- 
lar manner,  and  my  wife  undertook  to  conduct  the 
siege.  After  tea,  when  I  seemed  in  spirits,  she 
began  thus: — "I  fancy,  Charles,  my  dear,  we 
shall  have  a  great  deal  of  good  company  at  our 
church  to-morrow." — "  Perhaps  we  may,  my  dear," 
returned  I,  "though  you  need  be  under  no  uneasi- 
ness about  that,  you  shall  have  a  sermon  whether 
there  be  or  not." — "  That  is  what  I  expect,"  re- 
turned she;  "but  1  think,  my  dear,  we  ought  to 
appear  there  as  decently  as  possible,  for  who  knows 
what  may  happen?"  "  Your  precautions,"  rephed 
I,  "  are  highly  commendable.  A  decent  behaviour 
and  appearance  in  church  is  what  charms  me.  We 
fihould  be  devout  and  humble,  cheerful  and  serene. 
"Yes,"  cried  she,  "1  know  that:  but  I  mean  we 
should  go  there  in  as  proper  a  manner  as  possible ; 
not  altogether  like  the  scrubs  about  us."  "  You 
are  quite  right,  my  dear,"  returned  I,  "and  I  was 
going  to  make  the  very  same  proposal.  The 
proper  manner  of  going  is,  to  go  there  as  early  as 
possible,  to  have  time  for  meditation  before  the 
service  begins." — "  Phoo,  Charles,"  interrupted 
she,  "  all  that  is  very  true ;  but  not  what  I  would 
be  at.  I  mean  we  should  go  there  genteelly.  You 
know  the  church  is  two  miles  off,  and  I  protest  I 
don't  like  to  see  my  daughters  trudging  up  to  their 
pew  all  blowzed  and  red  with  walking,  and  looking 
for  all  the  world  as  if  they  had  been  winners  at  a 
smock-race.  Now,  my  dear,  my  proposal  is  this : 
there  are  our  two  plough  horses,  the  colt  that  has 
been  in  our  family  these  nine  years,  and  his  com- 
panion Blackberry,  that  has  scarcely  done  an  earth- 
ly thing  for  this  month  past.  They  are  both  grown 
fat  and  lazy.  Why  should  not  they  do  something 
as  well  as  we?  And  let  me  tell  you,  when  Moses 
has  trimmed  them  a  little,  they  will  cut  a  very  UAe- 
«able  figure." 

To  this  jffoposal  I  olgected,  that  walking  would 


be  twenty  times  more  genteel  than  such  a  paltry 
conveyance,  as  Blackbeny  was  wall-eyed,  and  the 
colt  wanted  a  tail:  that  they  had  never  been  broke 
to  the  rein,  but  had  a  hundred  vicious  tricks;  and 
that  we  had  but  one  saddle  and  pillion  in  the 
whole  house.  All  these  objections,  however,  were 
overruled;  so  that  I  was  obliged  to  comply.  The 
next  morning  I  perceived  them  not  a  little  busy  in 
collecting  such  materials  as  might  be  necessary  for 
the  expedition ;  but  as  I  found  it  would  be  a  busi- 
ness of  time,  I  walked  on  to  the  church  before,  and 
they  promised  speedily  to  follow.  I  waited  near 
an  hour  in  the  reading-desk  for  their  arrival ;  but 
not  finding  them  come  as  expected,  I  was  obliged 
to  begin,  and  went  through  the  service,  not  without 
some  uneasiness  at  finding  them  absent.  This  was 
increased  when  all  was  finished,  and  no  appear- 
ance of  the  family.  I  therefore  walked  back  by 
the  horse- way,  which  was  five  miles  round,  though 
the  foot- way  was  but  two,  and  when  got  about  half 
way  home,  perceived  the  procession  marchinjf 
slowly  forward  towards  the  church;  my  son.  my 
wife,  and  the  two  little  ones,  exalted  upon  one 
horse,  and  my  two  daughters  upon  the  other.  I 
demanded  the  cause  of  their  delay ;  but  I  soon  found 
by  their  looks  they  had  met  with  a  thousand  mis- 
fortunes on  the  road.  The  horses  had  at  first  re- 
fused to  move  from  the  door,  till  Mr.  Burchell  was 
kind  enough  to  beat  them  forward  for  about  two 
hundred  yards  with  his  cudgel.  Next,  the  straps 
of  my  wife's  pillion  broke  down,  and  they  were 
obliged  to  stop  to  repair  them  before  they  could 
proceed.  After  that,  one  of  the  horses  took  it  into 
his  head  to  stand  still,  and  neither  blows  nor  en- 
treaties could  prevail  with  him  to  proceed.  He  was 
just  recovering  from  this  dismal  situation  when  I 
found  them;  but  perceiving  everything  safe,  I  own 
their  present  mortification  did  not  much  displease 
me,  as  it  would  give  me  many  opportunities  of  fu- 
ture triumph,  and  teach  my  daughters  more  ha- 
mility. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  family  still  resolve  to  hold  up  their  heads. 

MiCHAKLMAS  eve  happening  on  the  next  day, 
we  were  invited  to  burn  nuts  and  play  tricks  at 
neighbour  Flamborough's.  Our  late  mortifica- 
tions had  humbled  us  a  little,  or  it  is  probable  we 
might  have  rejected  such  an  invitation  with  con- 
tempt: however,  we  suflfered  ourselves  to  be  happy. 
Our  honest  neighbour's  goose  and  dmnplings  were 
fine,  and  the  lamb's  wool,  even  in  the  opinion  of  my 
vnfe,  who  was  a  connoisseur,  was  excellent.  It  is 
true,  his  manner  of  telling  stories  was  not  quite  so 
well.  They  were  very  long,  and  very  dull,  and  all 
about  himself  and  we  had  laughed  at  them  fen 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


times  before :  however,  we  were  kind  enough  to  ters  sat  silent,  admiring  their  exalted  breeding. 


laugh  at  them  once  more. 

Mr.  Burchell,  who  was  of  the  party,  was  always 
fond  of  seeing  some  innocent  amusement  going 
forward,  and  set  the  boys  and  girls  to  blind  man's 
buff.     My  wife  too  was  persuaded  to  join  in  the 
diversion,  and  it  give  me  pleasure  to  think  she  was 
not  yet  too  old.     In  the  mean  time,  my  neighbour 
and  I  looked  on,  laughed  at  every  feat,  and  praised 
our  own  dexterity  when  we  were  young.     Hot 
cockles  succeeded  next,  questions  and  commands 
followed  that,  and  last  of  all,  they  sat  down  to  hunt 
the  slipper.  As  every  person  may  not  be  acquaint- 
ed with  this  primeval  pastime,  it  may  be  necessa- 
ry to  observe,  that  the  company  at  this  play  plant 
themeslves  in  a  ring  upon  the  ground,  all,  except 
one  who  stands  in  the  middle,  whose  business  it  is 
to  catch  a  shoe,  which  the  company  shove  about 
under  their  hams  from  one  to  another,  something 
like  a  weaver's  shuttle.    As  it  is  impossible,  in 
this  case,   for  the  lady  who  is  up  to  face  all  the 
company  at  once,  the  great  beauty  of  the  play  Hes 
in  hitting  her  a  thump  with  the  heel  of  the  shoe  on 
thut  side  least  capable  of  making  a  defence.     It 
was  in  this  manner  that  my  eldest  daughter  was 
hemmed  in,  and  thumped  about,  all  blowzed,  in 
spirits,  and  bawling  for  fair  play,  with  a  voice  that 
might  deafen  a  ballad-singer,  when,  confusion  on 
confusion!  who  should  enter  the  room  but  our 
two  great  acquaintances  from  town,  Lady  Blarney 
and  Miss  CaroUna  Wilhelmina  Amelia  Skeggs ! 
— Description  would  but  beggar,  therefore  it  is 
unnecessary  to    describe  this   new  mortification. 
Death !  to  be  seen  by  ladies  of  such  high  breeding 
in  such  vulgar  attitudes!  Nothing  better  could  en- 
sue from  such  a  vulgar  play  of  Mr.  Flamborough's 
proposing.    We  seemed  struck  to  the  ground  for 
some  time,  as  if  actually  petrified  with  amazement. 
The  two  ladies  had  been  at  our  house  to  see  us, 
and  finding  us  from  home,  came  after  us  hither,  as 
they  were  uneasy  to  know  what  accident  could 
have  kept  us  from  church  the  day  before.     Olivia 
undertook  to  be  our  prolocutor,  and  deUvered  the 
whole  in  a  summary  way,  only  saying,  "We  were 
thrown  from  our  horses."     At  which  account  the 
ladies  were  greatly  concerned;  but  being  told  the 
family  received  no  hurt,  they  were  extremely  glad : 
but  being  informed  that  we  were  almost  killed  by 
the  fright,  they  were  vastly  sorry ;  but  hearing  that 
we  had  a  very  good  night,  they  were  extremely 
glad  again.    Nothing  coidd  exceed  their  complais- 
ance to  my  daughters ;  their  professions  the  last 
evening  were  warm,  but  now  they  were  ardent. 
They  protested  a  desire  of  having  a  more  lasting 
acquaintance.    Lady  Blarney  was  particularly  at- 
tached to  Olivia;  Miss  CaroUna  Wilhelmina  Ame- 
lia Skeggs  (I  love  to  give  the  whole  name)  took  a 
greater  fancy  to  her  sister.     They  supported  the 
conversation  between  themselves,  while  my  daugh- 


But  as  every  reader,  however  beggarly  himself,  is 
fond  of  high-lived  dialogues,  with  anecdotes  of 
Lords,  Ladies,  and  Knights  of  the  Garter,  I  must 
beg  leave  to  give  him  the  concluding  part  of  the 
present  conversation. 

"All  that  I  know  of  the  matter,"  cried  Miss 
Skeggs,  "is  this,  that  it  may  be  true,  or  it  may  not 
be  true :  but  this  I  can  assure  your  ladyship,  that 
the  whole  rout  was  in  amaze :  his  lordship  turned 
all  manner  of  colours,  my  lady  fell  into  a  sound, 
but  Sir  Tomkyn,  drawing  his  sword,  swore  he  was 
hers  to  the  last  drop  of  his  blood." 

Well,"  repUed  our  peeress,  "this  I  can  say, 
that  the  dutchess  never  told  me  a  syllable  of  the 
matter,  and  I  believe  her  grace  would  keep  nothing 
a  secret  from  me.  This  you  may  depend  upon  as 
fact,  that  the  next  morning  my  lord  duke  cried  out 
three  times  to  his  valet  de  chambre,  Jernigan,  Jer- 
nigan,  Jernigan,  bring  me  my  garters." 

But  previously  I  should  have  mentioned  the  very 
impolite  behaviour  of  Mr.  Burchell,  who,  during- 
this  discourse,  sat  with  his  face  turned  to  the  fire, 
and  at  the  conclusion  of  every  sentence  would 
cry  out  fudge!  an  expression  which  displeased  us 
all,  and  in  some  measure  damped  the  rising  spirit 
of  the  conversation. 

"Besides,  my  dear  Skeggs,"  continued  our 
peeress,  "there  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  copy  of 
verses  that  Dr.  Burdock  made  upon  the  occasion." 
Fudge! 

"I  am  surprised  at  that,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs; 
"for  he  seldom  leaves  any  thing  out,  as  he  writes 
only  for  his  own  amusement.  But  can  your  lady- 
ship favour  me  with  a  sight  of  them?"  Fudge! 

"My  dear  creature,"  replied  our  peeress,  "do 
you  think  I  carry  such  things  about  me?  Though 
they  are  very  fine  to  be  sure,  and  I  thirds:  myself 
something  of  a  judge ;  at  least  I  know  what  pleases 
myself.  Indeed  I  was  ever  an  admirer  of  all  Dr. 
Burdock's  little  pieces ;  for,  except  what  he  does, 
and  our  dear  countess  at  Hanover-Square,  there's 
nothing  comes  out 'but  the  most  lowest  stuflf  in  na- 
ture ;  not  a  bit  of  high  life  among  them."  Fudge! 

"Your  ladyship  should  except,"  says  t'other, 
"your  own  things  in  the  Lady's  Magazine.  I 
hope  you'll  say  there's  nothing  low-lived  there? 
But  I  suppose  -we  are  to  have  no  more  from  that 
quarter?"  Fudge! 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  says  the  lady,  "you  know  my 
reader  and  companion  has  left  me,  to  be  married  to 
Captain  Roach,  and  as  my  poor  eyes  won't  suffer 
me  to  write  myself,  I  have  been  for  some  time 
looking  out  for  another.  A  proper  person  is  no 
easy  matter  to  find,  and  to  be  sure  thirty  pounds 
a-year  is  a  small  stipend  for  a  well-bred  girl  of 
character,  that  can  read,  write,  and  behave  in  com- 
pany :  as  for  the  chits  about  town,  there  is  no  bear 
ing  them  about  one."  Fudge! 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


"  That  I  know,"  cried  Miss  Skeggs,  "by  expe- 
rience. For  of  the  three  companions  I  had  this 
'.ast  half-year,  one  of  them  refused  to  do  plain-work 
a  a  hour  in  a  day;  another  thought  twenty- five 
guineas  a-year  too  small  a  salary,  and  I  was  oblig- 
ed to  send  away  the  third,  because  I  suspected  an 
intrigue  with  the  chaplain.  Virtue,  my  dear  La- 
dy Blarney,  virtue  is  worth  any  price ;  but  where 
is  that  to  be  found?"     Fudge! 

My  wife  had  been  for  a  long  time  all  attention 
to  this  discourse ;  but  was  particularly  struck  with 
the  latter  part  of  it.  Thirty  pounds  and  twenty-five 
guineas  a-year,  made  fifty-six  pounds  five  shillings 
English  money,  all  which  was  in  a  manner  going 
a-begging,  and  might  easily  be  secured  in  the  fami- 
ly. She  for  a  moment  studied  my  looks  for  appro- 
bation; and,  to  own  a  truth,  I  was  of  opinion,  that 
two  such  places  would  fit  our  two  daughters  ex- 
actly. Besides,  if  the  'Squire  had  any  real  affec- 
tion for  my  eldest  daughter,  this  would  be  the  way 
to  make  her  every  way  qualified  for  her  fortune. 
My  wife  therefore  was  resolved  that  we  should  not 
be  deprived  of  such  advantages  for  want  of  assur- 
ance, and  undertook  to  harangue  for  the  family- 
"  I  hope,"  cried  she,  "your  ladyships  will  pardon 
my  present  presumption.  It  is  true,  we  have  no 
right  to  pretend  to  such  favours :  but  yet  it  is  natu- 
ral for  me  to  wish  putting  my  children  forward  in 
the  world.  And  I  will  be  bold  to  say  my  two  girls 
have  had  a  pretty  good  education  and  capacity,  at 
least  the  country  can't  show  better.  They  can 
read,  write,  and  cast  accounts;  they  understand 
their  needle,  broadstitch,  cross  and  change,  and  all 
manner  of  plain -work;  they  can  pink,  point,  and 
frill,  and  know  something  of  music;  they  can  do 
up  small  clothes;  work  upon  catgut:  my  eldst  can 
cut  paper,  and  my  youngest  has  a  very  pretty  man- 
ner of  telling  fortunes  upon  the  cards."     Fudge! 

When  she  had  delivered  this  pretty  piece  of  elo- 
quence, the  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  a  few 
minutes  in  silence,  with  an  air  of  doubt  and  import- 
ance. At  last  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  condescended  to  observe,  that  the  young 
ladies,  from  the  opinion  she  could  form  of  them 
from  so  slight  an  acquaintance,  seemed  very  fit  for 
auch  employments :  "  But  a  thing  of  this  kind, 
madam,"  cried  she,  addressing  my  spouse,  "re- 
quires a  thorough  examination  into  characters,  and 
a  more  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other.  Not, 
madam,"  continued  she,  "that  I  in  the  least  sus- 
pect the  young  ladies'  virtue,  prudence  and  discre- 
tion; but  there  is  a  form  in  these  things,  madam, 
there  is  a  form." 

My  wife  approved  her  suspicions  very  much,  ob- 
serving that  she  was  very  apt  to  be  suspicious  her- 
self; but  referred  her  to  all  the  neighbours  for  a 
character:  but  this  our  peeress  decUned  as  unne- 
cessary, alleging  that  her  cousin  Thornhill's  re- 


commendation would  be  sufficient ;  and  upon  thu: 
we  rested  our  petition. 


CHAPTER  XIT. 

Fortune  seems  resolveil  to  humble  the  family  of  Wakefield.— 
INIorliricatioiis  are  often  more  gainful  than  real  calamities. 

When  we  were  returned  home,  the  night  was 
dedicated  to  schemes  of  future  conquest.  Debo- 
rah exerted  much  sagacity  in  conjecturing  which 
of  the  two  girls  was  likely  to  have  the  best  place, 
and  most  opportunities  of  seeing  good  company. 
The  only  obstacle  to  our  preferment  was  in  ob- 
taining the  'Squire's  recommendation:  but  he  had 
already  shown  us  too  many  instances  of  his  friend- 
ship to  dou1)t  of  it  now.  Even  in  bed  my  wife 
kept  up  the  usual  theme;  "Well,  faith,  my  dear 
Charles,  between  ourselves,  I  think  we  have  made 
an  excellent  day's  work  of  it." — "  Pretty  well," 
cried  I,  not  knowing  what  to  say. — "  What!  only 
pretty  well!"  returned  she.  "  I  think  it  is  very 
well.  Suppose  the  girls  should  come  to  make  ac- 
quaintances of  taste  in  town!  This  I  am  as- 
sured of,  that  London  is  the  only  place  in  the  world 
for  all  manner  of  husbands.  Besides,  my  dear, 
stranger  things  happen  every  day ;  and  as  ladies  of 
quality  are  so  taken  with  my  daughters,  what  will 
not  men  of  quality  be? — Enirc  nous,  I  protest  I 
like  my  Lady  Blarney  vastly,  so  very  obliging. 
However,  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs  has  my  warm  heart.  But  yet,  when  they 
came  to  talk  of  places  in  town,  you  saw  at  once 
how  I  nailed  them.  Tell  me,  my  dear,  don't  you 
think  I  did  for  my  children  there?" — "  Ay,"  re- 
turned I,  not  knowing  well  what  to  think  of  the 
matter,  "  Heaven  grant  they  may  be  both  the  bet- 
ter for  it  this  day  three  months!"  This  was  one 
of  those  observations  I  usually  made  to  impress  my 
wife  with  an  opinion  of  my  sagacity :  for  if  the 
girls  succeeded,  then  it  was  a  pious  wish  fulfilled ; 
but  if  any  thing  unfortunate  ensued,  then  it  might 
be  looked  upon  as  a  prophecy.  All  this  conversa- 
tion, however,  was  only  preparatory  to  another 
scheme,  and  indeed  I  dreaded  as  much.  This  was 
nothing  less  than  that,  as  we  were  now  to  hold  up 
our  heads  a  little  higher  in  the  world,  it  would  be 
proper  to  sell  the  colt,  which  was  grown  old,  at  a 
neighbouring  fair,  and  buy  us  a  horse  that  would 
carry  single  or  double  upon  an  occasion,  and  make  a 
pretty  appearance  at  church,  or  upon  a  visit.  This 
at  first  I  opposed  stoutly;  but  it  was  as  stoutly  de- 
fended. However,  as  I  weakened,  my  antagonist 
gained  strength,  till  at  last  it  was  resolved  to  part 
with  him. 

As  the  fair  happened  on  the  following  day,  I  had 
intentions  of  going  myself;  but  my  wife  persuaded 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


me  that  I  had  got  a  cold,  and  nothing  could  prevail 
upon  her  to  permit  me  from  home.  "No,  my 
dear,"  said  she,  "  our  son  Moses  is  a  discreet  boy, 
and  can  buy  and  sell  to  very  good  advantage:  you 
know  all  our  great  bargains  are  of  his  purchasing. 
He  always  stands  out  and  higgles,  and  actually 
tires  them  till  he  gets  a  bargain," 

As  I  had  some  opinion  of  my  son's  prudence,  I 
was  willing  enough  to  intrust  him  with  this  com- 
mission ;  and  the  next  morning  I  perceived  his  sis- 
ters mighty  busy  in  fitting  out  Moses  for  the  fair; 
trimming  his  hair,  brushing  his  buckles,  and  cocking 
his  hat  with  pins.  The  business  of  the  toilet  be- 
ing over,  we  had  at  last  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
him  mounted  upon  the  colt,  with  a  deal  box  before 
him  to  bring  home  groceries  in.  He  had  on  a  coat 
made  of  that  cloth  they  call  thunder  and  lightning, 
which,  though  grown  too  short,  was  much  too  good 
to  be  thrown  away.  His  waistcoat  was  of  gosling 
green,  and  his  sisters  had  tied  his  hair  with  a  broad 
black  riband.  We  all  followed  him  several  paces 
from  the  door,  bawling  after  him  good  luck,  good 
luck,  till  we  could  see  him  no  longer. 

He  was  scarcely  gone,  when  Mr,  Thornhill's 
butler  came  to  congratulate  us  upon  our  good  for- 
tune, saying,  that  he  overheard  his  young  master 
mention  our  names  with  great  commendation. 

Good  fortune  seemed  resolved  not  to  come  alone. 
Another  footman  from  the  same  family  followed, 
with  a  card  for  my  daughters,  importing,  that  the 
two  ladies  had  received  such  pleasing  accounts  from 
Mr.  Thornhill  of  us  all,  that,  after  a  few  previous 
inquiries,  they  hoped  to  be  perfectly  satisfied, 
"Ay,"  cried  my  wife,  "  I  now  see  it  is  no  easy  mat- 
ter to  get  into  the  families  of  the  great;  but  when 
one  once  gets  in,  then,  as  Moses  says,  one  may  go 
to  sleep,"  To  this  piece  of  humour,  for  she  intend- 
ed it  for  wit,  my  daughters  assented  with  a  loud 
laugh  of  pleasure.  In  short,  such  was  her  satis- 
faction at  this  message,  that  she  actually  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  and  gave  the  messenger  seven- 
pence  halfpenny. 

This  was  to  be  our  visiting  day.  The  next  that 
came  was  Mr,  Burchell,  who  had  been  at  the  fair. 
He  brought  my  little  ones  a  pennyworth  of  ginger- 
bread each,  which  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  for 
them,  and  give  them  by  letters  at  a  time.  He  brought 
my  daughters  also  a  couple  of  boxes,  in  which  they 
might  keep  wafers,  snuff"  patches,  or  even  money, 
when  they  got  it.  My  wife  was  usuallyfond  of  a  wea- 
sel-skin purse,  as  being  the  most  lucky ;  but  this  by 
the  by.  We  had  still  a  regard  for  Mr.  Burchell, 
though  his  late  rude  behaviour  was  in  some  mea- 
sure displeasing;  nor  could  we  now  avoid  commu- 
nicating our  happiness  to  him,  and  asking  his  ad- 
vice :  although  we  seldom  followed  advice,  we  were 
all  ready  enough  to  ask  it.  When  he  read  the  note 
from  the  two  ladies,  he  shook  his  head,  and  observ- 
ed, that  an  affair  of  tliis  sort  demanded  the  utmost 


circumspection. — This  air  of  diffidence  highly  dis 
pleased  my  wife.  "  I  never  doubted,  sir,"  cried  she, 
"  Your  readiness  to  be  against  my  daughters  and 
me.  You  have  more  circumspection  than  is  want- 
ed. However,  I  fancy  when  we  come  to  ask  ad- 
vice, we  will  apply  to  persons  who  seem  to  have 
made  use  of  it  themselves," — "Whatever  my  own 
conduct  may  have  been,  madam,"  replied  he,  "is 
not  the  present  question;  though  as  I  have  made 
no  use  of  advice  myself,  I  should  in  conscience 
give  it  to  those  that  will," — As  I  was  apprehensive 
this  answer  might  draw  on  a  repartee,  making  up 
by  abuse  what  it  wanted  in  wit,  I  changed  the  sub- 
ject, by  seeming  to  v^^onder  what  could  keep  our 
son  so  long  at  the  fair,  as  it  was  now  almost  night- 
fall,— "  Never  mind  our  son,"  cried  my  wife,  "de- 
pend upon  it  he  knows  what  he  is  about.  I'll  war- 
rant we'll  never  see  him  sell  his  hen  of  a  rainy  day. 
I  have  seen  him  buy  such  bargains  as  would  amaze 
one.  I'll  tell  you  a  good  story  about  that,  that  will 
make  you  split  your  sides  with  laughing. — But  as 
I  live,  yonder  comes  Moses,  without  a  horse,  and 
the  box  at  his  back." 

As  she  spoke,  Moses  came  slowly  on  foot,  and 
sweating  under  the  deal  box,  which  he  had  strapped 
round  his  shoulders  like  a  pedler. — "  Welcome, 
welcome,  Moses:  well,  my  boy,  what  have  you 
brought  us  from  the  fair?" — "  I  have  brought  you 
myself,"  cried  Moses,  with  a  sly  look,  and  resting 
the  box  on  the  dresser. — "Ah,  Moses,"  cried  my 
wife,  "  that  we  know ;  but  where  is  the  horse?"  "  I 
have  sold  him,"  cried  Moses,  "for  three  pounds 
five  shiUings  and  twopence," — "Well  done,  my 
good  boy,"  returned  she;  "I  knew  you  would 
touch  them  off".  Between  ourselves,  three  pounds 
five  shillings  and  two  pence  is  no  bad  day's  work. 
Come  let  us  have  it  then." — "  I  have  brought  back 
no  money,"  cried  Moses  again.  "  I  have  laid  it  all 
out  in  a  bargain,  and  here  it  is,"  pulling  out  a  bun- 
dle from  his  breast :  "  here  they  are ;  a  gross  of  green 
spectacles,  with  silver  rims  and  shagreen  cases." — 
"  A  gross  of  green  spectacles !"  repeated  my  wife  In 
a  faint  voice.  "  And  you  have  parted  with  th# 
colt,  and  brought  us  back  nothing  but  a  gross  of 
green  paltry  spectacles!" — "Dear  mother,"  cried 
the  boy,  "why  won't  you  listen  to  reason?  I  had 
them  a  dead  bargain,  or  I  should  not  have  bought 
them.  The  silver  rims  alone  will  sell  for  double 
the  money." — "  A  fig  for  the  silver  rims,"  cried 
my  wife  in  a  passion :  "1  dare  swear  they  won't 
sell  for  above  half  the  money  at  the  rate  of  broken 
silver,  five  shiUings  an  ounce." — "You  need  be 
under  no  uneasiness,"  cried  I,  "  about  selling  the 
rims,  for  they  are  not  worth  sixpence ;  for  I  per- 
ceive they  are  only  copper  varnished  over." — 
"  What,"  cried  my  wife,  "  not  silver !  the  rims  not 
silver!"  "No,"  cried  I,  "no  more  silver  than  your 
saucepan." — "And  so,"  returned  she,  "weh^ve 
parted  with  the  colt,  and  have  only  got  a  gross  of 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


green  spectacles,  with  copper  rims  and  shagreen 
cases!  A  murrain  take  such  trumpery.  The 
blockhead  has  been  imposed  upon,  and  should  have 
known  his  company  better." — "  There,  my  dear," 
cried  I,  "  you  are  wrong,  he  should  not  have  known 
*  them  at  all." — "Marry,  hang  the  idiot,"  returned 
she,  "  to  bring  me  such  stuff;  if  I  had  them  I  would 
throw  them  in  the  fire."  "  There  again  you  are 
wrong,  my  dear,"  cried  I;  "  for  though  they  be  cop- 
])er,  we  will  keep  them  by  us,  as  copper  spectacles, 
you  know,  are  better  than  nothing." 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  Moses  was  unde- 
ceived. He  now  saw  that  he  had  been  imposed 
upon  by  a  prowling  sharper,  who,  observing  his 
figure,  had  marked  him  for  an  easy  prey.  I  there- 
fore asked  the  circumstance  of  his  deception.  He 
sold  the  horse,  it  seems,  and  walked  the  fair  in 
search  of  another.  A  reverend  looking  man  brought 
him  to  a  tent,  under  pretence  of  having  one  to  sell. 
"Here,"  continued  Moses,  "we  met  another  man, 
very  well  dressed,  who  desired  to  borrow  twenty 
pounds  upon  these,  saying  that  he  wanted  money, 
and  would  dispose  of  them  for  a  third  of  the  value. 
The  first  gentleman,  who  pretended  to  be  my 
friend,  whispered  me  to  buy  them,  and  cautioned 
me  not  to  let  so  good  an  offer  pass.  I  sent  for  Mr. 
Flamborough,  and  they  talked  him  up  as  finely  as 
tliey  did  me,  and  so  at  last  we  were  persuaded  to 
buy  the  two  gross  between  us." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mr.  Burchell  is  found  to  be  an  enemy;  for  he  has  the  confi- 
dence to  give  disagreeable  advice. 

Our  family  had  now  made  several  attempts  to  be 
rfine;  but  some  unforeseen  disaster  dcmoUshed  each 
r-is  soon  as  projected.  I  endeavoured  to  take  the 
.»(!  vantage  of  every  disappointment,  to  improve  their 
^ood  sense  in  proportion  as  they  were  frustrated  in 
:  iiiihition.  "  You  see,  my  children,"  cried  I,  "  how 
iiiille  is  to  be  got  by  attempts  to  impose  upon  the 
world,  in  coping  with  our  betters.  Such  as  are 
poor,  and  will  associate  with  none  but  the  rich,  are 
liated  by  those  they  avoid,  and  despised  by  those 
t]wy  follow.  Unequal  combinations  are  always 
<lisadvantageous  to  the  weaker  side :  the  rich  having 
the  j^easure,  and  the  poor  the  inconveniencies  that 
result  from  them.  But  come,  Dick,  my  boy,  and 
repeat  the  fable  that  you  were  reading  to-day,  for 
the  good  of  the  company." 

*'  Once  upon  a  time,"  cried  the  child,  "  a  giant 
and  a  dwarf  were  friends,  and  kept  together. 
They  made  a  bargam  that  they  would  never  for- 
sake each  other,  but  go  seek  adventures.  The  first 
battle  they  fought  was  with  two  Saracens,  and  the 
dwarf,  who  was  very  courageous,  dealt  one  of  the 
champions  a  most  angry  blow.     It  did  (he  Saracen 


very  little  injury,  who,  lifting  up  his  sword,  fairly 
struck  off  the  poor  dwarf's  arm.  He  was  now  in 
a  woful  plight;  but  the  giant  coming  to  his  assist- 
ance, in  a  short  time  left  the  two  Saracens  dead  on 
the  plain,  and  the  dwarf  cut  off  the  dead  man's 
head  out  of  spite.  They  then  travelled  on  to  ano- 
ther adventure.  This  was  against  three  bloody- 
minded  Satyrs,  who  were  carrying  away  a  damse\ 
in  distress.  The  dwarf  was  not  quite  so  fierce  now 
as  before;  but  for  all  that  struck  the  first  blow, 
which  was  returned  by  another,  that  knocked  out 
his  eye;  but  the  giant  was  soon  up  with  them,  and 
had  they  not  fled,  would  certainly  have  killed  them 
every  one.  They  were  all  very  joyful  for  this  vic- 
tory, and  tlie  damsel  who  was  relieved  fell  in  love 
with  the  giant,  and  married  him.  They  now  tra- 
velled far,  and  farther  than  I  can  tell,  till  they  met 
with  a  company  of  robbers.  The  giant,  for  the 
first  time  was  foremost  now;  but  the  dwarf  was 
not  far  behind.  The  battle  was  stout  and  long. 
Wherever  the  giant  came,  all  fell  before  him;  but 
the  dwarf  had  like  to  have  been  killed  more  than 
once.  At  last  the  victory  declared  for  the  two  ad- 
venturers; but  the  dwarf  lost  his  leg.  The  dwarf 
was  now  without  an  arm,  a  leg,  and  an  eye,  while 
the  giant  was  without  a  single  wound.  Upon 
which  he  cried  out  to  his  little  companion,  "  My 
little  hero,  this  is  glorious  sport !  let  us  get  one  vic- 
tory more,  and  then  we  shall  have  honour  for  ever." 
"  No,"  cries  the  dwarf,  who  was  by  this  time  grown 
wiser,  "  no,  I  declare  oflf;  I'll  fight  no  more :  for  I 
find  in  every  battle  that  you  get  all  the  honour  and 
rewards,  but  all  the  blows  fall  upon  me." 

"  I  was  going  to  moraUze  this  fable,  when  our 
attention  was  called  off  to  a  warm  dispute  between 
my  wife  and  Mr.  Burchell,  upon  my  daughters'  in- 
tended expedition  to  town.  My  wife  very  stren- 
uously insisted  upon  the  advantages  that  would  re- 
sult from  it;  Mr.  Burchell,  on  the  contrary,  dis- 
suaded her  with  greai;  ardour,  and  I  stood  neuter. 
His  present  dissuasions  seemed  but  the  second  part 
of  those  which  were  received  with  so  ill  a  grace  in 
the  morning.  The  dispute  grew  high,  while  poor 
Deborah,  instead  of  reasoning  stronger,  talked 
louder,  and  at  last  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  from 
a  defeat  in  clamour.  The  conclusion  of  her  ha- 
rangue, however,  was  highly  displeasing  to  us  all : 
she  knew,"  she  said,  "  of  some  who  had  their  own 
secret  reasons  for  what  they  advised;  but,  for  her 
part,  she  vsdshed  such  to  stay  away  from  her  house 
for  the  future."—"  Madam,"  cried  Burchell,  with 
looks  of  great  composure,  which  tended  to  inflame 
her  the  more,  "  as  for  secret  reasons,  you  are  right: 
I  have  secret  reasons,  which  I  forbear  to  mention, 
because  you  are  not  able  to  answer  those  of  which 
I  make  no  secret:  but  I  find  my  visits  her«  are  be- 
come troublesome ;  I'll  take  my  leave  therefore  now, 
and  perhaps  come  once  more  to  take  a  final  fare- 
well when  I  am  quitting  the  country."    Thus  say 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


77 


ing,  he  took  up  his  hat,  nor  could  the  attempts  of 
Sophia,  whose  looks  seemed  to  upbraid  his  pre- 
cipitancy, prevent  his  going. 

When  gone,  we  all  regarded  each  other  for  some 
minutes  with  confusion.    My  wife,  who  knew  her- 
self to  be  the  cause,  strove  to  hide  her  concern 
with  a  forced  smile,  and  an  air  of  assurance,  which 
I  was  willing  to  reprove :  "  How,  woman,"  cried  I 
to  her,  "is  it  thus  we  treat  strangers'?  Is  it  thus  we 
return  their  kindness?   Be  assured,  ray  dear,  that 
these  were  the  harshest  words,  and  to  me  the  most 
unpleasing  that  ever  escaped  your  Hps!" — "Why 
would  he  provoke  me  then?"  replied  she;  "but  I 
know  the  motives  of  his  advice  perfectly  well.     He 
would  prevent  my  girls  from  going  to  town,  that 
he  may  have  the  pleasure  of  my  youngest  daugh- 
ter's company  here  at  home.    But  whatever  hap- 
pens, she  shall  choose  better  company  than  such 
low-Uved  fellows  as  he." — "  Low-Uved,  my  dear,  do 
you  call  him?"  cried  I;  "it  is  very  possible  we  may 
mistake  this  man's  character,  for  he  seems  upon 
some  occasions  the  most  finished  gentleman  I  ever 
knew. — Tell  me,  Sophia,  my  girl,  has  he  ever 
given  you  any  secret  instances  of  his  attachment?" 
"  His  conversation  with  me,  sir,"  replied  my  daugh- 
ter, "  has  ever  been  sensible,  modest,  and  pleasing. 
As  to  aught  else,  no,  never.     Once,  indeed,  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  him  say,  he  never  knew  a 
woman  who  could  find  merit  in  a  man  that  seemed 
poor."     "Such,  my  dear,"  cried  I,  "is  the  com- 
mon cant  of  all  the  unfortunate  or  idle.    But  I 
hope  you  have  been  taught  to  judge  properly  of 
such  men,  and  that  it  would  be  even  madness  to 
expect  happiness  from  one  who  has  been  so  very 
bad  an  economist  of  his  own.    Your  mother  and  I 
have  now  better  prospects  for  you.    The  next  win- 
ter, which  you  will  probably  spend  in  town,  will 
give  you  opportunities  of  making  a  more  prudent 
choice." 

What  Sophia's  reflections  were  upon  this  occa- 
sion I  can't  pretend  to  determine;  but  I  was  not 
displeased  at  the  bottom,  that  we  were  rid  of  a  guest 
from  whom  I  had  much  to  fear.  Our  breach  of 
hospitality  went  to  my  conscience  a  little;  but  I 
quickly  silenced  that  monitor  by  two  or  three  spe- 
cious reasons,  which  served  to  satisfy  and  reconcile 
me  to  myself.  The  pain  which  conscience  gives 
the  man  who  has  already  done  wrong,  is  soon  got 
over.  Conscience  is  a  coward,  and  those  faults  it 
has  not  strength  enough  to  prevent,  it  seldom  has 
justice  enough  to  accuse. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Fresh  Mortifications  or  a  demonstration  that  seeming  Calami- 
ties may  be  real  Blessings. 

The  journey  of  my  daughters  to  town  was  now 
resolved  upon,  Mr.  ThornhUl  having  kindly  promis- 


ed to  inspect  their  conduct  himself,  and  inform  us 
by  letter  of  their  behaviour.  But  it  was  thought  in* 
dispensably  necessary  that  their  appearance  should 
equal  the  greatness  of  their  expectations;  which 
could  not  be  done  without  expense.     We  debated 
therefore  in  full  council  what  were  the  easiest 
methods  of  raising  money,  or  more  properly  speak*- 
ing,  what  we  could  most  conveniently  sell.     The 
deliberation  was  soon  finished;  it  was  found  that 
our  remaining  horse  was  utterly  useless  for  the 
plough  without  his  companion,  and  equally  unfit 
for  the  road,  as  wanting  an  eye;  it  was  therefore 
determined  that  we  should  dispose  of  him  for  the 
purposes  above  mentioned,  at  the  neighbouring 
fair,  and  to  prevent  imposition,  that  I  sliould  go 
with  him  myself.    Though  this  was  one  of  the 
first  mercantile  transactions  of  my  life,  yet  I  had 
no  doubt  about  acquitting  myself  with  reputation. 
The  opinion  a  man  forms  of  his  own  prudence  is 
measured  by  that  of  the  company  he  keeps ;  and  as 
mine  was  mostly  in  the  family  way,  I  had  conceiv- 
ed no  unfavourable  sentiments  of  my  worldly  wis- 
dom.    My  wife,  however,  next  morning,  at  part- 
ing, after  I  had  got  some  paces  from  the  door,, 
called  me  back,  to  advise  me  in  a  whisper,  to  have 
all  my  eyes  about  me. 

I  had,  in  the  usual  forms,  when  I  came  to  the- 
fair,  put  my  horse  through  all  his  paces;  but  for 
some  time  had  no  bidders.    At  last  a  chapman  ap- 
proached, and  after  he  had  for  a  good  while  examin- 
ed the  horse  round,  finding  him  bUnd  of  one  eye,  he 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him :  a  second  came 
up,   but  observing  he  had  a  spavin,  declared  he 
would  not  take  him  for  the  driving  home :  a  third 
perceived  he  had  a  windgall,  and  would  bid  no 
money :  a  fourth  knew  by  his  eye  that  he  had  th& 
botts :  a  fifth  wondered  what  a  plague  1  could  do» 
at  the  fair  with  a  blind,  spavined,  galled  hack,  that 
was  only  fit  to  be  cut  up  for  a  dog-kenneK     By- 
this  time  I  began  to  have  a  most  hearty  contempt 
for  the  poor  animal  myself,  and  was  almost  asham- 
ed at  the  approach  of  every  customer;  for  though  I 
did  not  entirely  believe  all  the  fellows  told  me,  yet 
I  reflected  that  the  number  of  witnesses  was  a 
strong  presumption  they  were  right;  and  St.  Grego- 
ry upon  Good  Works,  professes  himself  to  Ixy  of 
the  same  opinion. 

I  was  in  this  mortifying  situation,  when  a  Bro- 
ther clergyman,  an  old  acquaintance,  who  had  also 
business  at  the  fair,  came  up,  and  shaking  me  bv 
the  hand,  proposed  adjourning  to  a  public-house, 
and  taking  a  glass  of  whatever  we  could  get.  1 
readily  closed  with  the  offer,  and  entering  an  ale 
house  we  were  shown  into  a  httle  back  roon), 
where  there  was  only  a  venerable  old  man,,  who  sat 
wholly  intent  over  a  large  book,  which  he  was 
reading.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  figure  that  pre- 
possessed me  more  favourably.  His  locks  of  silver 
gray  venerably  shaded  his  temples,  and  his  green 


78 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


old  age  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  health  and  benevo- 
lence. However,  his  presence  did  not  interrupt  our 
conversation :  my  friend  and  I  discoursed  on  the  va- 
rious turns  of  fortune  we  had  met ;  the  Whistonian 
controversy,  my  last  pamphlet,  the  archdeacon's 
reply,  and  the  hard  measure  that  was  dealt  me. 
But  our  attention  was  in  a  short  time  taken  off  by 
the  appearance  of  a  youth,  who  entering  the  room, 
respectfully  said  something  softly  to  the  old  stranger. 
"Make  no  apologies,  my  child."  said  the  old  man, 
"  to  do  good  is  a  dftty  we  owe  to  all  our  fellow- 
creatures;  take  this,  I  wish  it  were  more;  but  five 
pounds  will  relieve  your  distress,  and  you  are  wel- 
come." The  modest  youth  shed  tears  of  gratitude, 
and  yet  his  gratitude  was  scarcely  equal  to  mine. 
I  could  have  hugged  the  good  old  man  in  my  arms, 
his  benevolence  pleased  me  so.  He  continued  to 
read,  and  we  resumed  our  conversation,  until  my 
companion,  after  some  time,  recollecting  that  he 
had  business  to  transact  in  the  fair,  promised  to  be 
soon  back,  adding,  that  he  always  desired  to  have 
as  much  of  Dr.  Primrose's  company  as  possible. 
The  old  gentleman  hearing  my  name  mentioned, 
seemed  to  look  at  me  vnih  attention  for  some  time, 
and  when  my  friend  was  gone,  most  respectfully 
demanded  if  I  was  any  way  related  to  the  great 
Primrose,  that  courageous  monogamist,  who  had 
been  the  bulwark  of  the  church.  Never  did  my 
heart  feel  sincerer  rapture  than  at  that  moment, 
"  Sir,"  cried  I,  "  the  applause  of  so  good  a  man,  as 
1  am  sure  you  are,  adds  to  that  happiness  in  my 
breast  which  your  benevolence  has  already  excited. 
You  behold  before  you,  sir,  that  Dr.  Primrose,  the 
monogamist,  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  call 
great.  You  here  see  that  unfortunate  divine,  who 
has  so  long,  and  it  would  ill  become  me  to  say  suc- 
cessfully, fought  against  the  deuterogomy  of  the 
age." — "  Sir,"  cried  the  stranger,  struck  with  awe, 
"  I  fear  I  have  been  too  familiar;  but  you'll  forgive 
my  curiosity,  sir:  I  beg  pardon." — "  Sir,"  cried  T, 
grasping  his  hand,  "  you  are  so  far  from  displeas- 
ing me  by  your  famiUarity,  that  I  must  beg  you'll 
accept  my  friendship,  as  you  already  have  my  es- 
teem."— "  Then  with  gratitude  I  accept  the  oifer," 
cried  he,  squeezing  me  by  the  hand,  "  thou  glorious 
pillar  of  unshaken  orthodoxy!  and  do  I  behold — " 
I  here  interrupted  what  he  was  going  to  say;  for 
though,  as  an  author,  I  could  digest  no  small  share 
of  flattery,  yet  now  my  modesty  would  permit  no 
more.  However,  no  lovers  in  romance  ever  ce- 
mented a  more  instantaneous  friendship.  We 
talked  upon  several  subjects :  at  first  I  thought  he 
seemed  rather  devout  than  learned,  and  began  to 
think  he  despised  all  human  doctrines  as  dross. 
Yet  this  no  way  lessened  him  in  my  esteem;  for  I 
had  for  some  time  begun  privately  to  harbour  such 
an  opinion  myself.  I  there-fore  took  occasion  to 
observe,  that  the  world  in  general  began  to  be 
damably  indifferent  as  to  doctrinal  matters,  and  fol- 


lowed human  speculations  too  much. — "Ay  sir," 
replied  he,  as  if  he  had  reserved  all  his  learning  to 
that  moment,  "  ay,  sir,  the  world  is  in  its  dotage, 
and  yet  the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world  ha» 
puzzled  philosophers  of  all  ages.  Wh^rt  a  medley 
of  opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world !  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Be- 
rosus,  and  Ocellus  Lucanus  have  all  attempted  it 
in  vain.  The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon 
ara  kai  atelutaion  to  pan,  which  imply  that  all 
things  have  neither  beginning  nor  end  Manetho 
also,  who  lived  about  the  time  of  Nebuchadon- 
Asser, — Asser  being  a  Syriac  word  usually  appli 
ed  as  a  surname  to  the  kings  of  that  country,  as 
Teglat  Phael-Asser,  Nabon-Asser, — he,  I  say, 
formed  a  conjecture  equally  absurd;  for  as  we  usu- 
ally say,  ek  to  biblion  kubernetes,  which  implies 
that  books  will  never  teach  the  -world;  so  he  at- 
tempted to  investigate But,  sir,  I  ask  pardon,  I 

am  straying  from  the  question." — That  he  actual- 
ly was;  nor  could  I  for  my  Ufe  see  how  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the 
business  I  was  talking  of;  but  it  was  sufficient  to 
show  me  that  he  was  a  man  of  letters,  and  I  now 
reverenced  him  the  more.  I  was  resolved  therefore 
to  bring  him  to  the  touchstone;  but  he  was  too 
mild  and  too  gentle  to  contend  for  victory.  When- 
ever I  made  an  observation  that  looked  like  a 
challenge  to  controversy,  he  would  smile,  shake 
his  head,  and  say  nothing;  by  which  I  understood 
he  could  say  much,  if  he  thought  proper.  The 
subject  therefore  insensibly  changed  from  the 
business  of  antiquity  to  that  which  brought  us 
both  to  the  fair:  mine,  I  told  him,  was  to  sell  a 
horse,  and  very  luckily  indeed,  his  was  to  buy  one 
for  one  of  his  tenants.  My  horse  was  soon  pro- 
duced, and  in  fine  we  struck  a  bargain.  Nothing 
now  remained  but  to  pay  me,  and  he  accordingly 
pulled  out  a  thirty  pound  note,  and  bid  me  change 
it.  Not  being  in  a  capacity  of  complying  with  this 
demand,  he  ordered  his  footman  to  be  called  up, 
who  made  his  appearance  in  a  very  genteel  livery. 
"  Here,  Abraham,"  cried  he,  "  go  and  get  gold  for 
this;  you'll  do  it  at  neighbour  Jackson's  or  any 
where."  While  the  fellow  was  gone,  he  enter- 
tained me  with  a  pathetic  harangue  on  the  great 
scarcity  of  silver,  which  I  undertook  to  improve,  by 
deploring  also  the  great  scarcity  of  gold;  so  that  by 
the  time  Abraham  returned,  we  had  both  agreed 
that  money  was  never  so  hard  to  be  come  at  as 
now.  Abraham  returned  to  inform  us,  that  he  had 
been  over  the  whole  fair,  and  could  not  get  change, 
though  he  had  offered  half  a  crown  for  doing  it. 
This  was  a  very  gr^t  disappointment  to  us  all ; 
but  the  old  gentleman,  having  paused  a  little,  ask- 
ed me  if  I  knew  one  Solomon  Flamborough  in  my 
part  of  the  country  1  Upon  replying  that  he  was 
my  next- door  neighbour;  "If  that  be  the  case 
then,"  returned  he,  "  I  believe  we  shall  deal.    You 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


79 


shall  have  a  draft  upon  him,  payable  at  sight;  and 
let  me  tell  you,  he  is  as  warm  a  man  as  any  within 
five  miles  round  him.  Honest  Solomon  and  I  have 
been  acquainted  for  many  years  together.  I  remem- 
ber i  always  beat  him  at  three  jumps;  but  he  could 
hop  on  one  leg  farther  than  I."  A  draft  upon  my 
neighbour  was  tt)  me  the  same  as  money ;  for  I  was 
sufficiently  com'inced  of  his  ability.  The  draft  was 
signed,  and  put  into  my  hands,  and  Mr.  Jenkin- 
son,  the  old  gentleman,  his  man  Abraham,  and 
my  horse,  old  Blackberry,  trotted  off  very  well 
pleased  with  each  other. 

After  a  short  interval,  being  left  to  reflection,  I 
began  to  recollect  that  I  had  done  wrong  in  taking 
a  draft  from  a  stranger,  and  so  prudently  resolved 
upon  following  the  purchaser,  and  having  back  my 
horse.  But  this  was  now  too  late :  I  therefore 
made  directly  homewards,  resolving  to  get  the  draft 
changed  into  money  at  my  friend's  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible. I  found  my  honest  neighbour  smoking  his 
pipe  at  his  own  door,  and  informing  him  that  I  had 
a  small  bill  upon  him,  he  read  it  twice  over.  "You 
can  read  the  name,  I  suppose,"  cried  I,  "Ephraim 
Jenkinson."  "Yes,"  returned  he,  "the  name  is 
written  plain  enough,  and  I  know  the  gentleman 
too,  the  greatest  rascal  under  the  canopy  of  heaven. 
This  is  the  very  same  rogue  who  sold  us  the  spec- 
tacles. Was  he  not  a  venerable  looking  man,  with 
gray  hair,  and  no  flaps  to  his  pocket-holes  1  And 
did  he  not  talk  a  long  string  of  learning  about 
Greek,  and  cosmogony,  and  the  world  ?"  To  this 
I  replied  with  a  groan.  "  Ay,"  continued  he,  "  he 
has  but  that  one  piece  of  learning  in  the  world,  and 
he  always  talks  it  away  whenever  he  finds  a  scho- 
lar in  company ;  but  I  know  the  rogue,  and  will 
catch  him  yet." 

Though  1  was  already  sufficiently  mortified,  my 
greatest  struggle  was  to  come,  in  facing  my  wife 
and  daughters.  No  truant  was  ever  more  afraid 
of  returning  to  school,  there  to  behold  the  master's 
visage,  than  I  was  of  going  home.  I  was  deter- 
mined, however,  to  anticipate  their  fury,  by  first 
iffalling  into  a  passion  myself. 
.  But,  alas !  upon  entering,  I  found  the  family  no 
way  disposed  for  battle.  My  wife  and  girls  were 
all  in  tears,  Mr.  Thornhill  having  been  there  that 
day  to  inform  them,  that  their  journey  to  town  was 
entirely  over.  The  two  ladies  having  heard  re- 
ports of  us  from  some  malicious  person  about  us, 
were  that  day  set  out  for  London.  He  could  nei- 
ther discover  the  tendency,  nor  the  author  of  these ; 
but  whatever  thciy  might  be,  or  whoever  might  have 
broached  them,  he  continued  to  assure  our  family 
of  his  friendship  and  protection.  "I  found,  there- 
fore, that  they  bore  my  disappointment  with  great 
resignation,  as  it  was  ecUpsed  in  the  greatness  of 
their  own.  But  what  perplexed  us  most,  was  to 
think  who  could  be  so  base  as  to  asperse  the  cha- 


to  excite  envy,  and  too  inoffensive  to  create  di* 

gust. 


-The  folly  of  bein^ 


CHAPTER  XV. 

All  Mr.  Burchell's  villany  at  once  detected.- 
over-wise.   ■ 

That  evening,  and  a  part  of  the  following  day, 
was  employed  in  fruitless  attempts  to  discover  our 
enemies :  scarcely  a  family  in  the  neighbourhood 
but  incurred  our  suspicions,  and  each  of  us  had 
reasons  for  our  opinion  best  known  to  ourselves. 
As  we  were  in  this  perplexity,  one  of  our  little  boys, 
who  had  been  playing  abroad,  brought  in  a  letter- 
case,  which  he  found  on  the  green.  It  was  quickly 
known  to  belong  to  Mr.  Burchell,  with  whom  it 
had  been  seen,  and,  upon  examination,  contained 
some  hints  upon  different  subjects ;  but  what  par- 
ticularly engaged  our  attention  was  a  sealed  note 
superscribed,  The  copy  of  a  letter  to  be  sent  to  the 
two  ladies  at  Thornhill-castle.  It  instantly  occur- 
red that  he  was  the  base  informer,  and  we  delibe- 
rated whether  the  note  should  not  be  broke  open. 
I  was  against  it ;  but  Sophia,  who  said  she  was 
sure  that  of  all  men  he  would  be  the  last  to  be 
guilty  of  so  much  baseness,  insisted  upon  its  bei)ig 
read.  In  this  she  was  seconded  by  the  rest  of  the 
family,  and  at  their  joint  solicitation  I  read  as  fol' 
lows : 

"Ladies, 

"  The  bearer  will  sufficiently  satisfy  you  as  to 
the  person  from  whom  this  comes :  one  at  least  the 
friend  of  innocence,  and  ready  to  prevent  its  being 
seduced.  I  am  informed  for  a  truth  that  you  have 
some  intention  of  bringing  two  young  ladies  to 
town,  whom  I  have  some  knowledge  of,  under  the 
character  of  companions.  As  I  would  neither  have 
simplicity  imposed  upon,  nor  virtue  contaminated, 
I  must  offer  it  as  my  opinion,  that  the  impropriety 
of  such  a  step  will  be  attended  with  dangerous 
consequences.  It  has  never  been  my  way  to  treat 
the  infamous  or  the  lewd  with  severity ;  nor  should 
1  now  have  taken  this  method  of  explaining  myself, 
or  reproving  folly,  did  it  not  aim  at  guilt.  Take 
therefore  the  admonition  of  a  friend,  and  seriously 
reflect  on  the  consequences  of  introducing  infamy 
and  vice  into  retreats,  where  peace  and  innocence 
have  hitherto  resided." 

Our  doubts  were  now  at  an  end.  There  seemed 
indeed  something  applicable  to  both  sides  in  this 
letter,  and  its  censures  might  as  well  be  referred  to 
those  to  whom  it  was  written,  as  to  us ;  but  the 
malicious  meaning  was  obvioUvS,  and  we  went  ni.> 
farther.  My  wife  had  scarcely  patience  to  hear 
me  to  the  end,  but  railed  at  the  writer  with  unre- 
lacter  of  a  family  so  harmless  as  ours,  too  humble '  strained  resentment,     Olivia  was  equally  scvp'r. 


80 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


and  Sophia  seemed  perfectly  amazed  at  his  base- 
ness. As  for  my  part,  it  appeared  to  me  one  of  the 
vilest  instances  of  improvoked  ingratitude  I  had  met 
with ;  nor  could  I  account  for  it  in  any  other  man- 
ner, than  by  imputing  it  to  his  desire  of  detaining 
my  youngest  daughter  in  the  country,  to  have  the 
more  frequent  opportunities  of  an  interview.  In 
this  manner  we  all  sat  nuninating  upon  schemes 
of  vengeance,  when  our  other  little  boy  came  run- 
ning in  to  tell  us  that  Mr.  Burchell  was  approach- 
ing at  the  other  end  of  the  field.  It  is  easier  to 
conceive  than  describe  the  complicated  sensations 
which  are  felt  from  the  pain  of  a  recent  injury,  and 
the  pleasure  of  approaching  vengeance.  Though 
our  intentions  were  only  to  upbraid  him  with  his 
ingratitude,  yet  it  was  resolved  to  do  it  in  a  man- 
ner that  would  be  perfectly  cutting.  For  this  pur- 
pose we  agreed  to  meet  him  with  our  usual  smiles ; 
to  chat  in  the  beginning  with  more  than  ordinary 
kindness ;  to  amuse  him  a  little ;  and  then,  in  the 
midst  of  the  flattering  calm,  to  burst  upon  him  like 
an  earthquake,  and  overwhelm  him  with  a  sense 
of  his  own  baseness.  Tliis  being  resolved  upon, 
my  wife  undertook  to  manage  the  business  herself, 
as  she  really  had  some  talents  for  such  an  under- 
taking. We  saw  him  approach ;  he  entered,  drew 
a  chair,  and  sat  down. — "A  fine  day,  Mr.  Burch- 
ell."— "Avery  fine  day,  doctor;  though  I  fancy 
we  shall  have  some  rain  by  the  shooting  of  my 
corns." — "  The  shooting  of  your  horns !"  cried  my 
wife  in  a  loud  fit  of  laughter,  and  then  asked  par- 
don for  being  fond  of  a  joke. — "  Dear  madam," 
replied  he,  "I  pardon  you  with  all  my  heart,  for  I 
protest  I  should  not  have  thought  it  a  joke  had  you 
not  told  me." — "  Perhaps  not,  sir,"  cried  my  wife, 
winking  at  us ;  "  and  yet  I  dare  say  you  can  tell  us 
how  many  jokes  go  to  an  ounce." — "I  fancy,  ma- 
dam," returned  Burchell,  "you  have  been  reading 
a  jest  book  this  morning,  that  ounce  of  jokes  is  so 
very  good  a  conceit ;  and  yet,  madam,  I  had  rather 
see  half  an  ounce  of  understanding." — "Ibelieveyou 
might,"  cried  my  wife,  still  smiling  at  us,  though 
the  laugh  was  against  her ;  "and  yet  I  have  seen 
some  men  pretend  to  understanding  that  have  very 
little." — "  And  no  doubt,"  returned  her  antagonist, 
"you  have  Imown  ladies  set  up  for  wit  that  had 
none."  I  quickly  began  to  find  that  my  wife  was 
likely  to  gain  but  little  at  this  business ;  so  I  re- 
solved to  treat  him  in  a  style  of  more  severity  my- 
self. "  Both  wit  and  imderstanding,"  cried  I,  "  are 
trifles  v^rithout  integrity ;  it  is  that  which  gives  value 
to  every  character.  The  ignorant  peasant  without 
fault,  is  greater  than  the  philosopher  with  many ; 
for  what  is  genius  or  courage  without  a  heart  7 
An  honest  man  is  the  noblest  work  of  God.'* 

"  I  always  held  that  hackneyed  maxim  of  Pope," 
returned  Mr.  Burchell,  "as  very  unworthy  a  man 
of  genius,  and  a  base  desertion  of  his  own  superi- 
ority.    As  the  reputation  of  books  is  raised,  not  by 


their  freedom  from  defect,  but  the  greatness  of  their 
,  beauties ;  so  should  that  of  men  be  prized,  not  for 
their  exemption  from  fault,  but  the  size  of  those 
:  virtues  they  are  possessed  of.  The  scholar  may 
I  want  prudence,  the  statesman  may  have  pride,  and 
I  the  champion  ferocity ;  but  shall  we  prefer  to  these 
the  low  mechanic,  who  laboriously  plods  through 
I  life  without  censure  or  applause  1  We  might  as 
well  prefer  the  tame  correct  paintings  of  the  Flem- 
ish school  to  the  erroneous  but  sublime  animations 
of  the  Roman  pencil." 

"Sir,"  replied  I,  "your  present  observation  is 
just,  when  there  are  shining  virtues  and  minute 
defects ;  but  when  it  appears  that  great  vices  are 
opposed  in  the  same  mind  to  as  extraordinary  vir- 
tues, such  a  character  deserves  contempt." 

"  Perhaps,"  cried  he,  "there  may  be  some  such 
monsters  as  you  describe,  of  great  vices  joined  to 
great  virtues ;  yet  in  my  progress  through  life,  I 
never  yet  found  one  instance  of  their  existence :  on 
the  contrary,  I  have  ever  perceived,  that  where  the 
mind  was  capacious,  the  affections  were  good.  And 
indeed  Providence  seems  kindly  our  friend  in  thia 
particular,  thus  to  debilitate  the  understanding 
where  the  heart  is  corrupt,  and  diminish  the  power, 
where  there  is  the  will  to  do  mischief.  This  rule 
seems  to  extend  even  to  other  animals :  the  Uttle 
vermin  race  are  ever  treacherous,  cruel,  and  cow- 
ardly, whilst  those  endowed  with  strength  and 
power  are  generous,  brave,  and  gentle." 

"These  observations  sound  well,"  returned  I, 
"and  yet  it  would  be  easy  this  moment  to  point 
out  a  man,"  and  I  fixed  my  eye  steadfastly  upon 
him,  "  whose  head  and  heart  form  a  most  detesta- 
ble contrast.  Ay,  sir,"  continued  I,  raising  my 
voice,  "  and  I  am  glad  to  have  this  opportunity  of 
detecting  him  in  the  midst  of  his  fancied  security. 
Do  you  know  this,  sir,  this  pocket-book?" — "  Yes, 
sir,  returned  he,  with  a  face  of  impenetrable  as- 
surance, "  that  pocket-book  is  mine,  and  I  am  glad 
you  have  found  it." — "  And  do  you  know,"  cried 
I,  "this  letter?  Nay,  never  falter,  man;  but  look 
me  full  in  the  face :  I  say,  do  you  know  this  letter?'ia 
"That  letter,"  returned  he:  "yes,  it  was  I  thar  I 
wrote  that  letter." — "And  how  could  you,"  said 
I,  "  so  basely,  so  ungratefully  presume  to  write 
this  letter?" — "And  how  came  you,"  replied  he 
with  looks  of  unparalleled  effrontery,  "  so  basely  to 
presume  to  break  open  this  letter?  Don't  you  know, 
now,  I  could  hang  you  all  for  this?  All  that  I 
have  to  do  is  to  swear  at  the  next  justice's,  that 
you  have  been  guilty  of  breaking  open  the  lock  of 
my  pocket-book,  and  so  hang  you  all  up  at  this 
door."  This  piece  of  unexpected  insolence  raised 
me  to  such  a  pitch,  that  I  could  scarce  govern  my 
passion.  "  Ungrateful  wretch !  begone,  and  no 
longer  pollute  my  dwelling  with  thy  baseness!  be- 
gone, and  never  let  me  see  thee  again !  Go  froni 
my  door,  and  the  only  punishment  I  wish  thee  if 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


81 


an  alarmed  conscience,  which  will  be  a  sufficient'j 
tormentor!"  So  saying,  I  threw  him  his  pocket- 
oook,  which  he  took  up  with  a  smile,  and  shutting 
Ihe  clasps  with  the  utmost  composure,  left  us  quite 
astonis^ied  at  the  serenity  of  his  assurance.  My 
wife  was  particularly  enraged  that  nothing  could 
make  him  angry,  or  make  him  seem  ashamed  of 
his  villanies.  "  My  dear,"  cried  1,  willing  to  calm 
those  passions  that  had  been  raised  too  high  among 
us,  "  we  are  not  to  be  surprised  that  bad  men  want 
shame ;  they  only  blush  at  being  detected  in  doing 
good,  but  glory  in  their  vices." 

"  Guilt  and  Shame,  says  the  allegory,  were  at 
first  companions,  and  in  the  beginning  of  their 
journey,  inseparably  kept  together.  But  their 
union  was  soon  found  to  be  disagreeable  and  in- 
convenient to  both :  Guilt  gave  Shame  frequent  un- 
easiness, and  Shame  often  betrayed  the  secret  con- 
spiracies of  Guilt.  After  long  disagreement  there- 
fore, they  at  length  consented  to  part  for  ever. 
Guilt  boldly  walked  forward  alone,  to  overtake 
Fate,  that  went  before  in  the  shape  of  an  execu- 
tioner; but  Shame  being  naturally  timorous,  re- 
turned back  to  keep  company  with  Virtue,  which 
in  the  beginning  of  their  journey  they  had  left 
behind.  Thus,  my  children,  after  men  have  tra- 
velled through  a  few  stages  in  vice,  shame  forsakes 
them,  and  returns  back  to  wait  upon  the  few  vir- 
tues they  have  still  remaining." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  family  use  Art,  which  is  opposed  with  still  greater. 

Whatever  might  have  been  Sophia's  sensa- 
tions, the  rest  of  the  family  was  easily  consoled  for 
Mr.  Burchell's  absence  by  the  company  of  our 
landlord,  whose  visits  now  became  more  frequent, 
and  longer.  Though  he  had  been  disappointed  in 
procuring  my  daughters  the  amusements  of  the 
town  as  he  designed,  he  took  every  opportunity  of 
^  supplying  them  with  those  little  recreations  which 
our  retirement  would  admit  of.  He  usually  came 
in  the  morning,  and  while  my  son  and  I  followed 
our  occupations  abroad,  he  sat  with  the  family  at 
home,  and  amused  them  by  describing  the  town, 
with  every  part  of  which  he  was  particularly  ac- 
quainted. He  could  repeat  all  the  observations 
that  were  retailed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  play- 
houses, and  had  all  the  good  things  of  the  high  wits 
by  rote,  long  before  they  made  their  way  into  the 
jest-books.  The  intervals  between  conversation 
were  employed  in  teaching  my  daughters  piquet,  or 
sometimes  in  setting  my  two  little  ones  to  box,  to 
make  them  sharp,  as  he  called  it :  but  the  hopes 
of  having  him  for  a  son-in-law,  in  some  measure 
blinded  us  to  all  his  imperfections.  It  must  be 
owned,  that  mv  wife  laid  a  thousand  schemes  to 
6 


entrap  him;  or,  to  speak  more  tenderly,  used  every 
art  to  magnify  the  merit  of  her  daughter.  If  the 
cakes  at  tea  ate  short  and  crisp,  they  were  made  by 
Olivia;  if  the  gooseberry-wine  v^as  well  knit,  the 
gooseberries  were  of  her  gathering:  it  was  her 
fingers  which  gave  the  pickles  their  peculiar  green ; 
and  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding,  it  was  her 
judgment  that  mixed  the  ingredients.  Then  the 
poor  woman  would  sometimes  tell  the  'Squire,  that 
she  thought  him  and  Olivia  extremely  of  a  size, 
and  would  bid  both  stand  up  to  see  which  was 
tallest.  These  iristances  of  cunning,  which  she 
thought  impenetrable,  yet  which  every  body  saw 
through,  were  very  pleasing  to  our  benefactor,  who 
gave  every  day  some  new  proofs  of  his  passion, 
which,  though  they  had  not  arisen  to  proposals  of 
marriage,  yet  we  thought  fell  but  little  short  of  it ; 
and  his  slowness  was  attributed  sometimes  to  na- 
tive bashfulness,  and  sometimes  to  his  fear  of  offend  < 
ing  his  uncle.  An  occurrence,  however ,  which 
happened  soon  after,  put  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  he 
designed  to  become  one  of  our  family ;  my  wife 
even  regarded  it  as  an  absolute  promise. 

My  wife  and  daughters  happening  to  return  a 
visit  to  neighbour  Flamborough's,  found  that  family 
had  lately  got  their  pictures  drawn  by  a  limner, 
who  travelled  the  country,  and  took  likenesses  for 
fifteen  shillings  a-head.  As  this  family  and  ours 
had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our 
spirit  took  the  alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us, 
and  notwithstanding  all  I  could  say,  and  I  said  much, 
it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have  our  pictures 
done  too.  Having,  therefore,  engaged  the  limner, — 
for  what  could  I  dol  our  next  deliberation  was,  to 
show  the  superiority  of  our  taste  in  the  attitudes. 
As  for  our  neighbour's  family,  there  were  seven 
of  them,  and  they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges, 
a  thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety  in  life,  no 
composition  in  the  world.  We  desired  to  have 
something  in  a  brighter  style,  and,  after  many  de- 
bates, at  length  came  to  an  unanimous  resolution 
of  being  drawn  together  in  one  large  historical 
family  piece.  This  would  be  cheaper,  since  one 
frame  v»'0uld  serve  for  all,  and  it  would  be  infinitely 
more  genteel;  for  all  families  of  any  taste  were 
now  drawn  in  the  same  manner.  As  w'e  did  not 
immediately  recollect  an  historical  subject  to  hit  us, 
we  were  contented  each  with  being  drawn  as  inde- 
pendent historical  figures.  My  wife  desired  to  be 
represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was  desired 
not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stomach- 
er and  hair.  Her  two  httle  ones  were  to  be  as 
Cupids  by  her  side,  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band, 
was  to  present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whis- 
tonian  controversy.  Olivia  would  be  drawn  ag  an 
Amazon  sitting  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  dressed  in 
a  green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a  whip 
in  her  hand.  Sophia  was  to  be  a  shepherdess, 
with  as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


for  nothing;  and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with 
a  hat  and  white  feather.  Our  taste  so  much  pleased 
the  'Squire,  that  he  insisted  as  being  put  in  as  one 
of  the  family  in  the  character  of  Alexander  the 
Great,  at  Olivia's  feet.  This  was  considered  by 
us  all  as  an  indication  of  his  desire  to  be  introduced 
into  the  family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his  request. 
The  painter  was  therefore  set  to  work,  and  as  he 
wrought  with  assiduity  and  expedition,  in  less  than 
four  days  the  whole  was  completed.  The  piece 
was  large,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  did  not  spare 
his  colours ;  for  which  my  wife  gave  him  great  en- 
comiums. We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with 
his  performance ;  but  an  unfortunate  circumstance 
had  not  occurred  till  the  picture  was  finished, 
which  now  struck  us  with  dismay.  It  was  so  very 
large  that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house  to  fix  it. 
How  we  all  came  to  disregard  so  material  a  point 
is  inconceivable ;  but  certain  it  is,  we  had  been  all 
greatly  remiss.  The  picture,  therefore,  instead  of 
gratifying  our  vanity,  as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a 
most  mortifying  manner,  against  the  kitchen  wall, 
where  the  canvass  was  stretched  and  painted, 
much  too  large  to  be  got  through  any  of  the  doors, 
and  the  jest  of  all  our  neighbours.  One  compared 
it  to  Robinson  Crusoe's  long-boat,  too  large  to  be 
removed;  another  thought  it  more  resembled  a 
reel  in  a  bottle :  some  wondered  how  it  could  be 
got  out,  but  still  more  were  amazed  how  it  ever  got 
in. 

But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it  ef- 
fectually raised  more  malicious  suggestions  in  ma- 
ny. The  'Squire's  portrait  being  found  united  with 
ours,  was  an  honour  too  great  to  escape  envy. 
Scandalous  whispers  began  to  circulate  at  our  ex- 
pense, and  our  tranquillity  was  continually  dis- 
turbed by  persons  who  came  as  friends  to  tell  us 
what  was  said  of  us  by  enemies.  These  reports 
we  always  resented  with  becoming  spirit;  but  scan- 
dal ever  improves  by  opposition. 

We  once  again  therefore  entered  into  a  consul- 
tation upon  obviating  the  malice  of  our  enemies, 
and  at  last  came  to  a  resolution  which  had  too 
much  cunning  to  give  me  entire  satisfaction.  It 
was  this:  as  our  principal  object  was  to  discover 
the  honour  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  addresses,  my  wife 
undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his 
advice  in  the  choice  of  a  husband  for  her  eldest 
daughter.  If  this  was  not  found  suflTicient  to  in- 
duce him  to  a  declaration,  it  was  then  resolved  to 
terrify  him  with  a  rival.  To  this  last  step,  how- 
ever, I  would  by  no  means  give  my  consent,  till 
Olivia  gave  me  the  most  solemn  assurances  that 
she  would  marry  the  person  provided  to  rival  him 
upon  this  occasion,  if  he  did  not  prevent  it,  by 
taking  her  himself.  Such  was  the  scheme  laid, 
which,  though  I  did  not  strenuously  oppose,  I  did 
not  entirely  approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill 


came  to  see  us,  my  girls  took  care  to  be  out  of  th« 
way,  in  order  to  give  their  mamma  an  opportunity 
of  putting  her  scheme  in  execution ;  but  they  only 
retired  to  the  next  room,  whence  they  could  over- 
hear the  whole  conversation.  My  wife  artfully  in- 
troduced it,  by  observing,  that  one  of  the  Miss 
Flamboroughs  was  like  to  have  a  very  good  match 
of  it  in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the  'Squire  assent- 
ing, she  proceeded  to  remark,  that  they  who  had 
warm  fortunes  were  always  sure  of  getting  good 
husbands :  "  But  heaven  help,"  continued  she, 
"  the  girls  that  have  none.  What  signifies  beauty, 
Mr.  Thornhiin  or  what  signifies  all  the  virtue,  and 
all  the  qualifications  in  the  world,  in  this  age  of  self- 
interest?  It  is  not,  what  is  she?  but  what  has  she? 
is  all  the  cry." 

" Madam,"  returned  he,  "I  highly  approve  the 
justice,  as  well  as  the  novelty  of  your  remarks,  and 
if  I  were  a  king,  it  should  be  otherwise.  It  should 
then,  indeed,  be  fine  times  with  the  girls  without 
fortunes :  our  two  young  ladies  should  be  the  first 
for  whom  I  would  provide." 

"Ah,  sir,"  returned  my  wife,  " you  are  pleased 
to  be  facetious:  but  I  wish  I  were  a  queen,  and 
then  I  know  where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look 
for  a  husband.  But,  now  that  you  have  put  it  into 
my  head,  seriously,  Mr.  Thornhill,  can't  you  re- 
commend me  a  proper  husband  for  her?  she  is  now 
nineteen  years  old,  well  grown  and  well  educated, 
and,  in  my  humble  opinion,  does  not  want  for 
parts." 

"  Madam,"  replied  he,  "  if  I  were  to  choose,  I 
would  find  out  a  person  possessed  of  every  accom- 
plishment that  can  make  an  angel  happy.  One 
with  prudence,  fortune,  taste,  and  sincerity;  such, 
madam,  would  be,  in  my  opinion,  the  proper  hus- 
band." "  Ay,  sir,"  said  she,  "  but  do  you  know 
of  any  such  person?" — "No,  madam,"  returned 
he,  "  it  is  impossible  to  know  any  person  that  de- 
serves to  be  her  husband :  she's  too  great  a  treaMiie 
for  one  man's  possession;  she's  a  goddess!  Upon 
my  soulj  I  speak  what  I  think,  she's  an  angel." — 
"Ah,  IVIr.  Thornhill,  you  only  flatter  my  poor 
girl :  but  we  have  been  thinking  of  marrying  her 
to  one  of  your  tenants,  whose  mother  is  lately  dead, 
and  who  wants  a  manager :  you  know  whom  I 
mean,  Farmer  Williams;  a  warm  man,  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill, able  to  give  her  good  bread ;  and  who  has  se- 
veral times  made  her  proposals  (which  was  actually 
the  case):  but,  sir,"  concluded  she,  "I  should  be 
glad  to  have  your  approbation  of  our  choice." — 
"How!  madam,"  replied  he,  "my  approbation! 
My  approbation  of  such  a  choice!  Never.  What ! 
sacrifice  so  much  beauty,  and  sense,  and  goodness, 
to  a  creature  insensible  of  the  blessing!  Excuse  me, 
I  can  never  approve  of  such  a  piece  of  injustice! 
And  I  have  my  reasons." — "Indeed,  sir,"  cried 
Deborah,  "if  you  have  your  reasons,  that's  ano- 
ther affair;  but  I  should  l>e  glad  to  know  those 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


83 


reasons." — "Excuse  me,  madam,"  returned  he, 
"  they  lie  too  deep  for  discovery  (laying  his  hand 
upon  his  bosom);  they  remain  buried,  riveted  here." 
After  he  was  gone,  upon  a  general  consultation, 
we  could  not  tell  what  to  make  of  thege  fine  senti- 
ments. Olivia  considered  them  as  instances  of  the 
most  exalted  passion;  but  I  was  not  quite  so  san- 
guine: it  seemed  to  me  pretty  plain,  that  they  had 
more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them :  yet,  what- 
ever they  might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prose- 
cute the  scheme  of  Farmer  Williams,  who,  from 
my  daughter's  first  appearance  in  the  country,  had 
paid  her  his  addresses. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Scarcely  any  Virtue  found  to  resist  tlie  power  of  long  and 
pleasing  Temptation. 

As  I  only  studied  my  child's  real  happiness,  the 
assiduity  of  Mr.  Williams  pleased  me,  as  he  was 
in  easy  circumstances,  prudent,  and  sincere.  It 
required  but  very  little  encouragement  to  revive  his 
former  passion ;  so  that  in  an  evening  or  two  he  and 
Mr.  Thornliill  met  at  our  house,  and  surveyed  each 
other  for  some  time  with  looks  of  anger;  but  Wil- 
liams owed  his  landlord  no  rent,  and  little  regarded 
his  indignation.  Olivia,  on  her  side,  acted  the  co- 
quette to  perfection,  if  that  might  be  called  acting 
which  was  her  real  character,  pretending  to  lavish 
all  her  tenderness  on  her  new  lover.  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill  appeared  quite  dejected  at  this  preference,  and 
with  a  pensive  air  took  leave,  though  I  own  it  puz- 
zled me  to  find  him  so  much  in  pain  as  he  appeared 
to  be,  when  he  had  it  in  his  power  so  easily  to  re- 
move the  cause,  by  declaring  an  honourable  pas- 
sion. But  whatever  uneasiness  he  seemed  to  en- 
dure, it  could  easily  be  perceived  that  Olivia's  an 
guish  was  still  greater.  After  any  of  these  inter 
views  between  her  lovers,  of  which  there  were  se 
veral,  she  usually  retired  to  solitude,  and  there  in 
.  dulged  her  grief  It  was  in  such  a  situation  I 
found  her  one  evening,  after  she  had  been  for  some 
time  supporting  a  fictitious  gaiety.  "You  now 
see,  my  child,"  said  I,  "that  your  confidence  in 
Mr.  Thornhill's  passion  was  all  a  dream:  he  per 
mits  the  rivalry  of  another,  every  way  his  inferior, 
though  he  knows  it  lies  in  his  power  to  secure  you 
to  himself  by  a  candid  declaration." — "Yes,  papa, 
returned  she,  "but  he  has  his  reasons  for  this  de- 
lay :  I  know  he  has.  The  sincerity  of  his  looks 
and  words  convinces  me  of  his  real  esteem.  A 
short  time,  I  hope,  will  discover  the  generosity  of 
his  sentiments,  and  convince  you  that  my  opinion 
of  him  has  been  more  just  than  yours." — "  Olivia, 
my  darling,"  returned  I,  "every  scheme  that  has 
been  hitherto  pursued  to  compel  him  to  a  declara 
tion,  has  been  proposed  and  planned  by  yourself 


nor  can  you  in  the  least  say  that  I  have  constrained 
you.  But  you  must  not  suppose,  my  dear,  that  I 
will  ever  be  instrumental  in  suffering  his  honest 
rival  to  be  the  dupe  of  your  ill-placed  passion. 
Whatever  time  you  require  to  bring  your  fancied 
admirer  to  an  explanation,  shall  be  granted ;  but  at 
the  expiration  of  that  term,  if  he  is  still  regardless, 
I  must  absolutely  insist  that  honest  Mr.  Williams 
shall  be  rewarded  for  his  fidelity.  The  character 
which  I  have  hitherto  supported  in  life  demands 
this  from  me,  and  my  tenderness  as  a  parent  shall 
never  influence  my  integrity  as  a  man.  Name 
then  your  day;  let  it  be  as  distant  as  you  think 
proper;  and  in  the  meantime,  take  care  to  let  Mr. 
Thornliill  know  the  exact  time  on  which  I  design 
delivering  you  up  to  another.  If  he  really  loves 
you,  his  own  good  sense  will  readily  suggest  that 
there  is  but  one  method  alone  to  prevent  his  losing 
you  for  ever." — This  proposal,  which  she  could  not 
avoid  considering  as  perfectly  just,  was  readily 
agreed  to.  She  again  renewed  her  most  positive 
promise  of  marrying  Mr.  Williams,  in  case  of  the 
other's  insensibility ;  and  at  the  next  opportunity, 
in  Mr.  Thornhill's  presence,  that  day  month  was 
fixed  upon  for  her  nuptials  with  his  rival. 

Such  vigorous  proceedings  seemed  to  redouble 
Mr.  Thornhill's  anxiety:  but  what  Olivia  really 
felt  gave  me  some  uneasiness.  In  this  struggle 
between  prudence  and  passion,  her  vivacity  quite 
forsook  her,  and  every  opportunity  of  solitude  was 
sought  and  spent  in  tears.  One  week  passed  away ; 
but  Mr.  Thornhill  made  no  efforts  to  restrain  her 
nuptials.  The  succeeding  week  he  was  still  assi- 
duous; but  not  more  open.  On  the  third  he  dis- 
continued his  visits  entirely,  and  instead  of  my 
daughter  testifying  any  impatience,  as  I  expected, 
she  seemed  to  retain  a  pensive  tranquillity,  which 
I  looked  upon  as  resignation.  For  my  own  part, 
I  was  now  sincerely  pleased  with  thinking  that  my 
child  was  going  to  be  secured  in  a  continuance  of 
competence  and  peace,  and  frequently  applauded 
her  resolution,  in  preferring  happiness  to  ostenta- 
tion. 

It  was  within  about  four  days  of  her  intended 
nuptials,  that  my  little  family  at  night  were  gather- 
ed round  a  charming  lire,  telling  stories  of  the  p;jst, 
and  laying  schemes  for  the  future;  busied  in  form- 
ing a  thousand  projects,  and  laughing  at  whatever 
folly  came  uppermost.  "  Well,  Moses,"  cried  I, 
"  we  shall  soon,  my  boy,  have  a  wedding  in  the 
family ;  what  is  your  opinion  of  matters  and  things 
in  general?" — "My  opinion,  father,  is,  that  all 
things  go  on  very  well;  and  1  was  just  now  think- 
ing, that  when  sister  Livy  is  married  to  Farmer 
Williams,  we  shall  then  have  the  loan  of  his  cider 
press  and  brewing  tubs  for  nothing." — "  That  we ' 
shall,  Moses,"  cried  I,  "  and  he  will  sing  us  Death 
and  the  Lady^  to  raise  our  spirits,  into  the  bargain." 
"  He  har.  taught  that  song  to  our  Dick,"  cried  Mo- 


84 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


scs,  "and  I  think  he  goes  through  it  very  prettily." 
"Does  he  so?"  cried  I,  "then  let  us  have  it: 
Where's  little  Dick'?  let  him  up  with  it  boldly." — 
"  My  brother  Dick,"  cried  Bill,  my  youngest,  "  is 
just  gone  out  with  sister  Livy ;  but  Mr.  WiUiams 
has  taught  me  two  songs,  and  I'll  sing  them  for 
you,  papa.  Which  song  do  you  choose.  The  dying 
Sican^  or  the  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog?" 
"  The  elegy,  child,  by  all  means,"  said  I;  "  I  never 
heard  that  yet;  and  Deborah,  my  life,  grief  you 
know  is  dry,  let  us  have  a  bottle  of  the  best  goose- 
berry-wine, to  keep  up  our  spirits,  I  have  wept 
so  much  at  all  sorts  of  elegies  of  late,  that,  without 
an  enlivening  glass,  I  am  sure  this  will  overcome 
me;  and  Sophy,  love,  take  your  guitar,  and  thrum 
in  with  the  boy  a  little." 

AN  ELEGY   ON   THE    DEATH    Of   A   MAD   DOG. 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song. 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short, 

It  can  not  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends; 

But  when  a  pique  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends. 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man, 

Around  from  all  the  neighbouring  streets, 
The  wondering  neighbours  ran. 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  christian  eye; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 
That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied, — 

The  man  recover' d  of  the  bite, 
The  dog  it  was  that  died. 

^'  A  very  good  boy.  Bill,  upon  my  word,  and  an 
elegy  that  may  truly  be  called  tragical.  Come,  my 
children,  here's  Bill's  health,  and  may  he  one  day 
be  a  bishop!" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  cried  my  wife;  "  and  if  he 


but  preaches  as  well  as  lie  sings,  I  make  no  doubt 
of  him.  The  most  of  his  family,  by  the  mother's 
side,  could  sing  a  good  song :  it  was  a  common  say- 
ing in  our  country,  that  the  family  of  the  Blenkin- 
sops  could  never  look  straight  before  them,  nor  the 
Hugginsons  blow  out  a  candle;  that  there  were 
none  of  the  Grograms  but  could  sing  a  song,  or  of 
Marjorums  but  could  tell  a  story." — "However 
that  be,"  cried  I,  "  the  most  vulgar  ballad  of  them 
all  generally  pleases  me  better  than  the  fine  modern 
odes,  and  things  that  petrify  us  in  a  single  stanza; 
productions  that  we  at  once  detest  and  praise.  Put 
the  glass  to  your  brother,  Moses.  The  great  fault 
of  these  elegiasts  is,  that  they  are  in  despair  for 
griefs  that  give  the  sensible  part  of  mankind  very 
little  pain.  A  lady  loses  her  muff,  her  fan,  or  her 
lap-dog,  and  so  the  silly  poet  runs  home  to  versify 
the  disaster," 

"That  may  be  the  mode,"  cried  Moses,  "iii 
sublimer  compositions;  but  the  Ranelagh  songs  that 
come  down  to  us  are  perfectly  familiar,  and  all  cast 
in  the  same  mould :  Colin  meets  Dolly,  and  they 
hold  a  dialogue  together;  he  gives  her  a  fairing  to 
put  in  her  hair,  and  she  presents  him  with  a  nose- 
gay; and  then  they  go  together  to  church,  where 
they  give  good  advice  to  young  nymphs  and  swains 
to  get  married  as  fast  as  they  can." 

"  And  very  good  advice  too,"  cried  I ;  "  and  I  am 
told  there  is  not  a  place  in  the  world  where  advice 
can  be  given  with  so  much  propriety  as  there ;  for 
as  it  persuades  us  to  marry,  it  also  furnishes  us  with 
a  wife :  and  surely  that  must  be  an  excellent  market, 
my  boy,  where  we  are  told  what  we  want,  and  siip- 
phed  with  it  when  wanting," 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Moses,  "  and  I  know  but 
of  two  such  markets  for  wives  in  Europe,  Ranelagh 
in  England,  and  Fontarabia  in  Spain,  The  Span- 
ish market  is  open  once  a-year;  but  our  EngUsh 
wives  are  saleable  every  night." 

"You  are  right,  my  boy,"  cried  his  mother; 
"  Old  England  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  for 
husbands  to  get  wives." — "  And  for  wives  to  man- 
age their  husbands,"  interrupted  I.  "  It  is  a  pro- 
verb abroad,  that  if  a  bridge  were  built  across  the 
sea,  all  the  ladies  of  the  continent  would  come  over 
to  take  pattern  from  om's;  for  there  are  no  such 
wives  in  Europe  as  our  own.  But  let  us  have  one 
bottle  more,  Deborah,  my  life;  and  Moses,  give  us 
a  good  song.  What  thanks  do  we  not  owe  to 
Heaven  for  thus  bestowing  tranquillity,  health,  and 
competence.  I  think  myself  happier  now  than  the 
greatest  monarch  upon  earth.  He  has  no  such 
fire-side,  nor  such  pleasant  faces  about  it.  Yes, 
Debc.~jh,  we  are  now  growing  old ;  but  the  evening 
of  our  life  is  Ukely  to  be  happy.  We  are  descend- 
ed from  ancestors  that  knew  no  stain,  and  we  shall 
leave  a  good  and  virtuous  race  of  children  behind 
us.  While  we  live,  they  vdll  be  our  support  and  our 
pleasure  here;  and  when  we  die,  they  will  transmit 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


65 


our  honour  untainted  to  posterity.  Come,  my 
son,  we  wait  for  a  song :  let  us  have  a  chorus.  But 
where  is  my  darUng  OUvia?  That  Uttle  cherub's 
voice  is  always  sweetest  in  the  concert." — Just  as 
I  spoke,  Dick  came  running  in,  "  O  papa,  papa, 
she  is  gone  from  us,  she  is  gone  from  us ;  my  sister 
Livy  is  gone  from  us  forever." — "Gone,  child!" 
"  Yes,  she  is  gone  off  with  two  gentlemen  in  apost- 
chaise,  and  one  of  them  kissed  her,  and  said  he 
would  die  for  her :  and  she  cried  very  much,  and 
was  for  coming  back ;  but  he  persuaded  her  again, 
and  she  went  into  the  chaise,  and  said,  O  what 
will  my  poor  papa  do  when  he  knows  I  am  undone !" 
"Now  then,"  cried  I,  "ray  children,  go  and  be 
miserable ;  for  we  shall  never  enjoy  one  hour  more. 
And  O  may  Heaven's  everlasting  fury  light  upon 
him  and  his ! — Thus  to  rob  me  of  my  child ! — And 
sure  it  will,  for  taking  back  my  sweet  innocent  that 
I  was  leading  up  to  Heaven.  Such  sincerity  as 
my  child  was  possessed  of! — But  all  our  earthly 
happiness  is  now  over !  Go,  my  children,  go  and 
be  miserable  and  infamous ;  for  my  heart  is  broken 
within  me!" — "Father,"  cried  my  son,  "is  this 
your  fortitude?" — "Fortitude,  child!  Yes,  he 
shall  see  I  have  fortitude !  Bring  me  my  pistols. 
I'll  pursue  the  traitor:  while  he  is  on  earth  I'll 
pursue  him.  Old  as  I  am,  he  shall  find  I  can  sting 
him  yet.  The  villain!  The  perfidious  villain!" 
I  had  by  this  time  reached  down  my  pistols,  when 
my  poor  wife,  whose  passions  were  not  so  strong 
as  mine,  caught  me  in  her  arms.  "  My  dearest, 
dearest  husband,"  cried  she,  "the  Bible  is  the  only 
weapon  that  is  fit  for  your  old  hands  now.  Open 
that,  my  love,  and  read  our  anguish  into  patience, 
for  she  has  vilely  deceived  us." — "  Indeed,  sir,"  re- 
sumed my  son,  after  a  pause,  "  your  rage  is  too  vio- 
lent and  unbecoming.  You  should  be  my  mother's 
comforter,  and  you  increase  her  pain.  It  ill  suited 
you  and  your  reverend  character,  tlius  to  curse 
your  greatest  enemy :  you  should  not  have  cursed 
him,  villain  as  he  is," — "  I  did  not  curse  him,  child, 
did  17" — "Indeed,  sir,  you  did;  3'ou  cursed  him 
twice," — "  Then  may  Heaven  forgive  me  and  liim 
if  I  did!  And  now,  my  son,  I  see  it  was  more 
than  human  benevolence  that  first  taught  us  to 
bless  our  enemies !  Blessed  be  his  holy  name  for 
all  the  good  he  hath  given,  and  for  all  that  he  hath 
taken  away.  But  it  is  not — it  is  not  a  small  dis- 
tress that  can  wring  tears  from  these  old  eyes,  that 
have  not  wept  for  so  many  years.  My  child ! — 
To  undo  my  darUng! — May  confusion  seize — 
Heaven  forgive  me,  what  am  I  about  to  say ! — You 
may  remember,  my  love,  how  good  she  v^as,  and 
how  charming ;  till  this  vile  moment,  all  her  care 
was  to  make  us  happy.  Had  she  but  died ! — But 
she  is  gone,  the  honour  of  our  family  contaminated, 
and  I  must  look  out  for  happiness  in  other  worlds 
than  here.  But,  my  child,  you  saw  them  go  off: 
perhaps  he  forced  her  away?    If  he  forced  her, 


she  may  yet  be  innocent." — "  Ah  no,  sir,"  cried 
the  child ;  "  he  only  kissed  her,  and  called  her  his 
angel,  and  she  wept  very  much,  and  leaned  upon 
his  arm,  and  they  drove  off  very  fast," — "  She's  an 
ungrateful  creature,"  cried  my  wife,  who  could 
scarcely  speak  for  weeping,  "to  use  us  thus.  She 
never  had  the  least  constraint  put  upon  her  affec- 
tions. The  vile  strumpet  has  basely  deserted  her 
parents  without  any  provocation — thus  to  bring 
your  gray  hairs  to  the  grave,  and  I  must  shortly 
follow," 

In  this  manner  that  night,  the  first  of  our  real 
misfortunes,  was  spent  in  the  bitterness  of  com- 
plaint, and  ill-supported  sallies  of  enthusiasm.  I 
determined,  ^  however,  to  find  out  our  betrayer, 
wherever  he  was,  and  reproach  his  baseness.  The 
next  morning  we  missed  our  wretched  child  at 
breakfast,  where  she  used  to  give  life  and  cheerful- 
ness to  us  all.  My  wife,  as  before,  attempted  to 
ease  her  heart  by  reproaches,  "  Never,"  cried  she, 
"shall  that  vilest  stain  of  our  family  again  darken 
these  harmless  doors,  I  will  never  call  her  daugh- 
ter more.  No,  let  the  strumpet  live  with  her  vile 
seducer :  she  may  bring  us  to  shame,  but  she  shall 
never  more  deceive  us." 

"Wife,"  said  1,  "do  not  talk  thus  hardly:  my 
detestation  of  her  guilt  is  as  great  as  yours ;  but 
ever  shall  this  house  and  this  heart  be  open  to  a 
poor  returning  repentant  sinner.  The  sooner  she 
returns  from  her  transgression,  the  more  welcome 
shall  she  be  to  me.  For  tlie  first  time  the  very 
best  may  err ;  art  may  persuade,  and  novelty  spread 
out  its  charm.  The  first  fault  is  the  child  of  sim- 
plicity, but  every  other  the  offspring  of  guilt.  Yes, 
the  wretched  creature  shall  be  welcome  to  this  heart 
and  this  house,  though  stained  with  ten  thousand 
vices.  I  will  again  hearken  to  the  music  of  her 
voice,  again  will  I  hang  fondly  on  her  bosom,  if  I 
find  but  repentance  there.  My  son,  bring  hither 
my  Bible  and  my  staff:  I  will  pursue  her,  wherever 
she  is ;  and  though  I  can  not  save  her  from  shame, 
I  may  prevent  the  continuance  of  iniquity," 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Tlie  Pursuit  of  a  Father  to  reclaim  a  lost  Cliild  to  Virtue. 

Though  the  child  could  not  describe  the  gentle- 
man's person  who  handed  his  sister  into  the  post- 
chaise,  yet  my  suspicions  fell  entirely  upon  our 
young  landlord,  whose  character  for  such  intrigues 
w£ffe  but  too  well  known.  I  therefore  directed  my 
steps  towards  Thornhill-castlc,  resolving  to  upbraid 
him,  and,  if  possible,  to  bring  back  my  daughter : 
but  before  I  had  reached  his  seat,  I  was  met  by  one 
of  my  parishioners,  who  said  he  saw  a  young  lady, 
resembling  my  daughter,  in  a  post-chaise  with  a 
gentleman,  whom,  by  the  description,  I  could  only 


l?6 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


guess  to  be  Mr.  Burchell,  and  that  they  drove  very 
fast.  This  information,  however,  did  by  no  means 
satisfy  me.  I  therefore  went  to  the  young  'Squire's, 
j.nd  though  it  was  yet  early,  insisted  upon  seeing 
him  immediately.  He  soon  appeared  with  the 
most  open  familiar  air,  and  seemed  perfectly  ama- 
zed at  my  daughter's  elopement,  protesting  upon 
his  honour  that  he  was  quite  a  stranger  to  it.  I 
now  therefore  condemned  my  former  suspicions, 
and  could  turn  them  only  on  Mr.  Burchell,  who  I 
recollected  had  of  late  several  private  conferences 
with  her :  but  the  appearance  of  another  witness 
left  me  no  room  to  doubt  his  \illany,  who  averred, 
that  he  and  my  daughter  were  actually  gone  towards 
the  Wells,  about  thirty  miles  off,  where  there  was 
a  great  deal  of  company.  Being  driven  to  that 
state  of  mind  in  which  v^^e  are  more  ready  to  act 
precipitately  than  to  reason  right,  I  never  debated 
with  myself,  whether  these  accounts  might  not  have 
been  given  by  persons  purposely  placed  in  my  way 
to  mislead  me,  but  resolved  to  pursue  my  daughter 
and  her  fancied  deluder  thither.  I  walked  along 
with  earnestness,  and  inquired  of  several  by  the 
wa)'-;  but  received  no  accounts,  till,  entering  the 
town,  I  was  met  by  a  person  on  horseback,  whom 
I  remembered  to  have  seen  at  the  'Squire's,  and  he 
assured  me,  that  if  I  followed  them  to  the  races, 
which  were  but  thirty  miles  farther,  I  might  depend 
upon  overtaking  them ;  for  he  had  seen  them  dance 
there  the  night  before,  and  the  whole  assembly 
seemed  charmed  with  my  daughter's  performance. 
Eayly  the  next  day,  I  walked  forward  to  the  races, 
and  about  four  in  the  afternoon  I  came  upon  the 
course.  The  company  made  a  very  brilliant  ap- 
pearance, all  earnestly  employed  in  one  pursuit, 
that  of  pleasure :  how  different  from  mine,  that  of 
reclaiming  a  lost  child  to  virtue !  I  thought  1  per- 
ceived Mr.  Burchell  at  some  distance  from  me ;  but, 
as  if  he  dreaded  an  interview,  upon  my  approach- 
ing him,  he  mixed  among  a  crowd,  and  1  saw  him 
no  more.  I  now  reflected  tliat  it  would  be  to  no 
purpose  to  continue  my  pursuit  farther,  and  resolved 
to  return  home  to  an  innocent  family,  who  wanted 
my  assistance.  But  the  agitations  of  my  mind, 
and  the  fatigues  I  had  undergone,  threw  me  into  a 
fever,  the  sjrmptoms  of  which  I  perceived  before  I 
came  off  the  course.  T  his  was  another  unexpected 
stroke,  as  I  was  more  than  seventy  miles  distant 
from  home :  however,  I  retired  to  a  little  ale-house 
by  the  road-side,  and  in  this  place,  the  usual  retreat 
of  indigence  and  frugality,  1  laid  me  down  patiently 
to  wait  the  issue  of  my  disorder.  I  languished  here 
for  nearly  three  weeks ;  but  at  last  my  constitution 
prevailed,  though  I  was  unprovided  with  money  to 
defray  the  expenses  of  my  entertainment.  It  is 
possible  the  anxiety  from  this  last  circumstance 
alone  might  have  brought  on  a  relapse,  had  I  not 
been  supplied  by  a  traveller,  who  stopped  to  take  a 
cursory  refreshment.     This  person  was  no  other 


than  the  philanthropic  bookseller  in  St.  Pkol's 
Church-yard,  who  has  written  so  many  little  books 
for  children :  he  called  himself  their  friend ;  but  he 
was  the  friend  of  all  mankind.  He  was  no  sooner 
alighted,  but  he  was  in  haste  to  be  gone ;  for  he 
was  ever  on  business  of  the  utmost  importance,  and 
was  at  that  time  actually  compiling  materials  for 
the  history  of  one  Mr.  Thomas  Trip.  I  immedi- 
ately recollected  this  good-natured  man's  red  pim- 
pled face ;  for  he  had  published  for  me  against  the 
Deuterogamists  of  the  age,  and  from  him  I  bor- 
rowed a  few  pieces,  to  be  paid  at  my  return.  Leaving 
the  inn,  therefore,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  I  resolved 
to  return  home  by  easy  journeys  of  ten  miles  a-day. 
My  health  and  usual  tranquillity  were  almost  re- 
stored, and  I  now  condemned  that  pride  which  had 
made  me  refractory  to  the  hand  of  correction. 
Man  little  knows  what  calamities  are  beyond  his 
patience  to  bear,  till  he  tries  them :  as  in  ascending 
the  heights  of  ambition,  which  look  bright  from 
below,  every  step  we  rise  shows  us  some  new  and 
gloomy  prospect  of  hidden  disappointment ;  so  in 
our  descent  from  the  summits  of  pleasure,  though 
the  vale  of  misery  below  may  appear  at  first  dark 
and  gloomy,  yet  the  busy  mind,  still  attentive  to  its 
ovim  amusement,  finds,  as  we  descend,  something 
to  flatter  and  to  please.  Still,  as  we  approach,  the 
darkest  objects  appear  to  brighten,  and  the  mental 
eye  becomes  adapted  to  its  gloomy  situation. 

I  now  proceeded  forward,  and  had  walked  about 
two  hours,  when  I  perceived  what  appeared  at  a 
distance  like  a  wagon,  which  I  was  resolved  to 
overtake ;  but  when  t  came  up  with  it,  found  it  to 
be  a  strolling  company's  cart,  that  was  carrying  their 
scenes  and  other  theatrical  furniture  to  the  next  vil- 
lage, where  they  were  to  exhibit.  The  cart  was 
attended  only  by  the  person  who  drove  it,  and  one 
of  the  company,  as  the  rest  of  the  players  were  to 
follow  the  ensuing  day.  "  Good  company  upon  the 
road,"  says  the  proverb,  "is  the  shortest  cut."  I 
therefore  entered  into  conversation  with  the  poor 
pla3^er ;  and  as  I  once  had  some  theatrical  powers 
myself,  I  disserted  on  such  topics  with  my  usual 
freedom :  but  as  I  was  pretty  much  unacquainted 
with  the  present  state  of  the  stage,  I  demanded  who 
were  the  present  theatrical  writers  in  vogue,  who 
the  Drydens  and  Otways  of  the  day? — " I  fancy, 
sir,"  cried  the  player,  "  few  of  our  modern  dra- 
matists would  think  themselves  much  honoured  by 
being  compared  to  the  writers  you  mention.  Dry- 
den's  and  Rowe's  manner,  sir,  are  quite  out  of 
fashion ;  our  taste  has  gone  back  a  whole  century  j 
Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and  all  the  plays  of  Shaks- 
peare,  are  the  only  things  that  go  down." — "How," 
cried  I,  "  is  it  possible  the  present  age  can  be  pleased 
with  that  antiquated  dialect,  that  obsolete  humour, 
those  overcharged  characters,  which  abound  in  the 
works  you  mention?" — "Sir,"  returned  my  com- 
panion, "  the  public  think  nothing  about  dialect,  or 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


87 


tkumour,  or  character,  for  that  is  none  of  their  bu- 
siness ;  they  only  go  to  be  amused,  and  find  them- 
selves happy  when  they  can  enjoy  a  pantomime, 
under  the  sanction  of  Jonson's  or  Shakspeare's 
name." — "  So  then,  I  suppose,"  cried  I,  "that  our 
modern  dramatists  are  rather  imitators  of  Shaks- 
peare  than  of  nature." — "  To  say  the  truth,"  re- 
turned my  companion,  "  I  don't  know  that  they 
imitate  any  thing  at  all ;  nor  indeed  does  the  pub- 
lic require  it  of  them :  it  is  not  the  composition  of 
the  piece,  but  the  number  of  starts  and  attitudes 
that  may  be  introduced  into  it,  that  elicits  applause, 
I  have  known  a  piece,  with  not  one  jest  in  the 
whole,  shrugged  into  popularity,  and  another  saved 
by  the  poet's  throwing  in  a  fit  of  the  gripes.  No, 
sir,  the  works  of  Congreve  and  Farquhar  have  too 
much  wit  in  them  for  the  present  taste ;  our  modern 
dialect  is  much  more  natural." 

By  this  time  the  equipage  of  the  strolling  com- 
pany was  arrived  at  the  village,  which,  it  seems, 
had  been  apprized  of  our  approach,  and  was  come 
out  to  gaze  at  us :  for  my  comj^anion  observed,  that 
strollers  always  have  more  spectators  without  doors 
than  within.  I  did  not  consider  the  impropriety  of 
my  lieing  in  such  company,  till  I  saw  a  mob  gather 
about  me.  I  therefore  took  shelter,  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible, in  the  first  ale-house  that  offered,  and  being 
shown  into  the  common  room^  was  accosted  by  a 
very  well  dressed  gentleman,  who  demanded  whe- 
ther I  was  the  real  chaplain  of  the  company,  or 
whether  it  was  only  to  be  my  masquerade  charac- 
ter in  the  play.  Upon  my  informing  him  of  the 
truth,  and  that  I  did  not  belong  in  any  sort  to  the 
company,  he  was  condescending  enough  to  desire 
me  and  the  player  to  partake  in  a  bowl  of  punch, 
over  which  he  discussed  modern  poUtics  with  great 
earnestness  and  interest.  I  set  him  down  in  my 
own  mind  for  nothing  less  than  a  parliament-man 
at  least ;  but  was  almost  confirmed  in  my  conjec- 
tures, when,  upon  asking  what  there  was  in  the 
house  for  supper,  he  insisted  that  the  player  and  I 
should  sup  with  him  at  his  house ;  with  which  re- 
quest, after  some  entreaties,  we  were  prevailed  on 
to  comply. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  description  of  a  Person  discontented  with  the  present 
Government  and  apprehensive  of  the  loss  of  our  Liberties. 

The  house  where  we  were  to  be  entertained 
lying  at  a  small  distance  from  the  village,  our  in- 
viter  observed,  that  as  the  coach  was  not  ready,  he 
would  conduct  us  on  foot;  and  we  soon  arrived  at 
one  of  the  most  magnificent  mansions  I  had  seen 
in  that  part  of  the  country.  The  apartment  into 
which  we  were  shown  was  perfectly  elegant  and 
modern :  he  went  to  give  orders  for  supper,  while 
Ihe  player  with  a  wink,  observed  that  we  were 


perfectly  in  luck.  Our  entertainer  soon  return- 
ed; an  elegant  supper  was  brought  in,  two  or 
three  ladies  in  easy  dishabille  were  introduced, 
and  the  conversation  began  with  some  sprightli- 
ness.  Politics,  however,  was  the  subject  on  which 
our  entertainer  chiefly  expatiated ;  for  he  asserted 
that  liberty  was  at  once  his  boast  and  his  terror. 
After  the  cloth  was  removed,  he  asked  me  if  I  had 
seen  the  last  Monitor?  to  which  replying  in  the 
negative,  "  What,  nor  the  Auditor,  1  suppose?" 
cried  he.  "Neither,  sir,"  returned  I.  "That's 
strange,  very  strange,"  replied  my  entertainer. 
"  Now  I  read  all  the  politics  that  come  out.  The 
Daily,  the  Public,  the  Ledger,  the  Chronicle,  the 
London  Evening,  the  Whitehall  Evening,  the  sev- 
enteen Magazines,  and  the  two  Reviews;  and 
though  they  hate  each  other,  I  love  them  all.  Lib- 
erty, sir,  liberty  is  the  Briton's  boast,  and  by  all  my 
coal-mines  in  Cornwall,  I  reverence  its  guardians." 
— "  Then  it  is  to  be  hoped,"  cried  I,  "  you  reve- 
rence the  king."—"  Yes,"  returned  my  entertainer, 
"when  he  does  what  we  would  have  him;  but  if 
he  goes  on  as  he  has  done  of  late,  I'll  never  trouble 
myself  more  with  his  matters.  I  say  nothing.  1 
think,  only,  I  could  have  directed  some  things  better. 
I  don't  think  there  has  been  a  sufficient  number  of 
advisers :  he  should  advise  with  every  person  wil- 
ling to  give  him  advice,  and  then  we  should  have 
things  done  in  another  guess  manner." 

"  I  wish,"  cried  I,  "  that  such  intruding  advisers 
were  fixed  in  the  pillory.  It  should  be  the  duty 
of  honest  men  to  assist  the  weaker  side  of  our  con- 
stitution, that  sacred  power  which  has  for  some 
years  been  every  day  declining,  and  losing  its  due 
share  of  influence  in  the  state.  But  these  igno- 
rants  still  continue  the  same  cry  of  liberty ;  and  if 
they  hiive  any  weight,  basely  throw  it  into  the  sub- 
siding scale." 

"  How,"  cried  one  of  the  ladies,  "do  I  live  to  see 
one  so  base,  so  sordid,  as  to  be  an  enemy  to  liberty, 
and  a  defender  of  tyrants?  Liberty,  that  sacred 
gift  of  Heaven,  that  glorious  privilege  of  Britons?" 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  cried  our  entertainer,  "that 
there  should  be  any  found  at  present  advocates  for 
slavery?  Any  who  are  for  meanly  giving  up  the 
privilege  of  Britons?  Can  any,  sir,  be  so  abject?" 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  I,  "  I  am  for  liberty,  that  at-, 
tribute  of  God!  Glorious  liberty!  that  theme  of 
modern  declamation.  I  would  have  all  men  kings. 
I  would  be  a  king  myself.  We  have  all  naturally 
an  equal  right  to  the  throne :  we  are  all  originally 
equal.  This  is  my  opinion,  and  was  once  the 
opinion  of  a  set  of  honest  men  who  were  called 
Levellers.  They  tried  to  erect  themselves  into 
a  community  where  all  would  be  equally  free.  But, 
alas!  it  would  never  answer;  for  there  were  some 
among  them  stronger,  and  some  more  cunning  than 
others,  and  these  became  masters  of  the  rest ;  for 
as  sure  as  your  groom  rides  your  horses,  because  he 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


is  a  cunninger  animal  than  they,  so  surely  will  the 
animal  that  is  cunninger  or  stronger  than  he,  sit 
upon  his  shoulders  in  turn.  Since  then  it  is  en- 
tailed upon  humanity  to  submit,  and  some  are  born 
to  command,  and  others  to  obey,  the  question  is,  as 
there  must  be  tyrants,  whether  it  is  better  to  have 
them  in  the  same  house  with  us,  or  in  the  same 
village,  or  still  farther  off,  in  the  metropolis.  Now, 
sir,  for  my  own  part,  as  I  naturally  hate  the  iace 
of  a  tyrant,  the  farther  off  he  is  removed  from  me, 
the  better  pleased  am  I.  The  generality  of  man- 
kind also  are  of  my  way  of  thinking,  and  have 
unanimously  created  one  king,  vi'hose  election  at 
once  diminishes  the  number  of  tyrants,  and  puts 
tyranny  at  the  greatest  distance  from  the  greatest 
number  of  people.  Now  the  great  who  were  ty- 
rants themselves  before  the  election  of  one  tyrant, 
are  naturally  averse  to  a  power  raised  over  them, 
and  whose  weight  must  ever  lean  heaviest  on  the 
subordinate  orders.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  great, 
therefore,  to  diminish  kingly  power  as  much  as 
possible;  because  whatever  they  take  from  that,  is 
naturally  restored  to  themselves ;  and  all  they  have 
to  do  in  the  state,  is  to  undermine  the  single  ty- 
rant, by  which  they  resume  their  primeval  authori- 
ty. Now  the  state  may  be  so  circumstanced,  or 
its  laws  may  be  so  disposed,  or  its  men  of  opulence 
so  minded,  as  all  to  conspire  in  can-ying  on  this 
business  of  undermining  monarchy.  For  in  the 
first  place,  if  the  circumstances  of  our  state  be  such 
as  to  favour  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  and  make 
the  opulent  still  more  rich,  this  will  increase  their 
ambition.  An  accumulation  of  wealth,  however, 
must  necessarily  be  the  consequence,  when  as  at 
present,  more  riches  flow  in  from  external  com- 
merce, than  arise  from  internal  industry;  for  ex 
ternal  commerce  can  only  be  managed  to  ad- 
vantage by  the  rich,  and  they  have  also  at  the 
same  time  all  the  emoluments  arising  from  internal 
industry;  so  that  the  rich,  with  us,  have  two 
sources  of  wealth,  whereas  the  poor  have  but  one. 
For  this  reason,  wealth,  in  all  commercial  states, 
is  found  to  accumulate,  and  all  such  have  hitherto 
in  time  become  aristocraticaL  Again,  the  very 
laws  also  of  this  country  may  contribute  to  the  ac- 
cumulation of  wealth;  as  when,  by  their  means, 
the  natural  ties  that  bind  the  rich  and  poor  together 
are  broken,  and  it  is  ordained,  that  the  rich  shall 
only  marry  with  the  rich;  or  when  the  learned  are 
held  unqualified  to  serve  their  country  as  counsel- 
lors, merely  from  a  defect  of  opulence,  and  wealth 
is  thus  made  the  object  of  a  wise  man's  ambition: 
by  these  means,  I  say,  and  such  means  as  these, 
riches  will  accumulate.  Now  the  possessor  of  ac- 
cumulated wealth,  when  furnished  with  the  neces- 
saricB  and  pleasures  of  life,  has  no  other  method  to 
employ  the  superfluity  of  his  fortune  but  in  pur- 
chasing power.  That  is,  differently  speaking,  in 
making  dependants,  by  purchasing  the  liberty  of 


the  needy  or  the  venal,  of  men  who  are  willing  tc 
bear  the  mortification  of  contiguous  tyranny  for 
bread.  Thus  each  very  opulent  man  generally 
gathers  round  him  a  circle  of  the  poorest  of  the 
people;  and  the  polity  abounding  in  accumulated 
wealth,  may  be  compared  to  a  Cartesian  system, 
each  orb  with  a  vortex  of  its  own.  Those,  how- 
ever, who  are  willing  to  move  in  a  great  man's 
vortex,  are  only  such  as  must  be  slaves,  the  rabble 
of  mankind,  whose  souls  and  whose  education  are 
adapted  to  servitude,  and  who  know  nothing  of  lib- 
erty except  the  name.  But  there  must  still  be  a 
largo  number  of  the  people  without  the  sphere  of 
the  opulent  man's  influence,  namely,  that  order 
of  men  which  subsists  between  the  very  rich  and 
the  very  rabble;  those  men  who  are  possessed  of  too 
large  fortunes  to  submit  to  the  neighbouring  man 
in  power,  and  yet  are  too  poor  to  set  up  for  tyraii- 
ny  themselves.  In  this  middle  order  of  mankind 
are  generally  to  be  found  all  the  arts,  wisdom,  and 
virtues  of  society.  This  order  alone  is  known  to 
be  the  true  preserver  of  freedom,  and  may  be  called 
the  people.  Now  it'  may  happen  that  this  middle 
order  of  mankind  may  lose  all  its  influence  in  a 
state,  and  its  voice  be  in  a  manner  drowned  in 
that  of  the  rabble :  for  if  the  fortune  sufficient  for 
qualifying  a  person  at  present  to  give  his  voice  in 
state  affairs  be  ten  times  less  than  was  judged  suf- 
ficient upon  forming  the  constitution,  it  is  evident 
that  greater  numbers  of  the  rabble  will  be  thus  in- 
troduced into  the  political  system,  and  they  ever 
moving  in  the  vortex  of  the  great,  will  follow  where 
greatness  shall  direct.  In  such  a  state,  therefore, 
all  that  the  middle  order  has  left,  is  to  preserve  the 
prerogative  and  privileges  of  the  one  principal  go- 
vernor with  the  most  sacred  circmnspection.  Foi 
he  divides  the  power  of  the  rich,  and  calls  off  the 
great  from  falling  with  tenfold  weight  on  the  mid- 
dle order  placed  beneath  them.  The  middle  order 
may  be  compared  to  a  town,  of  which  the  opulent 
are  forming  the  siege,  and  of  which  the  governor 
from  without  is  hastening  the  relief.  While  the 
besiegers  are  in  dread  of  an  enemy  over  them,  it  is 
but  natural  to  offer  the  townsmen  the  most  specious 
terms;  to  flatter  them  with  sounds,  and  amuse 
them  with  privileges ;  but  if  they  once  defeat  the 
governor  from  behind,  the  walls  of  the  town  will 
be  but  a  small  defence  to  its  inhabitants.  What  they 
may  then  expect,  may  be  se^n  by  turning  our  eyes 
to  Holland,  Genoa,  or  Venice,  where  the  laws  govern 
the  poor,  and  the  rich  govern  the  law.  I  am  then  for, 
and  would  die  for  monarchy,  sacred  monarchy ;  for 
if  there  be  any  thing  sacred  amongst  men,  it  must  be 
the  anointed  Sovereign  of  his  people;  and  every 
diminution  of  his  power  in  war,  or  in  peace,  is  an 
infringement  upon  the  real  liberties  of  the  subject. 
The  sounds  of  liberty,  patriotism,  and  Britons, 
have  already  done  much ;  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
true  sons  of  freedom  will  prevent  their  ever  doi*jj 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


89 


more.  I  have  known  many  of  those  pretended 
champions  for  liberty  in  my  time,  yet  do  I  not  re- 
member one  that  was  not  in  his  heart  and  in  his 
family  a  tyrant." 

My  warmth  I  found  had  lengthened  this  ha- 
rangue beyond  the  rules  of  goood  breeding:  but 
the  impatience  of  my  entertainer,  who  often  strove 
to  interrupt  it,  could  be  restrained  no  longer. 
"What,"  cried  he,  "then  I  have  been  all  this 
while  entertaining  a  Jesuit  in  parson's  clothes!  but 
by  all  the  coal-mines  of  Cornwall,  out  he  shall 
pack,  if  my  name  be  Wilkinson."  I  now  found  I 
had  gone  too  far,  and  asked  pardon  for  the  warmth 
with  which  1  had  spoken.  "Pardon!"  returned 
he  in  a  fury:  "  I  think  such  principles  demand  ten 
thousand  pardons.  What?  give  up  liberty,  pro- 
perty, and,  the  Gazetteer  says,  lie  down  to  be  sad- 
dled with  wooden  shoes!  sir,  I  insist  upon  your 
marching  out  of  this  house  immediately,  to  prevent 
worse  consequences :  sir,  I  insist  upon  it."  I  was  go- 
ing to  repeat  my  remonstrances;  butjustthen  we 
heard  a  footman's  rap  at  the  door,  and  the  two 
ladies  cried  out,  "  As  sure  as  death  there  is  our 
master  and  mistress  come  home."  It  seems  my 
entertainer  was  all  this  while  only  the  butler,  who, 
in  his  master's  absence,  had  a  mind  to  cut  a  figure, 
and  be  for  a  while  the  gentleman  himself :  and,  to 
say  the  truth,  he  talked  politics  as  well  as  most 
country  gentlemen  do.  But  nothing  could  now  ex- 
ceed my  confusion  upon  seeing  the  gentleman  and 
his  lady  enter ;  nor  was  their  surprise  at  finding 
such  company  and  good  cheer  less  than  ours. 
"Gentlemen,"  cried  the  real  master  of  the  house 
to  me  and  my  companion,"  my  wife  and  I  are 
your  most  humble  servants;  but  I  protest  this 
is  so  unexpected  a  favour,  that  we  almost  sink 
under  the  obligation."  However  unexpected  our 
company  might  be  to  them,  theirs,  I  am  sure,  was 
still  more  so  to  us,  and  I  was  struck  dumb  with 
the  apprehensions  of  my  own  absurdity,  when 
whom  should  I  next  see  enter  the  room  but  my 
dear  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  formerly  de- 
signed to  be  married  to  my  son  George,  but  whose 
match  was  broken  off  as  already  related.  As  soon 
as  she  saw  me,  she  flew  to  my  arms  with  the  ut- 
most joy. — "My  dear  sir,"  cried  she,  "  to  what 
happy  accident  is  it  that  we  owe  so  unexpected  a 
visit?  I  am  sure  my  uncle  and  aunt  will  be  in  rap- 
tures when  they  find  they  have  the  good  Dr.  Prim- 
rose for  their  guest."  Upon  hearing  my  name, 
the  old  gentleman  and  lady  very  politely  stepped 
up,  and  welcomed  me  with  the  most  cordial  hospi- 
tality. Nor  could  they  forbear  smiling,  upon  being 
informed  of  the  nature  of  my  present  visit ;  but  the 
unfortunate  butler,  whom  they  at  first  seemed  dis- 
posed to  turn  away,  was  at  my  intercession  for- 
given. 

Mr.  Arnold  and  his  lady,  to  whom  the  house  be- 
longed, now  insisted  upon  having  the  pleasure  of 


my  stay  for  some  days:  and  as  their  niece,  my 
charming  pupil,  whose  mind  in  some  measure  had 
been  fonned  under  my  ov/n  instructions,  joined  in 
their  entreaties,  I  complied.  That  night  I  was 
shown  to  a  magnificent  chamber,  and  the  next 
morning  early  Miss  Wilmot  desired  to  walk  with 
me  in  the  garden,  which  was  decorated  in  the  mo- 
dern manner.  After  some  time  spent  in  pointing 
out  the  beauties  of  the  place,  she  inquired,  with 
seeming  unconcern,  when  last  I  had  heard  from 
my  son  George?  "Alas,  madam,"  cried  I,  "he  has 
now  been  nearly  three  years  absent,  without  ever 
writing  to  his  friends  or  me.  Where  he  is  I  know 
not ;  perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him  or  happiness 
more.  No,  my  dear  madam,  we  shall  never  more 
see  such  pleasing  hours  as  were  once  spent  by  our 
fire -side  at  Wakefield.  My  little  family  are  now 
dispersing  very  fast,  and  poverty  has  brought  not 
only  want,  but  infamy  upon  us."  The  good-na- 
tured girl  let  fall  a  tear  at  this  account;  but  as  I 
saw  her  possessed  of  too  much  sensibility,  I  fore- 
bore  a  more  minute  detail  of  our  sufferings.  It 
was,  however,  some  consolation  to  me,  to  find  that 
time  had  made  no  alteration  in  her  affections,  and 
that  she  had  rejected  several  offers  that  had  been 
made  her  since  our  leaving  her  part  of  the  country. 
She  led  me  round  all  the  extensive  improvements 
of  the  place,  pointing  to  the  several  walks  and  ar- 
bours, and  at  the  same  time  catching  from  every 
object  a  hint  for  some  new  question  relative  to  my 
son.  In  this  manner  we  spent  the  forenoon,  till 
the  bell  summoned  us  in  to  dinner,  where  we  found 
the  manager  of  the  strolling  company  that  I  men- 
tioned before,  who  was  come  to  dispose  of  tickets 
for  the  Fair  Penitent,  which  was  to  be  acted  that 
evening,  the  part  of  Horatio  by  a  young  gentle- 
man who  had  never  appeared  on  any  stage.  He 
seemed  to  be  very  warm  in  the  praises  of  the  new 
performer,  and  averred  that  he  never  saw  any  who 
bid  so  fair  for  excellence.  Acting,  he  observed, 
was  not  learned  in  a  day;  "but  this  gentleman,'* 
continued  he,  "  seems  born  to  tread  the  stage.  His 
voice,  his  figure,  and  attitudes,  are  all  admirable.  We 
caught  him  up  accidentally  in  our  journey  down." 
This  account,  in  some  measure,  excited  our  curiosi- 
ty, and,  at  the  entreaty  of  the  ladies,  I  was  prevailed 
upon  to  accompany  them  to  the  play-house,  which 
was  no  other  than  a  barn.  As  the  company  with 
which  I  went  was  incontestably  the  chief  of  the 
place,  we  were  received  with  the  greatest  respect, 
and  placed  in  the  front  seat  of  the  theatre ;  where 
we  sat  for  some  time  with  no  small  impatience  to 
see  Horatio  make  his  appearance.  The  new  per- 
brmer  advanced  at  last;  and  let  parents  think  of 
my  sensations  by  their  own,  when  I  found  it  was 
my  unfortunate  son.  He  was  going  to  begin, 
when,  turning  his  eyes  upon  the  audience,  he  per- 
ceived Miss  Wilmot  and  me,  and  stood  at  once 
speechless  and  immovable.   The  actors  behind  the 


90 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


scene,  who  ascribed  this  cause  to  his  natural  timidi 
ty,  attempted  to  encourage  him ;  but  instead  of  go- 
ing on,  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  retired 
off  the  stage.  I  don't  know  what  were  my  feelings 
on  this  occasion,  for  they  succeeded  with  too  much 
rapidity  for  description;  but  I  was  soon  awaked 
from  this  disagreeable  reverie  by  Miss  Wilmot, 
who,  pale,  and  with  a  trembling  voice,  desired  me 
to  conduct  her  back  to  her  uncle's.  When  got  home 
Mr.  Arnold,  who  was  as  yet  a  stranger  to  Our  extra- 
ordinary behaviour,  being  informed  that  the  new 
performer  was  my  son,  sent  his  coach  and  an  in- 
vitation for  him:  and  as  he  persisted  in  his  refusal 
to  appear  again  upon  the  stage,  the  players  put  an- 
other in  his  place,  and  we  soon  had  him  with  us, 
Mr.  Arnold  gave  him  the  kindest  reception,  and 
I  received  him  with  my  usual  transport ;  for  I  could 
never  counterfeit  false  resentment.  Miss  Wilmot's 
reception  was  mixed  with  seeming  neglect,  and  yet 
I  could  perceive  she  acted  a  studied  part.  The 
tumult  in  her  mind  seemed  not  yet  abated :  she 
said  twenty  giddy  things  that  looked  like  joy,  and 
then  laughed  loud  at  her  own  want  of  meaning. 
At  intervals  she  would  take  a  sly  peep  at  the  glass, 
as  if  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  irresistible 
beauty,  and  often  would  ask  questions  without  giv- 
ing any  manner  of  attention  to  the  answers. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  History  of  a  Philosophic  Vagabond,  pursuing  Novelt)-, 
but  losing  Content. 

After  we  had  supped,  Mrs.  Arnold  politely  of- 
fered to  send  a  couple  of  her  footmen  for  my  son's 
baggage,  which  he  at  first  seemed  to  decline;  but 
upon  her  pressing  the  request,  he  was  obliged  to 
inform  her,  that  a  stick  and  a  wallet  were  all  the 
moveable  things  upon  this  earth  that  he  could  boast 
of.  "Why,  ay,  my  son,"  cried  I,  "you  left  me  but 
poor,  and  poor  I  find  you  are  come  back;  and  yet  I 
make  no  doubt  you  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world." — "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  but  travel- 
ling after  fortune  is  not  the  way  to  secure  her;  and, 
indeed,  of  late  I  have  desisted  from  the  pursuit." — 
"  I  fancy,  sir,"  cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "  tfiat  the  ac- 
count of  your  adventures  would  be  amusing:  the 
first  part  of  them  I  have  often  heard  from  my  niece ; 
but  could  the  company  prevail  for  the  rest,  it  would 
be  an  additional  obligation." — "  Madam,"  replied 
my  son,  "  I  promise  you  the  pleasure  you  have  in 
hearing  will  not  be  half  so  great  as  my  vanity  in 
repeating  them;  and  yet  in  the  whole  narrative  I 
can  scarcely  promise  you  one  adventure,  as  my  ac- 
count is  rather  of  what  I  saw  than  what  I  did. 
The  first  misfortune  of  my  life,  which  you  all 
know,  was  great;  but  though  it  distressed,  it  could 
not  sink  me.  No  person  ever  had  a  better  knack 
at  hoping  than  I.    The  less  kind  I  found  fortune 


at  one  time,  the  more  I  expected  from  her  another, 
and  being  now  at  the  bottom  of  her  wheel,  every 
new  revolution  might  lift,  but  could  not  depress  me. 
I  proceeded,  therefore,  towards  London  in  a  fine 
morning,  no  way  uneasy  about  to-morrow,  but 
cheerful  as  the  birds  that  caroled  by  the  road,  and 
comforted  myself  with  reflecting,  that  London  was 
the  mart  where  abilities  of  every  kind  were  sure  of 
meeting  distinction  and  reward. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  town,  sir,  my  first  care  was 
to  deliver  your  letter  of  recommendation  to  oui 
cousin,  who  was  himself  in  little  better  circum- 
stances than  I.  My  first  scheme,  you  know,  sir, 
was  to  be  usher  at  an  academy,  and  I  asked  his  ad- 
vice on  the  aflfair.  Our  cousin  received  the  propo- 
sal with  a  true  Sardonic  grin.  Ay,  cried  he,  this 
is  indeed  a  very  pretty  career  that  has  been  chalked 
out  for  you.  I  have  been  an  usher  at  a  boarding- 
school  myself;  and  may  I  die  by  an  anodyne  neck- 
lace, but  I  had  rather  be  an  under-turnkey  in  New- 
gate. I  was  up  early  and  late :  I  was  browbeat  by 
the  master,  hated  for  my  ugly  face  by  the  mistress, 
worried  by  the  boys  within,  and  never  permitted  to 
stir  out  to  meet  civility  abroad.  But  are  you  sure 
you  are  fit  for  a  school?  Let  me  examine  ycu  a 
little.  Have  you  been  bred  apprentice  to  the  busi- 
ness? No.  Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can 
you  dress  the  boys'  hair?  No.  Then  you  won't  do 
for  a  school.  Have  you  had  the  SEjall-pox?  No. 
Then  you  won't  do  for  a  school.  Can  you  lie 
three  in  a  bed?  No.  Then  you  will  never  do  for  a 
school.  Have  you  got  a  good  stomach?  Yes,  Then 
you  will  by  no  means  do  for  a  school.  No,  sir,  if 
you  are  for  a  genteel  easy  profession,  bind  yourself 
seven  years  as  an  apprentice  to  turn  a  cutler's 
wheel;  but  avoid  a  school  by  any  means.  Yet 
come,  continued  he,  1  see  you  are  a  lad  of  spirit  and 
some  learning,  what  do  you  think  of  commencing 
author,  like  me?  You  have  read  in  books,  no 
doubt,  of  men  of  genius  starving  at  the  trade^  At 
present  I'll  show  you  forty  very  dull  fellows  about 
town  that  live  by  it  in  opulence;  all  honest  jog-trot 
men,  who  go  on  smoothly  and  dully,  and  write  his- 
tory and  politics,  and  are  praised :  men,  sir,  who, 
had  they  been  bred  cobblers,  would  all  their  lives 
have  only  mended  shoes,  but  never  made  them. 

"Finding  that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gen- 
tility affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I  re- 
solved to  accept  his  proposal;  and  having  the  high- 
est respect  for  literature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater 
of  Grub-street  with  reverence.  I  thqjight  it  my 
glory  to  pursue  a  track  which  Dryden^and  Otway 
trod  before  me.  I  considered  the  goddess  of  this 
region  as  the  parent  of  excellence;  and  however  an 
intercourse  with  the  world  might  give  us  good 
sense,  the  poverty  she  entailed  I  supposed  to  be  the 
nurse  of  genius!  Big  with  these  reflections,  I  sat 
down,  and  finding  that  the  best  things  remained  to 
be  said  on  the  wrong  side,  I  resolved  to  write  a  hobk 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


91 


that  should  l»e  wholly  new.  I  therefore  dressed  up 
three  paradoxes  with  some  ingenuity.  They  were 
false,  indeed,  but  they  were  new.  The  jewels  of 
truth  have  been  so  often  imported  by  others,  that 
nothing  was  left  for  me  to  import  but  some  splendid 
things  that  at  a  distance  looked  every  bit  as  well. 
"Witness,  you  powers,  what  fancied  importance  sat 
perched  upon  my  quill  while  I  was  writing!  The 
whole  learned  world,  I  made  no  doubt,  would  rise 
to  oppose  my  systems;  but  then  I  was  prepared  to 
oppose  the  whole  learned  world.  Like  the  porcu- 
pine, I  sat  self-collected,  with  a  quill  pointed  against 
every  opposer." 

"  Well  said,  my  boy,"  cried  I,  "  and  what  sub- 
ject did  you  treat  upon?  I  hope  you  did  not  pass 
over  the  importance  of  monogamy.  But  I  inter- 
rupt; go  on:  you  published  your  paradoxes;  well, 
and  what  did  the  learned  world  say  to  your  para- 
doxes?" 

"  Sir,"  replied  my  son,  "  the  learned  world  said 
nothing  to  my  paradoxes;  nothing  at  all,  sir. 
Every  man  of  them  was  employed  in  praising  his 
friends  and  himself,  or  condemning  his  enemies : 
and  unfortunately,  as  I  had  neither,  I  suffered  the 
crudest  mortification,  neglect. 

"  As  I  was  meditating  one  day  in  a  coffee-house 
on  the  fate  of  my  paradoxes,  a  little  man  happening 
to  enter  the  room,  placed  himself  in  the  box  before 
me,  and  after  some  preliminary  discourse,  finding 
me  to  be  a  scholar,  drew  out  a  bundle  of  proposals, 
begging  me  to  subscribe  to  a  new  edition  he  was 
going  to  give  to  the  world  of  Propertius  with  notes. 
This  demand  necessarily  produced  a  reply  that  I 
had  no  money;  and  that  concession  led  him  to  in- 
quire into  the  nature  of  my  expectations.  Finding 
that  my  expectations  were  just  as  great  as  my 
purse,  I  see,  cried  he,  you  are  unacquainted  with 
the  town ;  I'll  teach  you  a  part  of  it.  Look  at  these 
proposals, — ^upon  these  very  proposals  I  have  sub- 
sisted very  comfortably  for  twelve  years.  The  mo- 
ment a  nobleman  returns  from  his  travels,  a  Creo- 
lian  arrives  from  Jamaica,  or  a  dowager  from  her 
country  seat,  I  strike  for  a  subscription.  I  first  be- 
siege their  hearts  with  flattery,  and  then  pour  in 
my  proposals  at  the  breach.  If  they  subscribe 
readily  the  first  time,  I  renew  my  request  to  beg  a 
dedication  fee.  If  they  let  me  have  that,  I  smite 
them  once  more  for  engraving  their  coat  of  arms  at 
the  top-  Thus,  continued  he,  I  live  by  vanity,  and 
laugh  at  it.  But  between  ourselves,  I  am  now  too 
well  known:  I  should  be  glad  to  borrow  your  face 
a  bit:  a  no"bleman  of  distinction  has  just  returned 
from  Italy;  my  face  is  familiar  to  his  porter;  but  if 
you  bring  this  copy  of  verses,  my  life  for  it  you  Suc- 
ceed, and  we  divide  the  spoil." 

"  Bless  us,  George,"  cried  I,  "  and  is  this  the  em- 
ployment of  poets  now!  Do  men  of  their  exalted 
talents  thus  stoop  to  beggary!  Can  they  so  far  dis- 


grace their  calling  as  to  make  a  vile  traffic  of  praise 
for  bread?" 

*'  O  no,  sir,"  returned  he,  "  a  true  poet  can  never 
be  so  base ;  for  wherever  there  is  genius,  there  ia 
pride.  The  creatures  I  now  describe  are  only  beg- 
gars in  rhyme.  The  real  poet,  as  he  braves  every 
hardship  for  fame,  so  he  is  equally  a  coward  to  con- 
tempt ;  and  none  but  those  who  are  unworthy  pro- 
tection, condescend  to  solicit  it. 

"  Having  a  mind  too  proud  to  stoop  to  such  in- 
dignities, and  yet  a  fortune  too  hmnble  to  hazard  a 
second  attempt  for  fame,  I  was  now  obliged  to  take 
a  middle  course,  and  write  for  bread.  But  I  was 
unqualified  for  a  profession  where  mere  industry 
alone  was  to  ensure  success.  I  could  not  suppress 
my  lurking  passion  for  applause;  but  usually  con- 
sumed that  time  in  efforts  after  excellence  which 
takes  up  but  little  room,  when  it  should  have  been 
more  advantageously  employed  in  the  diffusive  pro- 
ductions of  fruitful  mediocrity.  My  little  piece 
would  therefore  come  forth  in  the  midst  of  periodi- 
cal publications,  unnoticed  and  unknown.  The 
public  were  more  importantly  employed  than  to 
observe  the  easy  simplicity  of  my  style,  or  the  har- 
mony of  my  periods.  Sheet  after  sheet  was  thrown 
off  to  oblivion.  My  essays  were  buried  among  the 
essays  upon  liberty,  eastern  tales,  and  cures  for  the 
bite  of  a  mad  dog;  while  Philautos,  Fhilalethes, 
Philelutheros  and  Philanthropes  all  v^rrote  bettei; 
because  they  wrote  faster  than  I. 

"  Now,  therefore,  I  began  to  associate  with  none 
bui  disappointed  authors,  like  myself,  who  praised, 
deplored,  and  despised  each  other.  The  satisfac- 
tion we  found  in  every  celebrated  writer's  attempts, 
was  inversely  as  their  merits.  I  found  that  no  ge- 
nius in  another  could  please  me.  My  unfortunate 
paradoxes  had  entirely  dried  up  that  source  of  com- 
fort. I  could  neither  read  nor  write  with  satisfac- 
tion; for  excellence  in  another  was  my  aversion, 
and  writing  was  my  trade. 

"  In  the  midst  of  these  gloomy  reflections,  as  I 
was  one  day  sitting  on  a  bench  in  St.  James's  park, 
a  young  gentleman  of  distinction,  who  had  been 
my  intimate  acquaintance  at  the  university,  ap- 
proached me.  We  saluted  each  other  with  some 
hesitation ;  he  almost  ashamed  of  being  known  to 
one  who  made  so  shabby  an  appearance,  and  I 
afraid  of  a  repulse.  But  my  suspicions  soon  van- 
ished ;  for  Ned  Thornhill  was  at  the  bottom  a  very 
good-natured  fellow." 

"  What  did  you  say,  George?"  interrupted  I. — 
"  Thornhill,  was  not  that  his  name?  It  can  cer- 
tainly be  no  other  than  my  landlord." — ''  Bless  me," 
cried  Mrs.  Arnold,  "is  Mr.  Thornhill  so  near  a 
neighbour  of  yours?  He  has  long  been  a  friend  in 
our  family,  and  we  expect  a  visit  from  him  shortly." 

"My  friend's  first  care,"  continued  my  son, 
"  was  to  alter  my  appearance  by  a  very  fine  suit  of 


93 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


his  own  clothes,  and  then  I  was  admitted  to  his  ta- 
ble, upon  tlie  footing  of  half-friend,  half-imderlinrr. 
My  business  was  to  attend  him  at  auetions,  to  put 
him  in  spirits  v/hen  he  sat  for  his  pictv^re,  to  take 
the  left  hand  in  his  chariot  when  not  filled  by  ano- 
ther, and  to  assist  at  tattering  a  kip,  as  the  phrase 
was,  when  we  had  a  mind  for  a  frolic.  Besides 
this,  I  had  twenty  other  little  employments  in  the 
family.  I  was  to  do  many  small  things  without 
bidding;  to  carry  the  corkscrew ;  to  stand  godfather 
to  all  the  butler's  children;  to  sing  when  I  was  bid; 
to  be  never  out  of  humour;  always  to  be  humble; 
and,  if  I  could,  to  be  very  happy. 

"  In  this  honourable  post,  however,  I  was  not 
without  a  rival.  A  captain  of  marines,  who  was 
formed  for  the  place  by  nature,  opposed  me  in  my 
patron's  affections.  His  mother  had  been  laundress 
to  a  man  of  quality,  and  thus  he  early  acquired  a 
taste  for  pimping  and  pedigree.  As  this  gentleman 
made  it  the  study  of  his  life  to  be  acquainted  with 
lords,  though  he  w^as  dismissed  from  several  for  his 
stupidity,  yet  he  found  many  of  them  who  were  as 
dull  as  himself,  that  permitted  his  assiduities.  As 
llattery  was  his  trade,  he  practised  it  with  the 
easiest  address  imaginable;  but  it  came  awkward 
and  stiff  from  me :  and  as  every  day  my  patron's 
desire  of  flattery  increased,  so  every  hour  being 
better  acquainted  with  his  defects,  I  became  more 
unwilling  to  give  it.  Thus  I  was  once  more  fair- 
ly going  to  give  up  the  field  to  the  captain,  when 
my  friend  found  occasion  for  my  assistance.  This 
was  nothing  less  than  to  fight  a  duel  for  him,  with 
a  gentleman  whose  sister  it  was  pretended  he  had 
used  ill.  I  readily  complied  with  his  request,  and 
though  I  see  you  are  displeased  with  my  conduct, 
3^et  it  was  a  debt  indispensably  due  to  friendship 
I  could  not  refuse.  I  undertook  the  afiliir,  dis- 
armed my  antagonist,  and  soon  after  had  the  plea- 
6ure  of  finding  that  the  lady  was  only  a  woman  of 
the  town,  and  the  fellow  her  bully  and  a  sharper. 
This  piece  of  service  was  repaid  with  the  warmest 
professions  of  gratitude :  but  as  my  friend  was  to 
leave  town  in  a  few  days,  he  knew  no  other  me- 
'-'"  thod  of  serving  me,  but  by  recommending  me  to 
his  uncle  Sir  William  Thornhill,  and  another 
nobleman  of  great  distinction  who  enjoyed  a  post 
under  the  government.  When  he  was  gone,  my 
first  care  was  to  carry  his  recommendatory  let- 
ter to  his  uncle,  a  man  whose  character  for  every 
virtue  was  universal,  yet  just.  I  was  received  by 
his  servants  with  the  most  hospitable  smiles;  for 
the  looks  of  the  domestic  ever  transmit  their  mas- 
ter's benevolence.  Being  shown  into  a  grand  apart- 
ment, where  Sir  WiUiam  soon  came  to  me,  I  de- 
livered my  message  and  letter,  which  he  read,  and 
after  pausing  some  minutes,  "  Pray,  sir,"  cried  he, 
"  inform  me  what  you  have  done  for  my  kinsman 
to  deserve  this  warm  recommendation :  but  I  sup- 
pose, sir,  I  guess  your  merits:  you  have  fought  for 


him;  and  so  you  would  expect  a  reward  ftom  me 
for  being  the  instrument  of  his  vices.  I  wish,  sin 
cerely  wish,  that  my  present  refusal  may  be  some 
punishment  for  your  guilt;  but  still  more,  that  it 
may  be  some  inducement  to  your  repentance." — 
The  severity  of  this  rebuke  I  bore  patiently,  be- 
cause I  knew  it  was  just.  My  whole  expectations 
now,  therefore,  lay  in  my  letter  to  the  great  man. 
As  the  doors  of  the  nobility  are  almost  ever  beset 
with  beggars,  all  ready  to  thrust  in  some  sly  petition, 
I  foujid  it  no  easy  matter  to  gain  admittance.  How- 
ever, after  bribing  the  servants  with  half  my  world- 
ly fortune,  I  was  at  last  shown  into  a  spacious 
apartment,  my  letter  being  previously  sent  up  for 
his  lordship's  inspection.  During  this  anxious  in- 
terval I  had  full  time  to  look  round  me.  Every 
thing  was  grand  and  of  happy  contrivance;  the 
paintings,  the  furniture,  the  gildings  petrified  me 
with  awe,  and  raised  my  idea  of  the  owner.  Ah, 
thought  I  to  myself,  how  very  great  must  the  pos- 
sessor  of  all  these  things  be,  who  carries  in  liis 
head  the  business  of  the  state,  and  whose  house 
displays  half  the  w^ealth  of  a  kingdom:  sure  his 
genius  must  be  unfathomable! — During  these  aw- 
ful reflections,  I  heard  a  step  come  heavily  forward. 
Ah,  this  is  the  great  man  himself^  No,  it  was  only 
a  chambennaid.  Another  foot  \vis  heard  soon  af- 
ter. This  must  be  he!  No,  it  was  only  the  great 
man's  valet  de  chairibre.  At  last  his  lordship  ac- 
tually made  his  appearance.  Are  you,  cried  he, 
the  bearer  of  this  here  letter?  I  answered  with  a 
bow.  I  learn  by  this,  continued  he,  as  how  that — 
But  just  at  that  instant  a  servant  delivered  him  a 
card,  and  without  taking  further  notice,  he  went 
out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  to  digest  my  own  hap- 
piness at  leisure:  I  saw  no  more  of  him,  till  told 
by  a  footman  that  his  lordship  was  going  to  his 
coach  at  the  door.  Down  I  immediately  followed 
and  joined  my  voice  to  that  of  three  or  four  more, 
who  came,  like  me,  to  petition  for  favours.  His 
lordship,  however,  went  too  fast  for  U3,  and  was 
gaining  his  chariot  door  with  large  strides,  when  I 
hallooed  out  to  know  if  I  was  to  have  any  reply. 
He  was  by  this  time  got  in,  and  muttered  an  an- 
swer, half  of  which  only  I  heard,  the  other  half  was 
lost  in  the  rattling  of  his  chariot  wheels.  I  stood 
for  some  time  with  my  neck  stretched  out,  in  the 
posture  of  one  that  was  listening  to  catch  the  glo- 
rious sounds,  till  looking  round  me,  I  found  myself 
alone  at  his  lordship's  gate. 

"  My  patience,"  continued  my  son,  "  was  now 
quite  exhausted :  stung  with  the  thousand  indigni- 
ties I  had  met  with,  I  was  willing  to  cast  myself 
away,  and  only  wanted  the  gulf  to  receive  me.  I 
regarded  myself  as  one  of  those  vile  things  that  na- 
ture designed  should  be  thrown  by  into  her  lumber- 
room,  there  to  perish  in  obscurity.  I  had  still,  how- 
ever, half  a  guinea  left,  and  of  that  I  thought  ior- 
tune  herself  should  not  deprive  me;  but  in  order  to 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


93 


be  sure  of  this,  I  was  resolved  to  go  instantly  and 
spend  it  while  I  had  it,  and  then  trust  to  occurrences 
for  the  rest.  As  I  was  going  along  with  this  resolu- 
tion it  happened  that  Mr.  Crispe's  office  seemed  in- 
vitingly open  to  give  me  a  welcome  reception.  In 
this  office,  Mr.  Crispe  kindly  offers  all  his  majesty's 
subjects  a  generous  promise  of  30Z.  a  year,  for 
which  promise  all  they  give  in  return  is  their  liber- 
ty for  life,  and  permission  to  let  him  transport  them 
to  America  as  slaves.  I  was  happy  at  finding  a 
a  place  where  I  could  lose  my  fears  in  desperation, 
and  entered  this  cell  (for  it  had  the  appearance  of 
one)  with  the  devotion  of  a  monastic.  Here  I 
found  a  number  of  poor  creatures,  all  in  circum- 
stances like  myself,  expecting  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Crispe,  presenting  a  true  epitome  of  English  impa- 
tience. Each  untractable  soul  at  variance  with 
fortune,  wreaked  her  injuries  on  their  own  hearts: 
but  Mr.  Crispe  at  last  came  down,  and  all  our 
murmurs  were  hushed.  He  deigned  to  regard  me 
with  an  air  of  peculiar  appro  nation,  and  indeed  he 
was  the  first  man  who  for  a  month  past  had  talked 
to  me  with  smiles.  After  a  few_  questions  he  found 
I  was  fit  for  every  thing  in  the  world.  He  paus- 
ed a  while  upon  the  properest  means  of  providing 
for  me,  and  slapping  his  forehead  as  if  he  had  found 
it,  assured  me,  tha^there  was  at  that  time  an  embas- 
sy talked  of  from  the  synod  of  Pennsylvania  to  the 
Chickasaw  Indians,  and  that  he  would  use  his  in- 
terest to  get  me  made  secretary.  I  knew  in  my 
own  heart  that  the  fellow  lied,  and  yet  his  promise 
wave  me  pleasure,  there  was  something  so  magni- 
ficent in  the  sound.  I  fairly  therefore  divided  my 
iialf-guinea,  one  half  of  which  went  to  be  added  to 
lis  thirty  thousand  pounds,  and  with  the  other 
lalf  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  next  tavern,  to  be  there 
nore  happy  than  he. 

"  As  I  was  going  out  with  that  resolution,  I  was 

net  at  the  door  by  the  captain  of  a  ship,  with  whom 

'  had  formerly  some  little  acquaintance,  and  he 

igreed  to  be  my  companion  over  a  bowl  of  punch. 

\s  I  never  chose  to  make  a  secret  of  my  circum- 

tances,  he  assured  me  that  I  was  upon  the  very 

loint  of  ruin,  in  listening  to  the  office-keeper's  pro- 

lises;  for  that  he  only  designed  to  sell  me  to  the 

lantations.  But,  continued  he,  I  fancy  you  might, 

y  a  much  shorter  voyage,  be  very  easily  put  into  a 

enteel  way  of  bread.     Take  my  advice.  My  ship 

lils  to-morrow  for  Amsterdam.     What  if  you 

i  0  in  her  as  a  passenger?  The  moment  you  land, 

II  you  have  to  do  is  to  teach  the  Dutchmen  En- 

lish,  and  I'll  warrant  you'll  get  pupils  and  money 

lough.     I  suppose  you  understand  English,  add- 

1  he,  by  this  time,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it.     I  confi- 

l  3ntly  assured  him  of  that;  but  expressed  a  doubt 

'  hether  the  Dutch  would  be  wiUing  to  learn  En- 

ish.     He  affirmed  with  an  oath  that  they  were 

nd  of  it  to  distraction ;  and  upon  that  affirmation 

agreed  with  his  proposal,  and  embarked  the  next 


day  to  teach  the  Dutch  English  in  Holland.  The 
wind  was  fair,  our  voyage  short,  and  after  having 
paid  my  passage  with  half  my  moveables,  I  found 
myself,  fallen  as  from  the  skies,  a  stranger  in  one 
of  the  principal  streets  of  Amsterdam.  In  this 
situation  I  was  unwilling  to  let  any  time  pass  un- 
employed in  teaching.  I  addressed  myself  there- 
fore to  two  or  three  of  those  I  met,  whose  a})pear- 
ance  seemed  most  promising;  but  it  was  impossible 
to  make  ourselves  mutually  understood.  It  was 
not  till  this  very  moment  I  recollected,  that  in  or- 
der to  teach  the  Dutchmen  English,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  they  should  first  teach  me  Dutch.  How 
I  came  to  overlook  so  obvious  an  objection  is  to  me 
amazing ;  but  certain  it  is  I  overlooked  it. 

"This  scheme  thus  blown  up,  T  had  some 
thoughts  of  fairly  shipping  back  to  England  agam; 
but  falling  into  company  with  an  Irish  student  who 
was  returning  from  Louvain,  our  subject  turning 
upon  topics  of  literature  (for  by  the  way  it  may  be 
observed,  that  I  always  forgot  the  meanness  of  my 
circumstances  when  I  could  converse  upon  such 
subjects,)  from  him  I  learned  that  there  were  not 
two  men  in  his  whole  university  who  understood 
Greek.  This  amazed  me.  I  instantly  resolved  to 
travel  to  Louvain,  and  there  live  by  teaching 
Greek;  and  in  this  design  I  was  heartened  by  my 
brother  student,  who  threw  out  some  hints  that  a 
fortune  might  be  got  by  it. 

"  I  set  boldly  forward  the  next  morning.  Every 
day  lessened  the  burden  of  my  moveables,  like 
JEsop  and  his  basket  of  bread ;  for  I  paid  them  for 
my  lodgings  to  the  Dutch  as  I  travelled  on.  When 
I  came  to  Louvain,  I  was  resolved  not  to  go  sneak- 
ing to  the  lower  professors,  but  openly  tendered  my 
talents  to  the  principal  himself.  I  went,  had  ad- 
mittance, and  offered  him  my  service  as  a  master  of 
the  Greek  language,  which  I  had  been  told  was  a 
desideratum  in  his  university.  The  principal  seem- 
ed at  first  to  doubt  of  my  abilities;  but  of  these  1 
offered  to  convince  him  by  turning  a  part  of  any 
Greek  author  he  should  fix  upon  into  Latin.  Find- 
ing me  peifectly  earnest  in  my  proposal,  he  ad- 
dressed me  thus :  You  see  me,  young  man;  I  never 
learned  Greek  and  I  don't  find  that  I  have  ever 
missed  it.  I  have  had  a  doctor's  cap  and  gown 
without  Greek;  I  have  ten  thousand  florins  a-year 
without  Greek ;  I  eat  heartily  without  Greek;  and 
in  short,  continued  he,  as  1  don't  know  Greek,  I 
do  not  beheve  there  is  any  good  in  it. 

"I  was  now  too  far  frbm  home  to  think  of  re- 
turning; so  I  resolved  to  go  forward.  I  had  some 
knowledge  of  music,  with  a  tolerable  voice,  and  now 
turned  what  was  my  amusement  into  a  present 
means  of  subsistence.  I  passed  among  the  harm- 
less peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such  of  the 
French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry ,  for 
I  ever  found  them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their 
wants.  Whenever  I  approached  a  peasant's  house 


91 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


towards  nightfall,  I  played  one  of  my  most  merry 
tunes  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a  lodging, 
but  subsistence  for  the  next  day.  I  once  or  twice 
attempted  to  play  for  people  of  fashion ;  but  they 
always  thought  my  performance  odious,  and  never 
rewarded  me  even  with  a  trifle.  This  was  to  me 
the  more  extraordinary,  as  whenever  I  used  in  bet- 
ter days  to  play  for  company,  when  playing  was  my 
amusement,  my  music  never  failed  to  throw  them 
into  raptures,  and  the  ladies  especially ;  but  as  it 
was  now  my  only  means,  it  was  received  with  con- 
tempt— a  proof  how  ready  the  world  is  to  underrate 
those  talents  by  which  a  man  is  supported. 

"In  this  manner  1  proceeded  to  Paris,  with  no 
design  but  just  to  look  about  me,  and  then  to  go 
forward.  Tto  people  of  Paris  are  much  fonder  of 
strangers  that  have  money  than  of  those  that  have 
wit.  As  I  could  not  boast  much  of  either,  I  was 
no  great  favourite.  After  walking  about  the  town 
four  or  five  days  and  seeing  the  outsides  of  the  best 
houses,  I  was  preparing  to  leave  this  retreat  of  ve- 
nal hospitality,  when  passing  through  one  of  the 
principal  streets,  whom  should  I  meet  but  our  cou- 
sin, to  whom  you  first  recommended  me.  This 
meeting  was  very  agreeable  to  me,  and  I  believe 
not  displeasing  to  him.  He  inquired  into  the  na- 
ture of  my  journey  to  Paris,  and  informed  me  of 
his  own  business  there,  which  was  to  collect  pic 
tures,  medals,  intaglios,  and  antiques  of  all  kinds 
for  a  gentleman  in  London,  who  had  just  stepped 
into  taste  and  a  large  fortune.  I  was  the  more  sur- 
prised at  seeing  our  cousin  pitched  upon  for  this 
office,  as  he  himself  had  often  assured  me  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  matter.  Upon  asking  how  he  had 
been  taught  the  art  of  a  cognoscente  so  very  sudden- 
ly, he  assured  me  that  nothing  was  more  easy.  The 
whole  secret  consisted  in  a  strict  adherence  to  two 
rules;  the  one,  always  to  observe  the  picture  might 
have  been  better  if  the  painter  had  taken  more 
pains;  and  the  other,  to  praise  the  works  of  Pietro 
Perugino.  But,  says  he,  as  I  once  taught  you  how 
to  be  an  author  in  London,  I'll  now  undertake  to 
instruct  you  in  the  art  of  picture-buying  at  Paris. 

"  With  this  proposal  I  very  readily  closed,  as  it 
was  living,  and  now  all  my  ambition  was  to  live, 
1  went  therefore  to  his  lodgings,  improved  my  dress 
by  his  assistance,  and  after  some  time  accompanied 
him  to  auctions  of  pictures,  where  the  English  gen- 
try were  expected  to  be  purchasers.  I  was  not  a 
little  surprised  at  his  intimacy  with  people  of  the 
best  fashion,  who  referred  themselves  to  his  judg- 
ment upon  every  picture  or  medal,  as  to  an  uner- 
ring standard  of  taste.  He  made  very  good  use  of 
my  assistance  upon  these  occasions ;  for  when  asked 
his  opinion,  he  would  gravely  talie  me  aside  and  ask 
mine,  shrug,  look  w^se,  return,  and  assure  the  com- 
•  pany  that  he  could  give  no  opinion  upon  an  affair 
of  so  much  importance.     Yet  there  was  sometimes 


member  to  have  seen  him,  after  giving  his  opinion 
that  the  colouring  of  a  picture  was  not  mellow 
enough,  very  deUberately  take  a  brush  with  brown 
varnish,  that  was  accidentally  lying  by,  and  rub  it 
over  the  piece  with  great  composure  before  all  the 
company,  and  then  ask  if  he  had  not  improved  the 
tints. 

"When  he  had  finished  his  commission  in  Parii^ 
he  left  me  strongly  recommended  to  several  men  of 
distinction,  as  a  person  very  proper  for  a  travelling 
tutor;  and  after  some  time  I  was  employed  in  that 
capacity  by  a  gentleman  who  brought  his  ward  to 
Paris,  in  order  to  set  him  forward  on  his  tour  through 
Europe.  I  was  to  be  the  young  gentleman's  gover- 
nor, but  with  a  proviso  that  he  should  always  be 
permitted  to  govern  himself.  My  pupil  in  fact 
understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money  concerns 
much  better  than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a  fortune  of 
about  two  hundred  thousand  pounds,  left  him  by 
an  uncle  in  the  West  Indies ;  and  his  guardians,  to 
qualify  him  for  the  management  of  it,  had  bound 
him  apprentice  to  an  attorney.  Thus  avarice  was 
his  prevailing  passion ;  all  his  questions  on  the  road 
were,  how  money  might  be  saved ;  which  was  the 
least  expensive  course  to  travel ;  whether  any 
thing  could  be  bought  that  would  turn  to  account 
when  disposed  of  again  in  London  7  Such  curio- 
sities on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing,  he 
was  ready  enough  to  look  at;  but  if  the  sight  of 
them  was  to  be  paid  for,  he  usually  asserted  that  he 
had  been  told  they  were  not  worth  seeing.  H« 
never  paid  a  bill  that  he  would  not  observe  ho\ 
amazingly  expensive  travelling  was,  and  all  thii 
though  he  was  not  yet  twenty-one.  When  arrivet 
at  Leghorn,  as  we  took  a  walk  to  look  at  the  poi 
and  shipping,  he  inquired  the  expense  of  the 
sage  by  sea  home  to  England.  This  he  was  in 
formed  was  but  a  trifle  compared  to  his  returnin 
by  land;  he  was  therefore  unable  to  withstand  tl 
temptation ;  so  paying  me  the  small  part  of  my  sala 
ry  that  was  due,  he  took  leave,  and  embarked  wit 
only  one  attendant  for  London. 

"  I  now  therefore  was  left  once  more  upon  tl 
world  at  large ;  but  then  it  was  a  thing  I  was  use 
to.  However,  my  skill  in  music  could  avail 
nothing  in  a  country  where  every  peasant  was^ 
better  musician  than  I ;  but  by  this  time  I  had  ac 
quired  another  talent  which  answered  my  purposi 
as  well,  and  this  was  a  skill  in  disputation.  In  all 
the  foreign  universities  and  convents  there  are,  upon 
certain  days,  philosophical  theses  maintained  against 
every  adventitious  disputant;  for  which,  if  the  cham- 
pion opposes  with  any  dexterity,  he  can  claim  a 
gratuity  in  money,  a  dinner,  and  a  bed  for  one 
night.  In  this  manner,  therefore,  I  fought  my  way 
towards  England,  walked  along  from  city  to  city, 
examined  mankind  more  nearly,  and,  if  I  may  so 
express  it,  saw  both  sides  of  the  picture.    My  re- 


an  occasion  for  a  more  supported  assurance.    I  re-  marks,  however,  are  but  few ;  I  found  that  monarchy 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


95 


was  the  best  government  for  the  poor  to  live  in,  and 
commonvvrealths  for  the  rich.  I  found  that  riches 
in  general  were  in  every  country  another  name  for 
freedom ;  and  that  no  man  is  so  fond  of  liberty  him- 
self, as  not  to  be  desirous  of  subjecting  the  will  of 
some  individuals  in  society  to  his  own. 

"  Upon  my  arrival  in  England  I  resolved  to  pay 
my  respects  first  to  you,  and  then  to  enlist  as  a  volun- 
teer in  the  first  expedition  that  was  going  forward ; 
but  on  my  journey  down  my  resolutions  were 
changed,  by  meeting  an  old  acquaintance,  who  I 
found  belonged  to  a  company  of  comedians  that 
were  going  to  make  a  summer  campaign  in  the 
country.  The  company  seemed  not  much  to  dis- 
approve of  me  for  an  associate.  They  all,  however, 
apprized  me  of  the  importance  of  the  task  at  which 
I  aimed ;  that  the  public  was  a  many-headed  mon- 
ster, and  that  only  such  as  had  very  good  heads 
could  please  it ;  that  acting  was  not  to  be  learned  in 
a  day,  and  that  without  some  traditional  shrugs, 
which  had  been  on  the  stage,  and  only  on  the  stage, 
these  hundred  years,  I  could  never  pretend  to  please. 
The  next  difl[iculty  was  in  fitting  me  with  parts,  as 
almost  every  character  was  in  keeping.  I  was 
driven  for  some  time  from  one  character  to  another, 
till  at  last  Horatio  was  fixed  upon,  which  the  pre- 
sence of  the  present  company  has  happily  hindered 
me  from  acting." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

tThe  short  continuance  of  Friendship  amongst  the  Vicious, 
which  is  coeval  only  with  mutual  Satisfaction. 

j     My  son's  account  was  too  long  to  be  delivered 

I  at  once ;  the  first  part  of  it  was  begun  that  night, 

j  and  he  was  concluding  the  rest  after  dinner  the 

aext  day,  when  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thornhill's 

squipage  at  the  door  seemed  to  make  a  pause  in  the 

general  satisfaction.     The  butler,  who  was  now 

become  my  friend  in  the  family,  informed  me  with 

I  whisper,  that  the  'Squire  had  already  made  some 

)vertures  to  Miss  Wilmot,  and  that  her  aunt  and 

I  mcle  seemed  highly  to  approve  the  match.     Upon 

Mr.  Thornhill's  entering,  he  seemed,  at  seeing  my 

]  ;on  and  me,  to  start  back ;  but  I  readily  imputed 

hat  to  surprise,  and  not  displeasure.     However, 

ipon  our  advancing  to  salute  him,  he  returned  our 

;reetirig  with  the  most  apparent  candour ;  and  after 

I  short  time  his  presence  served  only  to  increase 

I  he  general  good  humour. 

i  After  tea  he  called  me  aside  to  inquire  after  my 
'  aughter ;  but  upon  my  informing  him  that  my  in- 
I  uiry  was  unsuccessful,  he  seemed  greatly  surpri- 
1 3d;  adding,  that  he  had  been  since  frequently  at 
I  ly  house  in  order  to  comfort  the  rest  of  my  family, 
I  fhom  he  left  perfectly  well.  He  then  asked  if  I 
[  ad  communicated  her  misfortune  to  Miss  Wilmot 
I  r  my  son ;  and  upon  my  replying  that  I  had  not 


told  them  as  yet,  he  greatly  approved  my  prudence 
and  precaution,  desiring  me  by  all  means  to  keep 
it  a  secret :  "For  at  best,"  cried  he,  " it  is  but  di- 
vulging one's  own  infamy ;  and  perhaps  Miss  Livy 
may  not  be  so  guilty  as  we  all  imagine."  We  were 
here  interrupted  by  a  servant,  who  came  to  ask  the 
'Squire  in,  to  stand  up  at  country  dances ;  so  that 
he  left  me  quite  pleased  with  the  interest  he  seem- 
ed to  take  in  my  concerns.  His  addresses,  how- 
ever, to  Miss  Wilmot,  were  too  obvious  to  be  mis- 
taken :  and  yet  she  seemed  not  perfectly  pleased, 
but  bore  them  rather  in  compliance  to  the  will  of 
her  aunt  than  from  real  inclination.  I  had  even 
the  satisfaction  to  see  her  lavish  some  kind  looks 
upon  my  unfortunate  son,  which  the  other  could 
neither  extort  by  his  fortune  nor  assiduity.  Mr. 
Thornhill's  seeming  composure,  however,  not  a 
little  surprised  me ;  we  had  now  continued  here  a 
week  at  the  pressing  instances  of  Mr.  Arnold :  but 
each  day  the  more  tenderness  Miss  Wilmot  show- 
ed my  son,  Mr.  Thornhill's  friendship  seemed  pro 
portionably  to  increase  for  him. 

He  had  formerly  made  us  the  most  kind  assu- 
rances of  using  his  interest  to  serve  the  family ;  but 
now  his  generosity  was  not  confined  to  promises 
alone.  The  morning  I  designed  for  my  departure, 
Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  me  with  looks  of  real  plea- 
sure, to  inform  me  of  a  piece  of  service  he  had  done 
for  his  friend  George.  This  was  nothing  less  than 
his  having  procured  him  an  ensign's  commission 
in  one  of  the  regiments  that  was  going  to  the  West 
Indies,  for  which  he  had  promised  but  one  hundred 
pounds,  his  interest  having  been  sufficient  to  get 
an  abatement  of  the  other  two.  "As  for  this  tri- 
fling piece  of  service,"  continued  the  young  gentle- 
man, "  I  desire  no  other  reward  but  the  pleasure 
of  having  served  my  friend ;  and  as  for  the  hundred 
pounds  to  be  paid,  if  you  are  unable  to  raise  it 
yourselves,  I  will  advance  it,  and  you  shall  repay 
me  at  your  leisure."  This  was  a  favour  we  want- 
ed words  to  express  our  sense  of:  I  readily  there- 
fore gave  my  bond  for  the  money,  and  testified  aa 
much  gratitude  as  if  1  never  intended  to  pay. 

George  was  to  depart  for  town  the  next  day  to 
secure  his  commission,  in  pursuance  of  his  gener- 
ous patron's  directions,  who  judged  it  highly  expe- 
dient to  use  dispatch,  lest  in  the  mean  time  another 
should  step  in  with  more  advantageous  proposals. 
The  next  morning  therefore  our  young  soldier  was 
early  prepared  for  his  departure,  and  seemed  the 
only  person  among  us  that  was  not  affected  by  it. 
Neither  the  fatigues  and  dangers  he  was  going  to 
encounter,  nor  the  friends  and  mistress — for  Miss 
Wilmot  actually  loved  him — he  was  leaving  be- 
hind, any  way  damped  his  spirits.  After  he  had 
taken  leave  of  the  rest  of  the  company,  I  gave  him 
all  I  had,  my  blessing.  "  And  now,  my  boy,"  cried 
I,  "  thou  art  going  to  fight  for  thy  country,  remem- 
ber how  thy  brave  grandfather  fought  for  his  sacred 


06 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


king,  when  loyalty  among  Britons  was  a  virtue. 
Go,  my  boy,  and  imitate  him  in  all  but  his  misfor- 
tunes, if  it  was  a  misfortune  to  die  with  Lord  Falk- 
land. Go,  my  boy,  and  if  you  fall,  though  distant, 
exposed,  and  unwept  by  those  that  love  you,  the 
most  precious  tears  are  those  with  which  Heaven 
bedews  the  unburied  head  of  a  soldier." 

The  next  morning  I  took  leave  of  the  good  fa- 
mily, that  had  been  kind  enough  to  entertain  me  so 
long,  not  without  several  expressions  of  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Thornhill  for  his  late  bounty.  I  left  them 
in  the  enjoyment  of  all  that  happiness  which  afflu- 
ence and  good-breeding  procure,  and  returned  to- 
wards home,  despairing  of  ever  finding  my  daugh- 
ter more,  but  sending  a  sigh  to  Heaven  to  spare 
and  to  forgive  her.  I  was  now  come  within  about 
twenty  miles  of  home,  having  hired  a  horse  to  carry 
me,  as  I  was  yet  but  weak,  and  comforted  myself 
with  the  hopes  of  soon  seeing  all  I  held  dearest 
upon  earth.  But  the  night  coming  on,  I  put  up 
at  a  little  public-house  by  the  road  side,  and  asked 
for  the  landlord's  company  over  a  pint  of  wine.  We 
sat  beside  his  kitchen  fire,  which  was  the  best  room 
in  the  house,  and  chatted  on  politics  and  the  news 
of  the  country.  We  happened,  among  other  topics, 
to  talk  of  young  'Squire  Thornhill,  who,  the  host 
assured  me,  was  hated  as  much  as  his  uncle  Sir 
William,  who  sometimes  came  down  to  the  coun- 
try, was  loved.  He  went  on  to  observe,  that  he 
made  it  his  whole  study  to  betray  the  daughters  of 
such  as  received  him  to  their  houses,  and  after  a 
fortnight  or  three  weeks'  possession,  turned  them 
out  unrewarded  and  abandoned  to  the  world.  As 
we  continued  our  discourse  in  this  manner,  his  wife, 
who  had  been  out  to  get  change,  returned,  and  per- 
ceiving that  her  husband  was  enjoying  a  pleasure 
in  which  she  was  not  a  sharer,  she  asked  him,  in 
an  angry  tone,  what  he  did  there?  to  which  he 
only  replied  in  an  ironical  way,  by  drinking  her 
health.  "Mr.  Symmonds,"  cried  she,  "you  use 
me  very  ill,  and  I'll  bear  it  no  longer.  Here  three 
parts  of  the  business  is  left  for  me  to  do,  and  tlie 
fourth  left  unfinished ;  while  you  do  nothing  but 
soak  with  the  guests  all  da}'^  long :  whereas  if  a 
spoonful  of  Hquor  were  to  cure  me  of  a  fever,  I  never 
touch  a  drop."  I  now  found  what  she  would  be 
at,  and  immediately  poured  her  out  a  glass,  which 
she  received  with  a  courtesy,  and  drinking  towards 
my  good  health,  "Sir,"  resumed  she,  "it  is  not 
so  much  for  the  value  of  the  liquor  I  am  angry,  but 
one  can  not  help  it  when  the  house  is  going  out  of 
the  windows.  If  the  customers  or  guests  are  to  be 
dunned,  all  the  burden  lies  upon  ray  back ;  he'd  as 
lief  eat  that  glass  as  budge  after  them  himself. 
There,  now,  above  stairs,  we  have  a  young  woman 
who  has  come  to  take  up  her  lodgings  here,  and  I 
don't  believe  she  has  got  any  money  by  her  over 
civility.  I  am  certain  she  is  very  slow  of  payment, 
end  1  wish  she  were  put  in  mind  of  it." — "  What 


signifies  minding  her,"  cried  the  host,  "  if  she  be 
slow  she  is  sure." — '=  I  don't  know  that,"  replied 
the  wife;  "  but  1  know  that  I  am  sure  she  has  been 
here  a  fortnight,  and  we  have  not  yet  seen  the 
cross  of  her  money." — "  I  suppose,  my  dear,"  cried 
he,  "  we  shall  have  it  all  in  a  lump." — "  In  a  lump!" 
cried  the  other,  "  I  hope  we  may  get  it  any  way; 
and  that  I  am  resolved  we  will  this  very  night,  or 
out  she  tramps,  bag  and  baggage." — "Consider, 
my  dear,"  cried  the  husband,  "  she  is  a  gentlewo- 
man, and  deserves  more  respect." — "As  for  the 
matter  of  that,"  returned  the  hostess,  "  gentle  or 
simple,  out  she  shall  pack  with  a  sassarara.  Gen- 
try may  be  good  things  where  they  take :  but  for 
my  part,  I  never  saw  much  good  of  them  at  the 
sign  of  the  Harrow." — Thus  saying,  she  ran  up  a 
narrow  flight  of  stairs  that  went  from  the  kitchen 
to  a  room  over-head ;  and  I  soon  perceived,  by  the 
loudness  of  her  voice,  and  the  bitterness  of  her  re- 
proaches, that  no  money  was  to  be  had  from  her 
lodger.  I  could  hear  her  remonstrances  very  dis- 
tinctly :  "  Out,  I  say;  pack  out  this  moment!  traniji, 
thou  infamous  strumpet,  or  I'll  give  thee  a  mark 
thou  won't  be  the  better  for  these  three  months. 
What!  you  trumpery,  to  come  and  take  up  an 
honest  house  without  cross  or  coin  to  bless  your- 
self with;  come  along,  I  say." — "O  dear  madam," 
cried  the  stranger,  "pity  me,  pity  a  poor  abandon- 
ed creature  for  one  night,  and  death  will  soon  do 
the  rest." — I  instantly  knew  the  voice  of  my  poor 
ruined  child  Olivia;  I  flew  to  her  rescue,  while  the 
woman  was  dragging  her  along  by  the  hair,  and  I 
caught  the  dear  forlorn  wretch  in  my  arms. — "Wel- 
come, any  way  welcome,  my  dearest  lost  one,  my 
treasure,  to  your  poor  old  father's  bosom!  Though 
the  vicious  forsake  thee,  there  is  yet  one  in  the 
world  that  will  never  forsake  tiiee;  though  thou 
hadst  ten  thousand  crimes  to  answer  for,  he  will 
forget  them  all." — "  O  my  own  dear" — for  miriutes 
she  could  say  no  more — "my  own  dearest  good 
papa!  could  angels  be  kinder!  how  do  I  deserve  so 
much! — The  villain,  I  hate  hrai  and  myself,  to  be 
a  reproach  to  such  goodness.  You  can't  forgive 
me,  I  know  you  can  not." — "Yes,  my  child,  from  ' 
my  heart  I  do  forgive  thee !  Only  repent,  and  we  j 
both  shall  yet  be  happy.  We  shall  see  many  plea-  | 
sant  days  yet,  my  Olivia !" — "  Ah  !  never,  sir,  \ 
never.  The  rest  of  my  wretched  life  must  be  in-  j 
famy  abroad,  and  shame  at  home.  But,  alas !  papa, 
you  look  much  paler  than  you  used  to  do.  Could 
such  a  thing  as  I  am  give  you  so  much  uneasiness'? 
Surely  you  have  too  much  wisdom  to  take  the  mise- 
ries of  my  guilt  upon  yourself;" — "  Our  wisdom, 
young  woman,"  replied  I — "  Ah,  why  so  cold  a 
name,  papa?"  cried  she.  "  This  is  the  first  time 
you  ever  called  me  by  so  col<l  a  name." — "  I  ask 
pardon,  my  darling,"  returned  I;  "but  I  was  going 
to  observe,  that  wisdom  makes  but  a  slow  defence 
against  trouble,  though  at  last  a  sure  one."    The 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


97 


landlady  now  returned  to  know  if  wc  did  not  choose 
a  more  genteel  apartment ;  to  which  assenting,  we 
were  shown  a  room  where  we  could  converse  more 
freely.  After  we  had  talked  ourselves  into  some 
degree  of  tranquillity,  I  could  not  avoid  desiring 
some  account  of  the  gradations  that  led  to  her  pre- 
sent wretched  situation.  "  That  villain,  sir,"  said 
she,  "  from  the  first  day  of  our  meeting,  made  me 
honourable  though  private  proposals." 

"Villain,  indeed!"  cried  I:  "and  yet  it  in  some 
measure  surprises  me,  how  a  person  of  Mr.  Burch- 
ell's  good  sense  and  seeming  honour  could  be  guilty 
of  such  deUberate  baseness,  and  thus  step  into  a 
family  to  undo  it." 

"My  dear  papa,"  returned  my  daughter,  "you 
labour  under  a  strange  mistake.  Mr.  Burchell 
never  attempted  to  deceive  me;  instead  of  that,  he 
took  every  opportunity  of  privately  admonishing 
me  against  the  artifices  of  Mr.  Thornhill,  who  I 
now  find  was  even  worse  than  he  represented  him." 
"Mr.  Thornhill!"  interrupted  I;  "can  it  be?"— 
"Yes,  sir,"  returned  she;  "it  was  Mr.  Thornhill 
who  seduced  me ;  who  employed  the  two  ladies,  as 
he  called  them,  but  who  in  fact  were  abandoned 
women  of  the  town,  without  breeding  or  pity,  to 
decoy  us  up  to  London.  Their  artifices  you  may 
remember  would  have  certainly  succeeded,  but  for 
Mr.  Burchell's  letter,  who  directed  those  reproach- 
es at  them,  which  we  all  applied  to  ourselves.  How 
he  came  to  have  so  much  influence  as  to  defeat 
their  intentions,  still  remains  a  secret  to  me;  but  I 
am  convinced  he  was  ever  our  warmest,  sincerest 
friend." 

"You  amaze  me,  my  dear,"  cried  I;  "but  now 
I  find  my  first  suspicions  of  Mr.  Thorn  hill's  base- 
ness were  too  well  grounded :  but  he  can  triumph 
in  security;  for  he  is  rich  and  we  are  poor.  But 
tell  me,  my  child,  sure  it  was  no  small  temptation 
that  could  thus  obliterate  all  the  impressions  of 
such  an  education,  and  so  virtuous  a  disposition  as 
thine." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  he  owes  all  his  tri- 
umph to  the  desire  I  had  of  making  him,  and  not 
myself,  happy.  I  knew  that  the  ceremony  of  our 
marriage,  which  was  privately  performed  by  a  po- 
pish priest,  was  no  way  binding,  and  that  I  had 
nothing  to  trust  to  but  his  honour." — "What!" 
interrupted  I,  "  and  were  you  indeed  married  by  a 
priest,  and  in  orders'?" — "Indeed,  sir,  we  were," 
replied  she,  "though  we  were  both  sworn  to  con- 
ceal his  name." — "  Why,  then,  my  child,  come  to 
my  arms  again ;  and  now  you  are  a  thousand  times 
more  welcome  than  before ;  for  you  are  now  his  wife 
^to  all  intents  and  purposes;  nor  can  all  the  laws  of 
tioin,  though  written  upon  tables  of  adamant,  les- 
k«en  the  force  of  that  sacred  connexion." 

"Alas,  papa,"  replied  she,  "you  are  but  little 
icquainted  with  his  villanies;  he  has  been  married 
l^ady  by  the  same  priest  to  six  or  eight  wives 


more,  whom,  like  me,  he  has  deceived  and  aban- 
doned." 

" Has  he  so?"  cried  I,  "then  we  must  hang  the 
priest,  and  you  shall  inform  against  him  to-morrow." 
"But,  sir,"  returned  she,  "  will  that  be  right,  when 
I  am  sworn  to  secrecy?" — "  My  dear,"  I  replied, 
"if  you  have  made  such  a  promise,  I  can  not,  nor 
will  I  tempt  you  to  break  it.  Even  though  it  may 
benefit  the  public,  you  must  not  inform  against  him. 
In  all  human  institutions  a  smaller  evil  is  allowed 
to  procure  a  greater  good;  as  in  poUtics,  a  province 
may  be  given  away  to  secure  a  kingdom ;  in  medi- 
cine, a  limb  may  be  lopped  off"  to  preserve  the  body: 
but  in  religion,  the  law  is  written,  and  inflexible, 
never  to  do  evil.  And  this  law,  my  child,  is  right; 
for  otherwise,  if  we  commit  a  smaller  evil  to  pro- 
cure a  greater  good,  certain  guilt  would  be  thus 
incurred,  in  expectation  of  contingent  advantage. 
And  though  the  advantage  should  certainly  follow, 
yet  the  interval  between  commission  and  advan- 
tage, which  is  allowed  to  be  guilty,  may  be  that  in 
which  we  are  called  away  to  answer  for  the  things 
we  have  done,  and  the  volume  of  human  actions  is 
closed  for  ever.  But  I  interrupt  you,  my  dear ;  go 
on." 

"The  very  next  morning,"  continued  she,  "I 
found  what  little  expectation  I  was  to  have  from 
his  sincerity.  That  very  morning  he  introduced 
me  to  two  unhappy  women  more,  whom,  like  me, 
he  had  deceived,  but  who  lived  in  contented  pros- 
titution. I  loved  him  too  tenderly  to  bear  such  ri- 
vals in  his  affections,  and  strove  to  forget  my  in- 
famy in  a  tumult  of  pleasures.  With  this  view  I 
danced,  dressed,  and  talked;  but  still  was  unhappy. 
The  gentlemen  who  visited  there  told  me  every 
moment  of  the  power  of  my  charms,  and  this  only 
contributed  to  increase  my  melancholy  as  I  had 
thrown  all  their  power  quite  away.  Thus  each 
day  I  grew  more  pensive,  and  he  more  insolent,  till 
at  last  the  monster  had  the  assurance  to  offer  me 
to  a  young  baronet  of  his  acquaintance.  Need  I 
describe,  sir,  how  his  ingratitude  stung  me?  My 
answer  to  this  proposal  was  almost  madness.  I 
desired  to  part.  As  I  was  going,  he  offered  me  a 
purse;  but  I  flung  it  at  him  with  indignation,  and 
burst  from  him  in  a  rage,  that  for  a  while  kept  me 
insensible  of  the  miseries  of  my  situation.  But  I 
soon  looked  round  me,  and  saw  myself  a  vile,  ab- 
ject, guilty  thing,  without  one  friend  in  the  world 
to  apply  to.  Just  in  that  interval  a  stage-coach 
happening  to  pass  by,  I  took  a  place,  it  being  my 
auu  to  be  driven  at  a  distance  from  a  wretch  I  de- 
spised and  detested.  I  was  set  down  here,  where, 
since  my  arrival,  my  own  anxiety  and  this  woman's 
unkindness  have  been  my  only  companions.  The 
hours  of  pleasure  that  I  have  passed  with  my  mam- 
ma and  sister  now  grow  painful  to  me.  Their  sor- 
rows are  much;  but  mine  are  greater  than  theirs, 
for  mine  are  mixed  with  guilt  and  infamy." 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


"  Have  patience,  my  child,"  cried  I,  "  and  I  hope 
things  will  yet  be  better.  Take  some  repose  to- 
night, and  to-morrow  I'll  carry  you  home  to  your 
mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family,  from  whom  you 
will  receive  a  kind  reception. — Poor  woman!  this 
has  gone  to  her  heart:  but  she  loves  you  still, 
Olivia,  and  will  forget  it." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Offences  are  easily  pardoned  where  there  is  Love  at  bottom. 

The  next  morning  I  took  my  daughter  behind 
me,  and  set  out  on  my  return  home.  As  we  travel- 
ed along,  I  strove  by  every  persuasion  to  calm  her 
sorrows  and  fears,  and  to  arm  her  with  resolution 
to  bear  the  presence  of  her  offended  mother.  1 
took  every  opportunity  from  the  prospect  of  a  fine 
country,  through  which  we  passed,  to  observe  how 
much  kinder  heaven  was  to  us  than  we  to  each 
other,  and  that  the  misfortunes  of  nature's  making 
were  very  few.  I  assured  her,  that  she  should 
never  perceive  any  change  in  my  affections,  and 
that  during  my  life,  which  yet  might  be  long,  she 
might  depend  upon  a  guardian  and  an  instructor. 
I  armed  her  against  the  censures  of  the  world, 
showed  her  that  books  were  sweet  unreproaching 
companions  to  the  miserable,  and  that  if  they  could 
not  bring  us  to  enjoy  Ufe,  they  would  at  least  teach 
us  to  endure  it. 

The  hired  horse  that  we  rode  was  to  be  put  up 
that  night  at  an  inn  by  the  way,  within  about  five 
miles  from  my  house;  and  as  I  was  willing  to  pre- 
pare my  family  for  my  daughter's  reception,  I  de- 
termined to  leave  her  that  night  at  the  inn,  and  to 
return  for  her,  accompanied  by  my  daughter  So- 
phia, early  the  next  morning.  It  was  night  before 
we  reached  our  appointed  stage:  however,  after 
seeing  her  provided  with  a  decent  apartment,  and 
having  ordered  the  hostess  to  prepare  proper  re- 
freshments, I  kissed  her,  and  proceeded  towards 
home.  And  now  my  heart  caught  new  sensations 
of  pleasure  the  nearer  I  approached  that  peaceful 
mansion.  As  a  bird  that  had  been  frighted  from 
its  nest,  my  affections  outwent  my  haste,  and  ho- 
vered round  my  little  fire-side  with  all  the  rapture 
of  expectation.  I  called  up  the  many  fond  things 
I  had  to  say,  and  anticipated  the  welcome  I  was  to 
receive.  I  already  felt  my  wife's  tender  embrace, 
and  smiled  at  the  joy  of  my  little  ones.  As  I 
walked  but  slowly,  the  night  waned  apace.  The 
labourers  of  the  day  were  all  retired  to  rest;  the 
lights  were  out  in  every  cottage;  no  sounds  were 
heard  but  of  the  shrilling  cock,  and  the  deep- 
mouthed  watch-dog  at  hollow  distance.  I  approach- 
ed my  little  abode  of  pleasure,  and  before  I  was 
within  a  furlong  of  the  place,  our  honest  mastiff 
came  running  to  welcome  me. 


It  was  now  near  midnight  that  I  came  to  knock 
at  my  door; — all  was  still  and  silent; — my  heart 
dilated  with  unutterable  happiness,  when,  to  my 
amazement,  I  saw  the  house  bursting  out  in  a  blaze 
of  fire,  and  every  aperture  red  with  conflagration! 
I  gave  a  loud  convulsive  outcry,  and  .fell  upon  the 
pavement  insensible.  This  alarmed  my  son,  who 
had  till  this  been  asleep,  and  he  perceiving  the 
flames,  instantly  waked  my  wife  and  daughter;  and 
all  running  out,  naked,  and  wild  with  apprehen- 
sion, recalled  me  to  Ufe  with  their  anguish.  But 
it  was  only  to  objects  of  new  terror;  for  the  flames 
had  by  this  time  caught  the  roof  of  our  dwelling, 
part  after  part  continuing  to  fall  in,  while  the  fami- 
ly stood  with  silent  agony  looking  on  as  if  they 
enjoyed  the  blaze.  I  gazed  upon  them  and  upon  it 
by  turns,  and  then  looked  round  me  for  my  two 
little  ones;  but  they  were  not  to  be  seen.  O  mise- 
ry! "  Where,"  cried  I,  "  where  are  my  little  ones?" 
"  They  are  burnt  to  death  in  the  flames,"  says  my 
wife,  calmly,  "and  I  will  die  with  them." — That 
moment  I  heard  the  cry  of  the  babes  within,  who 
were  just  awaked  by  the  fire,  and  nothing  could 
have  stopped  me.  "  Where,  where  are  my  chil- 
dren?" cried  I,  rushing  through  the  flames,  and 
bursting  the  door  of  the  chamber  in  which  they 
were  confined;  "Where  are  my  Uttle  ones?" — 
"  Here,  dear  papa,  here  we  are,'*  cried  they  to- 
gether, while  the  flames  were  just  catching  the  bed 
where  they  lay.  I  caught  them  both  in  my  arms, 
and  snatched  them  through  the  fire  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible, while,  just  as  I  was  got  out,  the  roof  sunk  in. 
"  Now,"  cried  I,  holding  up  my  children,  "  now 
let  the  flames  burn  op,  and  all  my  possessions  per- 
ish. Here  they  are;  I  have  saved  my  treasure. 
Here,  my  dearest,  here  are  our  treasures,  and  we 
shall  yet  be  happy."  We  kissed  our  little  darlings 
a  thousand  times;  they  clasped  us  round  the  neck, 
and  seemed  to  share  our  transports,  while  their 
mother  laughed  and  wept  by  turns. 

I  now  stood  a  calm  spectator  of  the  flames,  and 
after  some  time  began  to  perceive  that  my  arm  to 
the  shoulder  was  scorched  in  a  terrible  manner.  It 
was  therefore  out  of  my  power  to  give  my  son  any 
assistance,  either  in  attempting  to  save  our  goods, 
or  preventing  the  flames  spreading  to  our  corn.  By 
this  time  the  neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  came 
running  to  our  assistance;  but  all  they  could  do 
was  to  stand,  like  us,  spectators  of  the  calamity. 
My  goods,  among  which  were  the  notes  I  had  re- 
served for  my  daughters'  fortunes,  were  entirely 
consumed,  except  a  box  with  some  papers  that 
stood  in  the  kitchen,  and  two  or  three  things  more 
of  little  consequence,  which  my  son  brought  away 
in  the  beginning.  The  neighbours  contributed, 
however,  what  they  could  to  lighten  our  distress. 
Thev  brought  us  clothes,  and  furnished  one  of  our 
out-lfouses  with  kitchen  utensils;  so  that  by  day- 
light we  had  another,  though  a  wretched  dwelling, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


9<? 


\o  retire  to.  My  honest  next  neighbour  and  his 
children  were  not  the  least  assiduous  in  providing  us 
with  every  thing  necessary,  and  offering  whatever 
consolation  untutored  benevolence  could  suggest. 

When  the  fears  of  my  family  had  subsided,  cu- 
riosity to  know  the  cause  of  my  long  stay  began  to 
take  place :  having  therefore  informed  them  of  every 
particular,  I  proceeded  to  prepare  them  for  the  re- 
ception of  our  lost  one,  and  though  we  had  nothing 
but  wretchedness  now  to  impart,  I  was  willing  to 
procure  her  a  welcome  to  what  we  had.  This  task 
would  have  been  more  difficult  but  for  our  recent 
calamity,  which  had  humbled  my  wife's  pride,  and 
blunted  it  by  more  poignant  afflictions.  Being  un- 
able to  go  for  my  poor  child  myself,  as  my  arm 
grew  very  painful,  I  sent  my  son  and  daughter, 
who  soon  returned,  supporting  the  wretched  de- 
linquent, who  had  not  the  courage  to  look  up  at 
her  mother,  whom  no  instructions  of  mine  could 
persuade  to  a  perfect  reconciliation;  for  women 
have  a  much  stronget  sense  of  female  error  than 
jnen.  "Ah,  madam,"  cried  her  mother,  "  This  is 
but  a  poor  place  you  are  come  to  after  so  much 
finery.  My  daughter  Sophy  and  I  can  afford  but 
little  entertainment  to  persons  who  have  kept  com- 
pany only  with  people  of  distinction.  Yes,  Miss 
Livy,  your  poor  father  and  I  have  suffered  very 
much  of  late;  but  I  hope  Heaven  will  forgive  you.'* 
During  this  reception,  the  unhappy  victim  stood 
pale  and  trembling,  unable  to  weep  or  to  reply :  but 
I  could  not  continue  a  silent  spectator  of  her  dis- 
tress; wherefore,  assuming  a  degree  of  Bcverity  in 
my  voice  and  manner,  which  was  ever  followed 
with  instant  submission,  "  I  entreat,  woman,  that 
my  words  may  be  now  marked  once  for  all :  I  have 
here  brought  you  back  a  poor  deluded  wanderer; 
her  return  to  duty  demands  the  revival  of  our  ten- 
derness. The  real  hardships  of  life  are  now  com- 
ing fast  upon  us;  let  us  not,  therefore,  increase 
them  by  dissension  among  each  other!  If  we  live 
harmoniously  together  we  may  yet  be  contented, 
as  there  are  enough  of  us  to  shut  out  the  censuring 
world,  and  keep  each  other  in  countenance.  The 
kindness  of  Heaven  is  promised  to  the  penitent, 
and  let  ours  be  directed  by  the  example.  Heaven, 
we  are  assured,  is  much  more  pleased  to  view  a  re- 
pentant sinner,  than  ninety-nine  persons  who  have 
supported  a  course  of  undeviating  rectitude.  And 
this  is  right ;  for  that  single  effort  by  which  we  stop 
short  in  the  down-hill  path  to  perdition,  is  itself  a 
greater  exertion  of  virtue  than  a  hundred  acts  of 
justice." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

None  but  the  guilty  can  be  long  and  completely  miserable. 

Some  assiduity  was  now  required  to  make  our 
present  abode  as  convenient  as  possible,  and  we 


were  soon  again  qualified  to  enjoy  our  former  se- 
renity. Being  disabled  myself  from  assisting  my 
son  in  our  usual  occupations,  I  read  to  my  family 
from  the  few  books  that  were  saved,  and  particu- 
larly from  such  as,  by  amusing  the  imagination, 
contributed  to  ease  the  heart.  Our  good  neigh 
hours,  too,  came  every  day  with  the  kindest  condo 
lence,  and  fixed  a  time  in  which  they  Were  all  to 
assist  in  repairing  my  former  dwelling.  Honest 
Farmer  Williams  was  not  the  last  among  these 
visiters;  but  heartily  offered  his  friendship.  He 
would  even  have  renewed  his  addresses  to  my 
daughter;  but  she  rejected  him  in  such  a  manner 
as  totally  repressed  his  future  solicitations. — Her 
grief  seemed  formed  for  continuing,  and  she  was 
the  only  person  of  our  little  society  that  a  week 
did  not  restore  to  cheerfulness.  She  now  lost  that 
unblushing  innocence  which  once  taught  her  to 
respect  herself,  and  to  seek  pleasure  by  pleasing.— 
Anxiety  now  had  taken  strong  possession  of  her 
mind ;  her  beauty  began  to  be  impaired  with  her 
constitution,  and  neglect  still  more  contributed  to 
diminish  it.  Every  tender  epithet  bestowed  on  her 
sister  brought  a  pang  to  her  heart  and  a  tear  to  her 
eye;  and  as  one  vice,  though  cured,  ever  plants 
others  where  it  has  been,  so  her  former  guilt,  though 
driven  out  by  repentance,  left  jealousy  and  envy 
behind.  I  strove  a  thousand  ways  to  lessen  her 
care,  and  even  forgot  my  own  pain  in  a  concern  for 
hers,  collecting  such  amusing  passages  of  history 
as  a  strong  memory  and  some  reading  could  sug- 
gest.— "  Our  happiness,  my  dear,"  I  would  say, 
"  is  in  the  power  of  one  who  can  bring  it  about  a 
thousand  unforeseen  ways  that  mock  our  foresight. 
If  example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I'll  give  yoti 
a  story,  my  child,  told  us  by  a  grave,  though  some- 
times a  romancing,  historian. 

' '  Matilda  was  married  very  young  to  a  Neapolitan 
nobleman  of  the  first  quality,  and  found  herself  a 
widow  and  a  mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  As  she 
stood  one  day  caressing  her  infant  son  in  the  open 
window  of  an  apartment  which  hung  over  the  river 
Volturna,  the  child  with  a  sudden  spring  leaped 
from  her  arms  into  the  flood  below,  and  disappear- 
ed in  a  moment.  The  mother,  struck  with  in- 
stant surprise,  and  making  an  effort  to  save  him, 
plunged  in  after;  but  far  from  being  able  to  assisi 
the  infant,  she  herself  with  great  difiiculty  escape 
to  the  opposite  shore,  just  when  some  French  sol- 
diers were  plundering  the  country  on  that  side, 
who  immediately  made  her  their  prisoner. 

"  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  *he 
French  and  Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity, 
they  were  going  at  once  to  perpetrate  those  two 
extremes  suggested  by  appetite  and  cruelty.  This 
base  resolution,  however,  was  opposed  by  a  young 
officer,  who,  though  their  retreat  required  the 
utmost  expedition,  placed  her  behind  him,  and 
brought  her  in  safety  to  his  native  city.    Her  beau- 


100 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ty  at  first  caught  his  eye,  her  merit  soon  after  his 
heart.  They  were  married ;  he  rose  to  the  highest 
posts;  they  Hved  long  together,  and  were  happy. 
But  the  felicity  of  a  soldier  can  never  be  called  per- 
manent: after  an  interval  of  several  years,  the 
troops  which  he  commanded  having  met  with  a  re- 
pulse, he  was  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  the  city 
where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.  Here' they  suf- 
fered a  siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was  taken. 
Few  histories  can  produce  more  various  instances 
of  cruelty  than  those  which  the  French  and  Ital- 
ians at  that  time  exercised  upon  each  other.  It 
was  resolved  by  tke  victors,  upon  this  occasion,  to 
put  all  the  French  prisoners  to  death;  but  particu- 
larly the  husband  of  the  unfortunate  Matilda,  as 
he  was  principally  instrumental  in  protracting  the 
siege.  Their  determinations  were  in  general  exe- 
cuted almost  as  soon  as  resolved  upon.  The  cap- 
tive soldier  was  led  forth,  and  the  executioner  with 
his  sword  stood  ready,  while  the  spectators  in 
gloomy  silence  awaited  the  fatal  blow,  which  was 
only  suspended  till  the  general,  who  presided  as 
judge,  should  give  the  signal.  It  was  in  this  inter- 
val of  anguish  and  expectation  that  Matilda  came 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  her  husband  and  deliverer, 
deploring  her  wretched  situation,  and  the  cruelty 
of  fate,  that  had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a  pre- 
mature death  in  the  river  Volturna,  to  be  the  spec- 
tator of  still  greater  calamities.  The  general,  who 
was  a  young  man,  was  struck  with  surprise  at  her 
beauty,  and  pity  at  her  distress;  but  with  still 
stronger  emotions  when  he  heard  her  mention  her 
former  dangers.  He  was  her  son,  the  infant  for 
whom  she  had  encountered  so  much  danger.  He 
acknowledged  her  at  once  as  his  mother,  and  fell 
at  her  feet.  The  rest  may  be  easily  supposed ;  the 
captive  was  set  free,  and  all  the  happiness  that 
love,  friendship,  and  duty  could  confer  on  each, 
were  united." 

In  this  manner  I  would  attempt  to  amuse  my 
daughter,  but  she  listened  with  divided  attention; 
for  her  own  misfortunes  engrossed  all  the  pity  she 
once  had  for  those  of  another,  and  nothing  gave 
her  ease.  In  company  she  dreaded  contempt;  and 
in  solitude  she  only  found  anxiety.  Such  was  the 
colour  of  her  wretchedness,  when  we  received 
certain  information  that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  going 
to  be  married  to  Miss  Wilmot,  for  whom  I  always 
suspected  he  had  a  real  passion,  though  he  took 
every  opportunity  before  me  to  express  his  con- 
tempt both  of  her  person  and  fortune.  This  news 
only  served  to  increase  poor  Olivia's  affliction:  such 
a  flagrant  breach  of  fidelity  was  more  than  her 
courage  could  support.  I  was  resolved,  however, 
to  get  more  certain  information,  and  to  defeat  if 
possible  the  completion  of  his  designs,  by  sending 
my  son  to  old  Mr.  Wilmot' s  with  instructions  to 
know  the  truth  of  the  report,  and  to  deliver  Miss 
Wilmot  a  letter,  intimating  Mr.  Tbornhill's  con- 


duct in  my  family.  My  son  went  in  pursuance 
of  my  directions,  and  in  three  days  returned,  as- 
suring us  of  the  truth  of  the  account;  but  that  he 
had  found  it  impossible  to  deliver  the  letter,  which 
he  was  therefore  obliged  to  leave,  as  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill  and  Miss  Wilmot  were  visiting  round  the 
country.  They  were  to  be  married,  he  said,  in  a 
few  days,  having  appeared  together  at  church  the 
Sunday  before  he  was  there,  in  great  splendour, 
the  bride  attended  by  six  young  ladies,  and  he  by 
as  many  gentlemen.  Their  approaching  nuptials 
filled  the  whole  country  with  rejoicing,  and  they 
usually  rode  out  together  in  the  grandest  equipage 
that  had  been  seen  in  the  country  for  many  years. 
All  the  friends  of  both  families,  he  said,  were  there, 
particularly  the  'Squire's  uncle.  Sir  William  Thorn- 
hill,  who  bore  so  good  a  character.  He  added, 
that  nothing  but  mirth  and  feasting  were  going 
forward;  that  all  the  country  praised  the  young 
bride's  beauty,  and  the  bridegroom's  fine  person, 
and  that  they  were  immensely  fond  of  each  other; 
concluding,  that  he  could  not  help  thinking  Mr. 
Thornhill  one  of  the  most  happy  men  in  the  world. 

"Why,  let  him,  if  he  can,"  returned  I:  "but, 
my  son,  observe  this  bed  of  straw,  and  unsheltering 
roof;  those  mouldering  walls,  and  humid  floor;  my 
wretched  body  thus  disabled  by  fire,  and  my  chil- 
dren weeping  round  me  for  bread ; — ^you  have  come 
home,  my  child,  to  all  this;  yet  here,  even  here,  you 
see  a  man  that  would  not  for  a  thousand  worlds  ex- 
change situations.  O,  my  children,  if  you  could 
but  learn  to  commune  with  your  own  hearts,  and 
know  what  noble  company  you  can  make  them, 
you  would  little  regard  the  elegance  and  splendour 
of  the  worthless.  Almost  all  men  have  been  taught 
to  call  life  a  passage,  and  themselves  the  travellers. 
The  similitude  still  may  be  improved,  when  we  ob- 
serve that  the  good  are  joyful  and  serene,  like  trav- 
ellers  that  are  going  towards  home;  the  wicked  but 
by  intervals  happy,  like  travellers  that  are  going  in- 
to exile." 

My  compassion  for  my  poor  daughter,  overpow- 
ered by  this  new  disaster,  interrupted  what  1  had 
further  to  observe.  I  bade  her  mother  support  her, 
and  after  a  short  time  she  recovered.  She  appeared 
from  that  time  more  calm,  and  I  imagined  had  gain- 
ed a  new  degree  of  resolution :  but  appearances  de- 
ceived me;  for  her  tranquillity  was  the  languor  of 
over-wrought  resentment.  A  supply  of  provisions, 
charitably  sent  us  by  my  kind  parishioners,  seem- 
ed to  diffuse  new  cheerfulness  among  the  rest  of 
the  family,  nor  was  I  displeased  at  seeing  them 
once  more  sprightly  and  at  ease.  It  would  have 
been  unjust  to  damp  their  satisfactions,  merely  to 
condole  with  resolute  melancholy,  or  to  burden 
them  with  a  sadness  they  did  not  feel.  Thus  once 
more  the  tale  went  round,  and  the  song  was  de- 
manded, and  cheerfulness  condescended  to  hover 
round  our  little  habitation. 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELDl 


\(k 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


Fresh  Calamities. 


The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar 
warmth  for  the  season,  so  that  we  agreed  to  break- 
fast together  on  the  honey-suckle  bank;  where, 
while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daughter  at  my  request 
joined  her  voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about 
us.  It  was  in  this  place  my  poor  Olivia  first  met 
her  seducer,  and  every  object  served  to  recall  her 
sadness.  But  that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by 
objects  of  pleasure,  or  inspired  by  sounds  of  har- 
mony, soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corroding  it. 
Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a  pleasing 
distress,  and  wept,  and  loved  her  daughter  as  be- 
fore. "  Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,"  cried  she,  "  let  us 
have  that  little  melancholy  air  your  papa  was  so 
fond  of;  your  sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us. 
Do,  child,  it  will  please  your  old  father."  She 
complied  in  a  manner  so  exquisitely  pathetic  as 
moved  me. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  awayl 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom — ^is  to  die. 

As  she  was  concluding  the  last  stanza,  to  which 
an  interruption  in  her  voice  from  sorrow  gave  pe- 
culiar softness,  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Thomhill's 
equipage  at  a  distance  alarmed  us  all,  but  particu- 
larly increased  the  uneasiness  of  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, who,  desirous  of  shunning  her  betrayer,  re- 
turned to  the  house  with  her  sister.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  was  alighted  from  his  chariot,  and 
making  up  to  the  place  where  I  was  still  sitting, 
inquired  after  my  health  with  his  usual  air  of  fa- 
miliarity. "Sir,"  replied  I,  " your  present  assur- 
ance only  serves  to  aggravate  the  baseness  of  your 
character;  and  there  was  a  time  when  I  would  have 
chastised  your  insolence  for  presuming  thus  to  ap- 
pear before  me.  But  now  you  are  safe ;  for  age 
has  cooled  my  passions,  and  my  calling  restrains 
them." 

"  I  vow,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  he,  "I  am  amazed 
at  all  this;  nor  can  I  understand  what  it  means!  I 
hope  you  don't  think  your  daughter's  late  excursion 
with  me  had  any  thing  criminal  in  it?" 

"Go,"  cried  I,  "  thou  art  a  wretch,  a  poor  pitiful 
wretch,  and  every  way  a  liar:  but  your  meanness 
secures  you  from  my  anger!  Yet,  sir,  I  am  de- 
scended from  a  family  that  would  not  have  borne 
this! — And  so,  thou  vile  thing,  to  gratify  a  mo- 
mentary passion,  thou  hast  made  one  poor  creature 


wretched  for  life,  and  polluted  a  family  that  had 
nothing  but  honour  for  their  portion!" 

"  If  she  or  you,"  returned  he,  "arc  resolved  to 
be  miserable,  I  can  not  help  it.  But  you  may  still 
be  happy;  and  whatever  opinion  you  may  have 
formed  of  me,  you  shall  ever  find  me  ready  to  con- 
tribute to  it.  We  can  marry  her  to  another  in  a 
short  time,  and  what  is  more,  she  may  keep  her 
lover  beside;  for  I  protest  I  shall  ever  continue  to 
have  a  true  regard  for  her." 

I  found  all  my  passions  alarmed  at  this  new  de- 
grading proposal ;  for  though  the  mind  may  often 
be  calm  under  great  injuries,  little  villany  can  at 
any  time  get  within  the  soul,  and  sting  it  into  rage. 
"Avoid  my  sight,  thou  reptile!"  cried  I,  "nor  con- 
tinue to  insult  me  with  thy  presence.  Were  my 
brave  son  at  home  he  would  not  suffer  this';  but  I 
am  old  and  disabled,  and  every  way  undone." 

"I  find,"  cried  he,  "you  are  bent  upon  obliging 
me  to  talk  in  a  harsher  manner  than  I  intended. 
But  as  I  have  shown  you  what  may  be  hoped  from 
my  friendship,  it  may  not  be  improper  to  represent 
what  may  be  the  consequences  of  my  resentment. 
My  attorney,  to  whom  your  late  bond  has  been 
transferred,  threatens  hard,  nor  do  I  know  how  to 
prevent  the  course  of  justice,  except  by  paying  the 
money  myself,  which,  as  I  have  been  at  some  ex- 
penses lately,  previous  to  my  intended  marriage,  is 
not  so  easy  to  be  done.  And  then  my  steward 
talks  of  driving  for  the  rent:  it  is  certain  he  knows 
his  duty;  for  I  never  trouble  myself  with  affairs  of 
that  nature.  Yet  still  I  could  wish  to  serve  you, 
and  even  to  have  you  and  your  daughter  present 
at  my  marriage,  which  is  shortly  to  be  solemnized 
with  Miss  Wilmot;  it  is  even  the  request  of  my 
charming  Arabella  herself,  whom  I  hope  you  will 
not  refuse." 

"Mr.  Thornhill,"  replied  I,  "hear  me  once  for 
all :  As  to  your  marriage  with  any  but  my  daugh- 
ter, that  I  never  will  consent  to;  and  though  your 
friendship  could  raise  me  to  a  throne,  or  your  re- 
sentment sink  me  to  the  grave,  yet  would  I  despise 
both.  Thou  hast  once  wofully,  irreparably  de- 
ceived me.  I  reposed  my  heart  upon  thine  honour, 
and  have  found  its  baseness.  Never  more  there- 
fore expect  friendship  from  me.  Go,  and  possess 
what  fortune  has  given  thee,  beauty,  riches,  health, 
and  pleasure.  Go,  and  leave  me  to  want,  infamy, 
disease,  and  sorrow.  Yet,  humbled  as  I  am,  shall 
my  heart  still  vindicate  its  dignity;  and  though 
thou  hast  my  forgiveness,  thou  shalt  ever  have  my 
contempt." 

"  If  so,"  returned  he,  "depend  upon  it  you  shall 
feel  the  effects  of  this  insolence :  and  we  shall  short- 
ly see  which  is  the  fittest  object  of  scorn,  you  or 
me." — Upon  which  he  departed  abruptly. 

My  wife  and  son,  who  were  present  at  this  in- 
terview, seemed  terrified  with  the  apprehension. 
My  daughters,  also,  finding  that  he  was  gone,  camo 


:m. 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


out  tb  be  informed  ot'  the  result  of  our  conference, 
whicn,  when  known,  alarmed  them  not  less  than 
th?!  rest.  But  as  to  myself,  1  disregarded  the  utmost 
stretch  of  his  malevolence :  he  had  already  struck 
the  Mow,  and  now  I  stood  prepared  to  repel  every 
new  effort;  like  one  of  those  instruments  used  in 
the  art  of  war,  which,  however  thrown,  still  pre- 
sents a  point  to  receive  the  enemy. 

We  soon  however  found  that  he  had  not  threat- 
ened in  vain :  for  the  very  next  morning  his  stew- 
ard came  to  demand  my  annual  rent,  which,  by 
the  train  of  accidents  already  related,  I  was  unable 
to  pa}.  The  consequence  of  my  incapacity  was 
his  driving  my  cattle  that  evening,  and  their  being 
appraised  and  sold  the  next  day  for  less  than  half 
their  value. — My  wife  and  children  now  therefore 
entreated  me  to  comply  upon  any  terms,  rather 
than  incur  certain  destruction.  They  even  begged 
of  me  to  admit  his  visits  once  more,  and  used  all 
their  little  eloquence  to  paint  the  calamities  I  was 
going  to  endure; — the  terrors  of  a  prison  in  so 
rigorous  a  season  as  the  present,  with  the  danger 
that  threatened  my  health  from  the  late  accident 
that  happened  by  the  fire.  But  I  continued  in- 
flexible. 

*'  Why,  my  treasures,"  cried  I,  "why 'will  you 
thus  attempt  to  persuade  me  to  the  thing  that  is  not 
right!  My  duty  has  taught  me  to  forgive  him ;  but 
luy  conscience  will  not  permit  me  to  approve. 
Would  you  have  me  applaud  to  the  world  what  my 
heart  must  internally  condemn?  Would  you  have 
me  tamely  sit  down  and  flatter  our  infamous  be- 
trayer; and,  to  avoid  a  prison,  continually  suffer 
the  more  galling  bonds  of  mental  confinement?  No, 
never.  If  we  are  to  be  taken  from  this  abode,  only 
let  us  hold  to  the  right;  and  wherever  we  are 
thrown,  we  can  still  retire  to  a  charming  apartment, 
when  we  can  look  round  our  own  hearts  with  in- 
trepidity and  with  pleasure!" 

In  this  manner  we  spent  that  evening.  Early 
the  next  morning,  as  the  snow  had  fallen  in  great 
abundance  in  the  night,  my  son  was  employed  in 
clearing  it  away,  and  opening  a  passage  before  the 
door.  He  had  not  been  thus  engaged  long,  when 
he  came  running  in,  with  looks  all  pale,  to  tell  us 
that  two  strangers,  whom  he  knew  to  be  officers  of 
the  justice,  were  making  towards  the  house. 

Just  as  he  spoke  they  came  in,  and  approaching 
the  bed  where  I  lay,  after  previously  informing  me 
of  their  employment  and  business,  made  me  their 
prisoner,  bidding  me  prepare  to  go  with  them  to 
the  county  gaol,  which  was  eleven  miles  off. 

"  My  friends,"  said  I,  "  this  is  severe  weather  in 
which  you  have  come  to  take  me  to  a  prison ;  and 


and  old  to  walk  far  in  such  deep  snow ;  but  if  il 

must  be  so— " 

1  then  turned  to  my  wife  and  children,  and  di- 
rected them  to  get  together  what  few  things  were 
left  us,  and  to  prepare  immediately  for  leaving  this 
place.  I  entreated  them  to  be  expeditious,  and  de- 
sired my  son  to  assist  his  eldest  sister,  who,  from  a 
consciousness  that  she  was  the  cause  of  all  our  ca- 
lamities, was  fallen,  and  had  lost  anguish  in  insen- 
sibility. I  encouraged  my  wife,  who,  pale  and 
trembling,  clasped  our  affrighted  little  ones  in  her 
arms,  that  clung  to  her  bosom  in  silence,  dreading 
to  look  round  at  the  strangers.  In  the  mean  time 
my  youngest  daughter  prepared  for  our  departure, 
and  as  she  received  several  hints  to  use  dispatch, 
in  about  an  hour  we  were  ready  to  depart. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

No  situation,  however  wretched  it  seems,  but  has  some  sort  of 
*^  comfort  attending  it. 

We  set  forward  from  this  peaceful  neighbour- 
hood, and  walked  on  slowly.  My  eldest  daughter 
being  enfeebled  by  a  slow  fever,  which  had  begun 
for  some  days  to  undermine  her  constitution,  one 
of  the  officers,  who  had  a  horse,  kindly  took  her 
behind  him;  for  even  these  men  can  not  entirely  di- 
vest themselves  of  humanity.  My  son  led  one  of 
the  little  ones  by  the  hand,  and  my  wife  the  other, 
while  I  leaned  upon  my  youngest  girl,  whose  tears 
fell  not  for  her  own  but  my  distresses. 

We  were  now  got  from  my  late  dwelling  about 
two  miles,  when  we  saw  a  crowd  running  and 
shouting  behind  us,  consisting  of  about  fifty  of  my 
poorest  parisliioners.  These,  with  dreadful  impre- 
cations, soon  seized  upon  the  two  officers  of  justice, 
and  swearing  they  would  never  see  their  minister 
go  to  gaol  while  they  had  a  drop  of  blood  to  shed  in 
Lis  defence,  were  going  to  use  them  with  great  se- 
verity. The  consequence  might  have  been  fatal 
had  I  not  immediately  interposed,  and  with  some 
difficulty  rescued  the  officers  from  the  hands  of  the 
enraged  multitude.  My  children,  who  looked  up- 
on my  delivery  now  as  certain,  appeared  transport- 
ed with  joy,  and  were  incapable  of  containing  their 
raptures.  But  they  were  soon  undeceived,  upon 
hearing  me  address  the  poor  deluded  people,  who 
came  as  they  imagined  to  do  me  servdce. 

"What!  my  friends,"  cried  I,  "and  is  this  the 
way  you  love  me?  Is  this  the  manner  you  obey 
the  instructions  I  have  given  you  from  the  pulpit? 
Thus  to  fly  in  the  face  of  justice,  and  bring  down 


it  is  particularly  unfortunate  at  this  time,  as  one  of  i  ruin  on  yourselves  and  me!  Which  is  your  ring- 
my  arms  has  lately  been  burnt  in  a  terrible  man- 
ner, and  it  has  thrown  me  into  a  slight  fever,  and  I 
lyant  clothes  to  cover  me ;  and  I  am  now  too  weak 


leader?  Show  me  the  man  that  has  thus  seduced 
you.  As  sure  as  he  lives  he  shall  feel  my  resent- 
ment— Alas!  my  dear  deluded  flock,  return  back  to 


THE  VICAR  OP  WAKEFIELD. 


103 


the  duty  you  owe  to  God,  to  your  country,  and  to 
me.  I  shall  yet  perhaps  one  day  see  you  in  greater 
feUcity  here,  and  contribute  to  make  your  lives 
more  happy.  But  let  it  at  least  be  my  comfort 
when  I  pen  my  fold  for  immortality,  that  not  one 
here  shall  be  wanting." 

They  now  seemed  all  repentance,  and  melting 
into  tears,  came  one  after  the  other  to  bid  me  fare 
well.  1  shook  each  tenderly  by  the  hand,  and  leav 
ing  them  my  blessing,  proceeded  forward  without 
meeting  any  further  interruption.  Some  hours  be- 
fore night  we  reached  the  town,  or  rather  village, 
for  it  consisted  but  of  a  few  mean  houses,  having 
lost  all  its  former  opulence,  and  retaining  no  marks 
of  its  ancient  superiority  but  the  gaol. 

Upon  entering  we  put  up  at  the  inn,  where  we 
had  such  refreshments  as  could  most  readily  be 
procured,  and  I  supped  with  my  family  with  my 
usual  cheerfulness.  After  seeing  them  properly 
accommodated  for  that  night,  I  next  attended  the 
sheriff's  officers  to  the  prison,  which  had  formerly 
been  built  for  the  purpose  of  war,  and  consisted  of 
one  large  apartment,  strongly  grated  and  paved 
with  stone,  common  to  both  felons  and  debtors  at 
certain  hours  in  the  four-and-twenty.  Besides 
this,  every  prisoner  had  a  separate  cell,  where  he 
was  locked  in  for  the  night. 

I  expected  upon  my  entrance  to  find  nothing 
but  lamentations  and  various  sounds  of  misery :  but 
it  was  very  different.  The  prisoners  seemed  all 
employed  in  one  common  design,  that  of  forgetting 
thought  in  merriment  or  clamour.  1  was  apprized 
of  the  usual  perquisite  required  upon  these  occa- 
sions, and  immediately  complied  with  the  demand, 
though  the  little  money  I  had  was  very  near  being 
all  exhausted.  This  was  immediately  sent  away 
for  liquor,  and  the  whole  prison  soon  was  filled  with 
riot,  laughter,  and  profaneness. 

"  How,"  cried  I  to  myself,  "  shall  men  so  very 
wicked  be  cheerful,  and  shall  I  be  melancholy?  I 
feel  only  the  same  confinement  with  them,  and  I 
think  I  have  more  reason  to  be  happy." 

With  such  reflections  I  laboured  to  become 
clieerful,  but  cheerfulness  was  never  yet  produced 
by  effort,  which  is  itself  painful.  As  I  was  sitting, 
therefore,  in  a  corner  of  the  gaol  in  a  pensive  pos- 
ture, one  of  my  fellow-prisoners  came  up,  and  sit- 
ting by  me,  entered  into  conversation.  It  was  my 
constant  rule  in  life  never  to  avoid  the  conversation 
of  any  man  who  seemed  to  desire  it :  for,  if  good,  1 
might  profit  by  his  instruction ;  if  bad,  he  might  be 
assisted  by  mine.  I  found  this  to  be  a  knowing 
man,  of  strong  unlettered  sense,  but  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  the  world,  as  it  is  called,  or  more 
properly  speaking,  of  human  nature  on  the  wrong 
side.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  taken  care  to  provide 
myself  with  a  bed,  which  was  a  circumstance  I  had 
never  attended  to. 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  cried  he,  "  as  you  are  al- 


lowed here  nothing  but  straw,  and  your  apartment 
is  very  large  and  cold.  However,  you  seem  to  be 
something  of  a  gentleman,  and  as  I  have  been  one 
myself  in  my  time,  part  of  my  bed-clothes  ate  heart- 
ily at  your  service." 

I  thanked  him,  professing  my  surprise  at  finding 
such  humanity  in  a  gaol  in  misfortunes;  adding,  to 
let  him  see  that  I  was  a  scholar,  "  That  the  sage 
ancient  seemed  to  understand  the  value  of  company 
in  afllliction,  when  he  said.  Ton  kosmon  aire,  ei 
dos  ton  etairon;  and  in  fact,"  continued  I,  "what 
is  the  w^orld  if  it  afiords  only  solitude T' 

"You  talk  of  the  world,  sir,"  returned  my  fel- 
low-prisoner; "  the  world  is  in  its  dotage  ;  and  yet 
the  cosmogony  or  creation  of  the  world  has  puzzled 
the  philosophers  of  every  age.  What  a  medley  of 
opinions  have  they  not  broached  upon  the  creation 
of  the  world!  Sanchoniathon,  Manetho,  Berosus, 
and  Ocellus  Lucanus,  have  all  attemptcdit  in  vain. 
The  latter  has  these  words,  Anarchon  ara  kai 
atelutaion  to  pan,  which  imply — "  "  I  ask  pardon, 
sir,"  cried  I,  "for  interrupting  so  much  learning; 
but  I  think  I  have  heard  all  this  before.  Have  I 
not  had  the  pleasure  of  once  seeing  you  at  Wel- 
bridge  fair,  and  is  not  your  name  Ephraim  Jerikin- 
son?"  At  this  demand  he  only  sighed.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  must  recollect,"  resumed  I,  "one  Doctor 
Primrose,  from  whom  you  bought  a  horse?" 

He  now  at  once  recollected  me ;  for  the  gloomi 
ness  of  the  place  and  the  approaching  night  had 
prevented  his  distinguishing  my  features  before. — 
"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson,  "  I  remember 
you  perfectly  well;  I  bought  a  horse,  but  forgot  to 
pay  for  him.  Your  neighbour  Flamborough  is  the 
only  prosecutor  I  am  any  way  afraid  of  at  the  next 
assizes;  for  he  intends  to  swear  positively  against 
me  as  a  coiner.  I  am  heartily  sorry,  sir,  I  ever 
deceived  you,  or  indeed  any  man;  for  you  see," 
continued  he,  showing  his  shackles,  "what  my 
tricks  have  brought  me  to." 

'Well,  sir,"  replied  1,  "your  kindnesc  in  offer- 
ing me  assistance  when  you  could  expect  no  return, 
shall  be  repaid  with  my  endeavours  to  soften  or  to- 
tally suppress  Mr.  Flamborough's  evidence,  and  I 
will  send  my  son  to  him  for  that  purpose  the  first 
opportunity ;  nor  do  I  in  the  least  doubt  but  he  Avill 
comply  with  my  request;  and  as  to  my  own  evi- 
dence you  need  be  under  no  uneasiness  about  that." 

'  Well,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  all  the  return  I  can  make 
shall  be  yours.  You  shall  have  more  than  half 
my  bed-clothes  to-night,  and  I'll  take  care  to  stand 
your  friend  in  the  prison,  where  I  think  I  have 
some  influence." 

I  thanked  him,  and  could  not  avoid  being  sur- 
prised at  the  present  youthful  change  in  his  aspect; 
for  at  the  time  I  had  seen  him  before,  he  appeared 
at  least  sixty. — "Sir,"  answered  he,  "you  are  Ut- 
tle  acquainted  with  the  world;  I  had  at  that  time 
false  hair,  and  have  learned  the  art  of  counterfeit- 


104 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ing  every  age  from  seventeen  to  seventy.  Ah !  sir, 
had  I  but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in  learning  a 
trade  that  I  have  in  learning  to  be  a  scoundrel,  I 
might  have  been  a  rich  man  at  this  day.  But  rogue 
as  1  am,  still  I  may  be  your  friend,  and  that  per- 
haps when  you  least  expect  it." 

We  were  now  prevented  from  further  conversa- 
tion by  the  arrival  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who 
came  to  call  over  the  prisoners'  names,  and  lock  up 
for  the  night.  A  fellow  also  with  a  bundle  of  straw 
for  my  bed  attended,  who  led  me  along  a  dark  nar- 
row passage  into  a  room  paved  like  the  common 
prison,  and  in  one  corner  of  this  I  spread  my  bed, 
and  the  clothes  given  me  by  my  fellow-prisoner ; 
which  done,  my  conductor,  who  was  civil  enough, 
bade  me  a  good  night.  After  my  usual  medita- 
tions, and  having  praised  my  Heavenly  Corrector, 
1  laid  myself  down,  and  slept  with  the  utmost  tran- 
quillity till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A  Reformation  in  the  Gaol— To  make  Laws  complete,  they 
should  Reward  as  well  as  Punish. 

The  next  morning  early  I  was  awakened  by  my 
family,  whom  I  found  in  tears  at  my  bed-side.  The 
gloomy  strength  of  every  thing  about  us,  it  seems, 
had  daunted  them.  I  gently  rebuked  their  sorrow, 
assuring  them  I  had  never  slept  with  greater  tran- 
quillity, and  next  inquired  after  my  eldest  daugh- 
ter, who  was  not  among  them.  They  informed 
me  that  yesterday's  uneasiness  and  fatigue  had  in- 
creased her  fever,  and  it  was  judged  proper  to  leave 
her  behind.  My  next  care  was  to  send  my  son  to 
procure  a  room  or  two  to  lodge  the  family  in,  as 
near  the  prison  as  conveniently  could  be  found. 
He  obeyed ;  but  could  only  find  one  apartment, 
which  was  hired  at  a  small  expense  for  his  mother 
and  sisters,  the  gaoler  with  humanity  consenting 
to  let  him  and  his  two  little  brothers  lie  in  the  pri- 
son with  me.  A  bed  was  therefore  prepared  for 
them  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  which  I  thpught  an- 
swered very  conveniently.  I  was  willing,  however, 
previously  to  know  whether  my  children  chose  to 
lie  in  a  place  which  seemed  to  fright  them  upon 
entrance. 

"  Well,"  cried  I,  "  my  good  boys,  how  do  you 
like  your  bed?  I  hope  j^ou  are  not  afraid  to  lie  in 
this  room,  dark  as  it  appears  1" 

"  No,  papa,"  says  Dick,  "  I  am  not  afraid  to  lie 
any  where  where  you  are." 

"  And  I,"  says  Bill,  who  was  yet  but  four  years 
old,  "  love  every  place  best  that  my  papa  is  in." 

After  this  I  allotted  to  each  of  the  family  what 
they  were  to  do.  My  daughter  was  particularly 
directed  to  watch  her  decUning  sister's  health;  my 
wife  was  to  attend  me ;  my  little  boys  were  to  read 


to  me.  "And  as  for  you,  my  son,"  continued  I, 
"  it  is  by  the  labour  of  your  hands  we  must  all  hope 
to  be  supported.  Your  wages  as  a  day-labourer 
will  be  fully  sufficient,  with  proper  frugality,  to 
maintain  us  all,  and  comfortably  too.  Thou  art 
now  sixteen  years  old,  and  hast  strength ;  and  it 
was  given  thee,  my  son,  for  very  useful  purposes ; 
for  it  must  save  from  famine  your  helpless  parents 
and  family.  Prepare  then  this  evening  to  look  out 
for  work  against  to-morrow,  and  bring  home  every 
night  what  money  you  earn  for  our  support." 

Having  thus  instructed  him,  and  settled  the  rest, 
I  w^alked  down  to  the  common  prison,  where  I 
could  enjoy  more  air  and  room.  But  I  was  not 
long  there  when  the  execrations,  lewdness,  and 
brutality  that  invaded  me  on  every  side,  drove  me 
back  to  ni}^  apartment  again.  Here  I  sat  for  some 
time  pondering  upon  the  strange  infatuation  of 
wretches,  who,  finding  all  mankind  in  open  arms 
against  them,  were  labouring  to  make  themselves 
a  future  and  a  tremendous  enemy. 

Their  insensibility  excited  my  highest  compas- 
sion, and  blotted  my  own  uneasiness  from  my  mind. 
It  even  appeared  a  duty  incumbent  upon  me  to  at- 
tempt to  reclaim  them.  I  resolved  therefore  once 
more  to  return,  and,  in  spite  of  their  contempt,  to 
give  them  my  advice,  and  conquer  them  by  my  per- 
severance. Going  therefore  among  them  again,  I 
informed  Mr.  Jenkinson  of  my  design,  at  which  he 
laughed  heartily,  but  communicated  it  to  the  rest. 
The  proposal  was  received  with  the  greatest  good- 
humour,  as  it  promised  to  afford  a  new  fund  of  en- 
tertainment to  persons  who  had  now  no  other  re- 
source for  mirth,  but  what  could  be  derived  from 
ridicule  or  debauchery. 

I  therefore  read  them  a  portion  of  the  service  with 
a  loud  unaffected  voice,  and  found  my  audience 
perfectly  merry  upon  the  occasion.  Lewd  whis- 
pers, groans  of  contrition  burlesqued,  winking,  and 
coughing,  alternately  excited  laughter.  However, 
I  continued  with  my  natural  solemnity  to  read  on, 
sensible  that  what  I  did  might  mend  some,  but 
could  itself  receive  no  contamination  from  any. 

After  reading  I  entered  upon  my  exhortation, 
wliich  was  rather  calculated  at  first  to  amuse  them 
than  to  reprove.  I  previously  observed,, that  no 
other  motive  but  their  welfare  could  induce  me  to 
this;  that  I  was  their  fellow-prisoner,  and  now  got 
nothing  by  preaching.  I  was  sorry,  I  said,  to  hear 
them  so  very  profane;  because  they  got  nothing  by 
it,  but  might  lose  a  great  deal:  "For  be  assured, 
my  friends,"  cried  I,  "  for  you  are  my  friends,  how- 
ever the  world  may  disclaim  your  friendship,  though 
you  swore  twelve  thousand  oaths  in  a  day,  it  would 
not  put  one  penny  in  your  purse.  Then  what  sig- 
nifies calling  every  moment  upon  the  devil,  and 
courting  his  friendship,  since  you  find  how  scurvi- 
ly  he  uses  you?  He  has  given  you  notliing  here, 
you  find,  but  a  mouthful  of  oaths  and  an  empty 


THE  VrCAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


105 


belly;  and  by  the  best  accounts  I  have  of  him,  he 
Vrill  give  you  nothing  that's  good  hereafter. 

"  If  used  ill  in  our  dealings  vpith  one  man,  vfe 
naturally  go  elsewhere.  Were  it  not  w^orth  your 
while,  then,  just  to  try  how  you  may  like  the  usage 
of  another  master,  v^rho  gives  you  fair  promises  at 
least  to  come  to  him?  Surely,  my  friends,  of  all 
stupidity  in  the  world,  his  must  be  the  greatest, 
who,  after  robbing  a  house,  runs  to  the  thief-takers 
for  protection.  And  yet  how  are  you  more  wise  1 
You  are  all  seeking  comfort  from  one  that  has  al- 
ready betrayed  you,  applying  to  a  more  malicious 
being  than  any  thief-taker  of  them  all;  for  they 
only  decoy  and  then  hang  you;  but  he  decoys  and 
hangs,  and,  what  is  worst  of  all,  will  not  let  you 
loose  after  the  hangman  has  done." 

When  I  had  concluded,  I  received  the  compli- 
ments of  my  audience,  some  of  whom  came  and 
shook  me  by  the,hand,  swearing  that  I  was  a  very 
honest  fellow,  and  that  they  desired  my  further  ac- 
quaintance. I  therefore  promised  to  repeat  my 
lecture  next  day,  and  actually  conceived  some  hopes 
of  making  a  reformation  here;  for  it  had  ever  been 
my  opinion,  that  no  man  was  past  the  hour  of 
amendment,  every  heart  lying  open  to  the  shafts 
of  reproof,  if  the  archer  could  but  take  a  proper 
aim.  When  I  had  thus  satisfied  my  mind,  I  went 
back  to  my  apartment,  where  my  wife  prepared  a 
frugal  meal,  while  Mr.  Jenkinson  begged  leave  to 
add  his  dinner  to  ours,  and  partake  of  the  pleasure, 
as  he  was  kind  enough  to  express  it,  of  my  con- 
versation. He  had  not  yet  seen  my  family;  for  as 
they  came  to  my  apartment  by  a  door  in  the  nar- 
row passage  already  described,  by  this  means  they 
avoided  the  common  prison.  Jenkinson  at  the  first 
interview,  therefore,  seemed  not  a  little  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  my  youngest  daughter,  which  her 
pensive  air  contributed  to  heighten;  and  my  Uttle 
ones  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"Alas,  doctor,"  cried  he,  "  these  children  are  too 
ihandsome  and  too  good  for  such  a  place  as  this!" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Jenkinson,"  replied  I,  "  thank  Hea- 
ven, my  children  are  pretty  tolerable  in  morals; 
and  if  they  be  good,  it  matters  little  for  the  rest." 

"  I  fancy,  sir,"  returned  ray  fellow -prisoner, 
"that  it  must  give  you  great  comfort  to  have  all 
this  little  family  about  you." 

"A  comfort,  Mr.  Jenkinson!"  replied  I;  "yes, 
it  is  indeed  a  comfort,  and  I  would  not  be  without 
them  for  all  the  world;  for  they  can  make  a  dun- 
geon seem  a  palace.  There  is  but  one  way  in  this 
life  of  wounding  my  happiness,  and  that  is  by  in- 
juring them." 

"  I  am  afraid  then,  sir,"  cried  he,  "  that  I  am  in 
some  measure  culpable;  for  I  think  I  see  here  (look- 
ing at  my  son  Moses),  one  that  I  have  injured,  and 
by  whom  I  wish  to  be  forgiven." 

My  son  immediately  recollected  his  voice  and 
'eatures,  though  he  had  before  seen  him  in  dis- 


guise, and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  with  a  smile 
forgave  him.  "  Yet,"  continued  he,  '*  I  can't  help 
wondering  at  what  you  could  see  in  my  face,  to 
think  me  a  proper  mark  for  deception. ' 

"  My  dear  sir,"  returned  the  other,  "  it  was  not 
your  face,  but  youi  white  stockings,  and  the  black 
riband  in  your  hair,  that  allured  me.  But  no  dis- 
paragement to  your  parts,  I  have  deceived  wiser 
men  tlian  you  in  my  time ;  and  yet,  with  all  my 
tricks,  the  blockheads  have  been  too  many  for  me 
at  last." 

"  I  suppose,"  cried  my  son,  "  that  the  narrative 
of  such  a  life  as  yours  must  be  extremely  instruc- 
tive and  amusing." 

"  Not  much  of  either,"  returned  Mr.  Jenkinson. 
"  Those  relations  which  describe  the  tricks  and 
vices  only  of  mankind,  by  increasing  our  suspicion 
in  life,  retard  our  success.  The  traveller  that  dis- 
trusts every  person  he  meets,  and  turns  back  upon 
the  appearance  of  every  man  that  looks  like  a  rob- 
ber, seldom  arrives  in  time  at  his  journey's  end." 

"  Indeed  I  think,  from  my  own  experience,  that 
the  knowing  one  is  the  silliest  fellow  under  the 
sun.  I  was  thought  cunning  from  my  very  child- 
hood :  when  but  seven  years  old,  the  ladies  would 
say  that  I  was  a  perfect  little  man;  at  fourteen  I 
knew  the  world,  cocked  my  hat,  and  loved  the  la- 
dies ;  at  twenty,  though  I  was  perfectly  honest,  yet 
every  one  thought  me  so  cunning,  that  not  one 
would  trust  me.  Thus  I  was  at  last  obliged  to 
turn  sharper  in  my  own  defence,  and  have  lived 
ever  since,  my  head  throbbing  with  schemes  to  de- 
ceive, and  my  heart  palpitating  with  fears  of  detec- 
tion. I  used  often  to  laugh  at  your  honest  simple 
neighbour  Flamborough,  and  one  way  or  another 
generally  cheated  him  once  a-year.  Yet  still  the 
honest  man  went  forward  without  suspicion,  and 
grew  rich,  while  I  still  continued  tricksy  and  cun- 
ning, and  was  poor,  without  the  consolation  of  be- 
ing honest.  However,"  continued  he,  "let  me 
know  your  case,  and  what  has  brought  you  here ; 
perhaps,  though  1  have  not  skill  to  avoid  a  gaol 
myself,  I  may  extricate  my  friends." 

In  compliance  with  his  curiosity,  I  informed  him 
of  the  whole  train  of  accidents  and  foUies  that  had 
plunged  me  into  my  present  troubles,  and  my  utter 
inability  to  get  free. 

After  hearing  my  story,  and  pausing  some  mi- 
nutes, he  slapped  his  fqjfeh^d,  as  if  he  had  hit 
upon  something  material,  anoljook  his  leave,  say- 
ing he  would  try  what  could  be  done. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  same  subject  continued. 

The  next  morning,  I  communicated  to  my  wife 
and  children  the  scheme  I  had  planned  of  reform- 
ing the  prisoners,  which  they  received  with  uni- 


i06 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


versal  disapprobation,  alleging  the  impossibility 
and  impropriety  of  it,  adding,  that  my  endeavours 
■would  no  way  contribute  to  their  amendment,  but 
might  probably  disgrace  my  calling. 

"  Excuse  me,"  returned  I ;  *'  these  people,  how- 
ever fallen,  are  still  men;  and  that  is  a  very  good 
title  to  my  affections.  Good  counsel  rejected,  re- 
turns to  enrich  the  giver's  bosom;  and  though  the 
instruction  I  communicate  may  not  mend  them, 
yet  it  will  assuredly  mend  myself.  If  these  wretch- 
es, my  children,  were  princes,  there  would  be  thou- 
sands ready  to  offer  their  ministry;  but  in  my  opin 
ion,  the  heart  that  is  buried  in  a  dungeon  is  as  pre 
cious  as  that  seated  upon  a  throne.  Yes,  my  trea 
sures,  if  I  can  mend  them,  I  will:  perhaps  they 
will  not  all  despise  me.  Perhaps  I  may  catch  up 
even  one  from  the  gulf,  and  that  will  be  great  gain; 
for  is  there  upon  earth  a  gem  so  precious  as  the  hu- 
man soul?" 

Thus  saying,  I  left  them,  and  descended  to  the 
common  prison,  where  I  found  the  prisoners  very 
merry,  expecting  my  arrival;  and  each  prepared 
with  some  gaol  trick  to  play  upon  the  doctor.  Thus, 
as  I  was  going  to  begin,  one  turned  my  wig  awry, 
as  if  by  accident,  and  then  asked  my  pardon.  A 
second,  who  stood  at  some  distance,  had  a  knack 
of  spitting  through  his  teeth,  which  fell  in  showers 
upon  my  book.  A  third  would  cry  amen  in  such 
an  affected  tone,  as  gave  the  rest  great  delight.  A 
fourth  had  slily  picked  my  pocket  of  my  spectacles. 
But  there  was  one  whose  trick  gave  more  univer- 
sal pleasure  than  all  the  rest;  for  observing  the 
manner  in  which  I  had  disposed  my  books  on  the 
table  before  me,  he  very  dexterously  displaced  one 
of  them,  and  put  an  obscene  jest-book  of  his  own 
in  the  place.  However,  I  took  no  notice  of  all  that 
this  mischievous  group  of  little  beings  could  do,  but 
went  on,  perfectly  sensible  that  what  was  ridicu- 
lous in  my  attempt  would  excite  mirth  only  the 
first  or  second  time,  while  what  was  serious  would 
be  permanent.  My  design  succeeded,  and  in  less 
than  six  days  some  were  penitent,  and  all  attentive. 

It  was  now  that  I  applauded  my  perseverance 
and  address,  at  thus  giving  sensibility  to  wretches 
divested  of  every  moral  feeling ;  and  now  began  to 
think  of  doing  them  temporal  services  also  by  ren- 
dering their  situation  somewhat  more  comfortable. 
Their  time  had  hitherto  been  divided  between  fam- 
ine and  excess,  tumultuous  riot  and  bitter  repin- 
ing. Their  only  employment  was  quarreling  among 
each  other,  playing  at  cribbage,  and  cutting  tobac- 
co-stoppers. From  this  last  mode  of  idle  industry  I 
took  the  hint  of  setting  such  as  chose  to  work  at 
cutting  pegs  for  tobacconists  and  slioc-makers,  the 
proper  wood  being  bought  by  a  general  subscrip- 
tion, and  when  manufactured,  sold  by  my  appoint- 
ment, so  that  each  earned  something  every  day — a 
trifle  indeed,  but  sufHcient  to  maintain  him. 

I  did  not  stop  here,  but  instituted  fines  for  the 


pimishment  of  inunorality,  and  rewards  for  pecu- 
liar industry.  Thus  in  less  than  a  fortnight  I  had 
formed  them  into  something  social  and  humane, 
and  had  the  pleasure  of  regarding  myself  as  a  lcgi»» 
lator,  who  had  brought  men  from  their  native  fe- 
rocity into  friendship  and  obedience. 

And  it  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative 
power  would  thus  direct  the  law  rather  to  reforma- 
tion than  severity ;  that  it  would  seem  convinced, 
that  the  work  of  eradicating  crimes  is  not  by  mak- 
ing punishments  familiar,  but  formidable.  Then, 
instead  of  our  present  prisons,  which  find  or  make 
men  guilty,  which  enclose  wretches  for  the  com- 
mission of  one  crime,  and  return  them,  if  return- 
ed alive,  fitted  for  the  perpetration  of  thousands; 
we  should  see,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe,  places 
of  penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might 
be  attended  by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance 
if  guilty,  or  new  motives  to  virtue  if  innocent. 
And  this,  but  not  the  increasing  punishments,  is 
the  way  to  mend  a  state.  Nor  can  I  avoid  even 
questioning  the  validity  of  that  right  which  social 
combinations  have  assumed,  of  capitally  punishing 
offences  of  a  slight  nature.  In  cases  of  murder 
their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of  us  all, 
from  the  law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man 
who  has  shown  a  disregard  for  the  Ufe  of  another. 
Against  such,  all  nature  rises  in  arms;  but  it  is  not 
so  against  him  w"ho  steals  my  property.  Natural 
law  gives  me  no  right  to  take  away  his  life,  as,  by 
that,  the  horse  he  steals  is  as  much  his  property  as 
mine.  If  then  I  have  any  right,  it  must  be  from 
a  compact  made  between  us,  that  he  who  deprives 
the  other  of  his  horse  shall  die.  But  this  is  a  false 
compact;  because  no  man  has  a  right  to  barter  his 
life  any  more  than  to  take  it  away,  as  it  is  not  his 
own.  And  beside,  the  compact  is  inadequate,  and 
would  be  set  aside  even  in  a  court  of  modern  equi- 
ty, as  there  is  a  great  penalty  for  a  very  trifling 
convenience,  ^ince  it  is  far  better  that  two  men 
should  live  than  that  one  man  should  ride.  But  a 
compact  that  is  false  between  two  men,  is  equally  so 
between  ahundredorahundred  thousand;  foras  ten 
millions  of  circles  can  never  make  a  square,  so  the 
united  voice  of  myriads  can  not  lend  the  smallest 
foundation  to  falsehood.  It  is  thus  that  reason 
speaks,  and  untutored  nature  says  the  same  thing. 
Savages,  that  are  directed  by  natural  law  alone, 
are  very  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other;  they 
seldom  shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty. 

Our  Saxon  ancestors,  fierce  as  they  were  in  war, 
had  but  few  executions  in  times  of  peace ;  and  in 
all  commencing  governments  that  have  the  print  i 
of  nature  still  strong  upon  them,  scarcely  any  crime  j 
is  lield  capital. 

It  is  among  the  citizens  of  a  refined  community 
that  penal  law^s,  which  are  in  the  hands  of  the  rich, 
are  laid  upon  the  poor.  Government,  while  it 
grows  older,  seems  to  acquire  the  moroseness  o! 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


i(r 


age;  and  as  if  our  property  were  become  dearer  in 
proportion  as  it  increased;  as  if  the  more  enormous 
our  wealth  the  more  extensive  our  fears,  all  our 
possessions  are  paled  up  with  new  edicts  every 
day,  and  hung  rouild  with  gibbets  to  scare  every 
invader. 

I  can  not  tell  whether  it  is  from  the  number  of 
our  penal  laws,  or  the  licentiousness  of  our  people, 
that  this  country  should  show  more  convicts  in  a 
year  than  half  the  dominions  of  Europe  united. 
Perhaps  it  is  owing  to  both;  for  they  mutually  pro- 
duce each  other.  When,  by  indiscriminate  penal 
laws,  a  nation  beholds  the  same  punishment  affixed 
to  dissimilar  degrees  of  guilt,  from  perceiving  no 
distinction  in  the  penalty,  the  people  are  led  to  lose 
all  sense  of  distinction  in  the  crime,  and  this  dis- 
tinction is  the  bulwark  of  all  morality :  thus  the 
multitude  of  laws  produce  new  vices,  and  new 
vices  call  for  fresh  restraints. 

It  were  to  be  wished  then,  that  power,  instead 
of  contriving  new  laws  to  punish  vice;  instead 
of  drawing  hard  the  cords  of  society  till  a  convul- 
sion come  to  burst  them;  instead  of  cutting  away 
wretches  as  useless  before  we  have  tried  their  utili- 
ty :  instead  of  converting  correction  into  vengeance, 
— it  were  to  be  wished  that  we  tried  the  restrictive 
arts  of  government,  and  made  law  the  protector, 
but  not  the  tyrant  of  the  people.  We  should  then 
find  that  creatures,  whose  souls  are  held  as  dross, 
only  wanted  the  hand  of  a  refiner :  we  should  then 
find  that  creatures,  now  stuck  up  for  long  tortures, 
lest  luxury  should  feel  a  momentary  pang,  might, 
<  if  properly  treated,  serve  to  sinew  the  state  in  times 
of  danger;  that  as  their  faces  are  like  ours,  their 
'hearts  are  so  too;  that  few  minds  are  so  base  as 
that  perseverance  can  not  amend ;  that  a  man  may 
see  his  last  crime  without  dying  for  it ;  and  that 
very  little  blood  will  serve  to  cement  our  security. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

ppiness  and  Misery  rather  the  result  of  prudence  than  of 
virtue  in  this  life ;  temporal  evils  or  felicities  being  regard- 
ed by  Heaven  as  things  merely  in  themselves  trifling,  and 
unworthy  its  care  in  the  distribution. 


I  HAD  now  been  confined  more  than  a  fortnight, 

shut  had  not  since  my  arrival  been  visited  by  my 

fdear  Olivia,  and  I  greatly  longed  to  see  her.    Hav- 

jing  communicated  my  wishes  lo  my  wife  the  next 

ming  the  poor  girl  entered  my  apartment  lean- 

r  on  her  sister's  arm.     The  change  which  I  saw 

_  her  countenance  struck  me.     The  numberless 

fgraces  that  once  resided  there  were  now  fled,  and 

the  hand  of  death  seemed  to  have  moulded  every 

I  feature  to  alarm  me.    Her  temples  were  sunk,  her 

,  forehead  was  tense,  and  a  fatal  paleness  sat  upon 

her  cheek. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  thee,  my  dear,"  cried  I ,  "  but 


why  this  dejection,  Livy7  I  hope,  my  love,  you 
have  too  great  a  regard  for  me  to  permit  disappoint- 
ment thus  to  und(;rmine  a  life  which  I  prize  as  my 
own.  Be  cheerful,  child,  and  we  yet  may  see  hap- 
pier days." 

"  You  have  ev.»r,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  been  kind 
to  me,  and  it  ad(3s  to  my  pain  that  I  shall  never 
have  an  opportuiiity  of  sharing  that  happiness  you 
promise.  Happiness,  I  fear,  is  no  longer  reserved 
for  me  here;  an^  I  long  to  be  rid  of  a  place  where 
I  have  only  foiind  distress.  Indeed,  sir,  I  wish 
you  would  make  a  proper  submission  to  Mr. 
Thornhill;  it  m:iy  in  some  measure  induce  him  to 
pity  you,  and  it  will  give  me  relief  in  dying." 

"  Never,  childl"  replied  I ;  "never  will  I  be  brought 
to  acknowledge  my  daughter  a  prostitute;  forthougV. 
the  world  may  look  upon  your  offence  with  scorn, 
let  it  be  mine  to  regard  it  as  a  mark  of  credulity 
not  of  guilt. — My  dear,  I  am  no  way  miserable  iit 
this  place,  however  dismal  it  may  seem;  and  bo 
assured,  that  while  you  continue  to  bless  me  by  liv- 
ing, he  shall  never  have  my  consent  to  make  you 
more  wretched  by  marrying  another." 

After  the  departure  of  my  daughter,  my  fellow- 
prisoner,  who  Tvas  by  at  this  interview,  sensibly 
enough  expostulated  upon  my  obstinacy  in  refusing 
a  submission  which  promised  to  give  me  freedom. 
He  observed,  that  the  rest  of  my  family  were  not 
to  be  sacrificed  to  the  peace  of  one  child  alone,  and 
she  the  only  one  who  had  offended  me.  "  Beside," 
added  he,  "  I  don't  know  if  it  be  just  thus  to  ob- 
struct the  union  of  man  and  wife,  which  you  do  at 
present,  by  refusing  to  consent  to  a  match  you  can 
not  hinder,  but  may  render  unhappy." 

"  Sir,"  replied  I,  "  you  are  unacquainted  with  the 
man  that  oppresses  us.  I  am  very  sensible  that  no 
submission  I  c^n  make  could  procure  me  liberty 
even  for  an  hour.  I  am  told  that  even  in  this  very 
room  a  debtor  pf  his,  no  later  than  last  year,  died 
for  want.  Bu^  though  my  submission  and  appro- 
bation could  transfer  me  from  hence  to  the  most 
beautiful  apartment  he  is  possessed  of;  yet  I  would 
grant  neither,  as  something  whispers  me  that  it 
would  be  giving!  a  sanction  to  adultery.  While  my 
daughter  lives,  no  other  marriage  of  his  shall  ever 
be  legal  in  my  eye.  Were  she  removed,  indeed,  I 
should  be  the  basest  of  men,  from  any  resentment 
of  my  own,  to  a|;tempt  putting  asunder  those  who 
wish  for  a  unior^.  No,  villain  as  he  is,  I  should 
then  wish  him  married,  to  prevent  the  consequen- 
ces of  his  future  debaucheries.  But  now,  should  I 
not  be  the  most  cruel  of  all  fathers  to  sign  an  in- 
strument which  must  send  my  child  to  the  grave, 
merely  to  avoid  a  prison  myself;  and  thus,  to  es- 
cape one  pang,  break  my  child's  heart  with  a  thou- 
sand?" 

He  acquiesced  in  the  justice  of  this  answer,  but 
could  not  avoid  observing,  that  he  feared  my  daugh- 
ter's life  was  alrealdy  too  much  wasted  to  keep  me 


108 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


long  a  prisoner.  "  However,  "cont.inued  he,  "though 
you  refuse  to  submit  to  the  nephew,  I  hope  you 
have  no  objections  to  laying  yo  ur  case  before  the 
uncle,  who  has  the  first  character  in  the  kingdom 
for  every  thing  that  is  just  and  ^jood.  I  would  ad- 
visseyou  to  send  him  a  letter  by  tlie  post,  intimating 
all  his  nephew's  ill  usage,  and  my  life  for  it,  that  in 
three  days  you  shall  have  an  ans^ver."  1  thanked 
him  for  the  hint,  and  instantly  set  about  comply- 
ing; but  I  wanted  paper,  and  imluckily  all  our 
money  had  been  laid  out  that  morning  in  provisions : 
however,  he  supplied  me. 

For  the  three  ensuing  days  I  was  in  a  state  of 
anxiety  to  know  what  reception  my  letter  might 
meet  with;  but  in  the  mean  timcv was  frequently 
solicited  by  my  wife  to  submit  to  any  conditioas 
rather  than  remain  here,  and  every  hour  received 
repeated  accounts  of  the  decline  of  my  daughter's 
health.  The  third  day  and  the  fourth  arrived,  but 
I  received  no  answer  to  my  letter :  the  complaints 
of  a  stranger  against  a  favourite  nephew  were  no 
way  likely  to  succeed ;  so  that  these  hopes  soon  va- 
nished like  all  my  former.  My  mind,  however, 
still  supported  itself,  though  confinement  and  bad 
air  began  to  make  a  visible  alteration  in  my  health, 
and  my  arm  that  had  suffered  in  the  fire  greAv 
worse.  My  children,  however,  sat  by  me,  and 
while  I  was  stretched  on  the  straw,  read  to  me  by 
turns,  or  listened  and  wept  at  my  instructions. 
But  my  daughter's  health  declined  faster  than  mine: 
every  message  from  her  contributed  to  increase  my 
apprehensions  and  pain.  The  fifth  morning  after 
I  had  written  the  letter  which  was  sent  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Thornhill,  I  was  alarmed  Avith  an  account 
that  she  was  speechless.  Now  it  was  that  confine- 
ment was  truly  painful  to  me ;  my  soul  was  burst- 
ing from  its  prison  to  be  near  the  pillow  of  my 
child,  to  comfort,  to  strengthen  her,  and  to  receive 
her  last  wishes,  and  teach  her  soul  the  way  to  hea- 
ven! Another  account  came;  si le  was  expiring, 
and  yet  I  was  debarred  the  small  (jomfort  of  weep- 
ing by  her.  My  fellow  prisoner  some  time  after 
came  with  the  last  account.  Ho  bade  me  be  pa- 
tient ;  she  W9.S  dead ! The  ne  it  morning  he  re- 
turned, and  found  me  with  my  two  little  ones,  now 
my  only  companions,  who  were  using  all  their  in- 
nocent efforts  to  comfort  me.  They  entreated  to 
read  to  me,  and  bade  me  not  to  cry,  for  I  was  now 
too  old  to  weep.  "And  is  not  my  sister  an  angel 
now,  papa  T'  cried  the  eldest ;  "  and  why  then  are 
you  sorry  for  her?  I  wish  I  were  an  angel  out  of  this 
frightful  place,  if  my  papa  were  wdth  me."  "  Yes," 
added  my  youngest  darling,  "  Heaven,  where  my 
sister  is,  is  a  finer  place  than  this,  and  there  are 
none  but  good  people  there,  an(i  the  people  here 
are  very  bad." 

Mr.  Jenkinson  interrupted  their  harmless  prat- 
tle by  observing,  that,  now  my  daughter  was  no 
more,  I  should  seriously  think  of  the  rest  of  my  fa- 


mily, and  attempt  to  save  my  own  life,  which  waa 
every  day  declining  for  want  of  necessaries  and 
wholesome  air.  He  added,  that  it  was  now  incum- 
bent on  me  to  sacrifice  any  pride  or  resentment  of 
my  own  to  the  welfare  of  those  who  depended  on 
me  for  support ;  and  that  I  was  now,  both  by  rea- 
son and  justice,  obliged  to  try  to  reconcile  my  land- 
lord. 

"  Heaven  be  praised,"  replied  I,  "  there  is  no 
pride  left  me  now ;  I  should  detest  my  own  heart 
if  I  saw  either  pride  or  resentment  lurking  there. 
On  the  contrary,  as  my  oppressor  has  been  once  my 
parishioner,  I  hope  one  day  to  present  him  up  an 
unpolluted  soul  at  the  eternal  tribunal.  No,  sir,  1 
have  no  resentment  now,  and  though  he  has  taken 
from  me  what  I  held  dearer  than  all  his  treasures, 
though  he  has  wrung  my  heart, — for  I  am  sick  al- 
most to  fainting,  very  sick,  my  fellow-prisoner, — 
yet  that  shall  never  inspire  me  with  vengeance.  I 
am  now  willing  to  approve  his  marriage ;  and  if 
this  submission  can  do  him  any  pleasure,  let  him 
know,  that  if  I  have  done  him  any  injury  I  am 
sorry  for  it. 

Mr.  Jenkinson  took  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote  down 
my  submission  nearly  as  I  have  expressed  it,  to 
wliich  I  signed  my  name.  My  son  was  employed 
to  carry  the  letter  to  Mr. Thornhill,  who  was  then 
at  his  seat  in  the  country.  He  went,  and  in  about 
six  hours  returned  with  a  verbal  answer.  He  had 
some  difficulty,  he  said,  to  get  a  sight  of  his  land- 
lord, as  the  servants  were  insolent  and  suspicious ; 
but  he  accidentally  saw  him  as  he  was  going  out 
upon  business,  preparing  for  his  marriage,  which 
was  to  be  in  three  days.  He  continued  to  inform 
us,  that  he  stepped  up  in  the  humblest  manner  and 
delivered  the  letter,  which,  when  Mr.  Thornhill 
had  read,  he  said  that  all  submission  was  now  too 
late  and  unnecessary;  that  he  had  heard  of  our  ap- 
plication to  his  uncle,  which  met  with  the  contempt 
it  deserved ;  and  as  for  the  rest,  that  all  future  ap- 
plications should  be  directed  to  his  attorney,  not  to 
him.  He  observed,  however,  that  as  he  had  a  very 
good  opinion  of  the  discretion  of  the  two  young  la- 
dies, they  might  have  been  the  most  agreeable  in- 
tercessors. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  I  to  my  fellow-prisoner,  "  you 
now  discover  the  temper  of  the  man  that  oppresses 
me.  He  can  at  once  be  facetious  and  cruel;  but 
let  him  use  me  as  he  will,  I  shall  soon  be  free,  in 
spite  of  all  his  bolts  to  restrain  me.  I  am  now  j 
drawing  towards  an  abode  that  looks  brighter  as  I 
approach  it ;  this  expectation  cheers  my  afflictions, 
and  though  I  leave  a  helpless  family  of  orphans  be- 
hind me,  yet  they  will  not  be  utterly  forsaken ; 
some  friend  perhaps  will  be  found  to  assist  them 
for  the  sake  of  their  poor  father,  and  some  may 
charitably  relieve  them  for  the  sake  of  their  Hea- 
venly Father." 

Just  as  I  spoke,  my  wife,  whom  I  had  not  seen 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


109 


that  day  before,  appeared  with  looks  of  terror,  and 
making  efforts,  but  unable  to  speak.  "Why,  my 
love,"  cried  I,  "  why  will  you  thus  increase  my  af- 
flictions by  your  own?  What  though  no  submis- 
sions can  turn  our  severe  master,  though  he  has 
doomed  me  to  die  in  this  place  of  wretchedness,  and 
though  we  have  lost  a  darling  child,  yet  still  you 
will  find  comfort  in  your  other  children  when  I 
shall  be  no  more,"  "  We  have  indeed  lost,"  re- 
turned she,  "  a  darling  child.  My  Sophia,  my  dear- 
est, is  gone ;  snatched  from  us,  cstrried  off  by  ruf- 
fians!"— "How,  madam,"  cried  my  fellow-prisoner, 
"  Miss  Sophia  carried  off  by  villains !  sure  it  can 
not  be." 

She  could  only  answer  with  a  fixed  look  and  a 
flood  of  tears.  But  one  of  the  prisoners'  wives  who 
was  present,  and  came  in  with  her,  gave  us  a  more 
distinct  account :  she  informed  us,  that  as  my  wife, 
my  daughter,  and  herself  were  taking  a  waJk  toge- 
ther on  the  great  road,  a  little  way  out  of  the  vil- 
lage, a  post-chaise  and  pair  drove  up  to  them,  and 
instantly  stopped.  Upon  which  a  well-dressed  man, 
but  not  Mr.  ThornhUl,  stepping  out,  clasped  my 
daughter  round  the  waist,  and  forcing  her  in,  bid 
the  postillion  drive  on,  so  that  they  were  out  of 
sight  in  a  moment. 

"  Now,"  cried  I,  "the  sum  of  my  miseries  is  made 
.up,  nor  is  it  in  the  power  of  any  thing  on  earth  to 
give  me  another  pang.  What!  not  one  left!  not  to 
leave  me  one! — The  monster! — The  child  that  was 
lext  my  heart!  she  had  the  beauty  of  an  angel,  and 
dmost  the  wisdom  of  an  angel.  But  support  that 
^oman,  nor  let  her  fall. — Not  to  leave  me  one!" 

'Alas!  my  husband,"  said  my  wife,  "you  seem 
;o  want  comfort  even  more  than  I.  Our  distresses 
ir^  great;  but  I  could  bear  this  and  more,  if  I  saw 
f  ou  but  easy.  They  may  take  away  my  children, 
md  all  the  world,  if  they  leave  me  but  you." 

My  son,  who  was  present,  endeavoured  to  mo- 
lerate  her  grief;  he  bade  us  take  comfort,  for  he 
loped  that  we  might  still  have  reason  to  be  thank- 
ill. — "My  child,"  cried  I,  "look  round  the  world, 
ind  see  if  there  be  any  happiness  left  me  now.  Is 
lot  every  ray  of  comfort  shut  out,  while  all  our 
•right  prospects  only  lie  beyond  the  grave?" — 
'My  dear  father."  returned  he,  "I  hope  there  is 
till  something  that  will  givfe  you  an  interval  of  sat- 
sfaction;  for  I  have  a  letter  from  my  brother 
eorge." — "What  of  him,  child?"  interrupted  I, 
•*does  he  know  our  misery?  I  hope  my  boy  is  ex- 
smpt  from  any  part  of  what  his  wretched  family 
iers?" — "  Yes,  sir,"  returned  he,  "  he  is  perfect- 
y  gay,  cheerful,  and  happy.  His  letter  brings 
aothing  but  good  news;  he  is  the  favourite  of  his 
^lonel,  who  promises  to  procure  him  the  very  next 
ientenancy  that  becomes  vacant." 
"  And  are  you  sure  of  all  this?"  cried  my  wife : 
Are  you  sure  that  nothing  ill  has  befallen  my 
Moy]» — "Nothing  indeed,  madam,"  returned  my 

i: 


son;  "you  shall  see  the  letter,  which  will  give  you 
the  highest  pleasure ;  and  if  any  thing  can  procure 
you  comfort,  I  am  sure  that  will."— "But  are  you 
sure,"  still  repeated  she,  "that  the  letter  is  from 
himself,  and  thr.t  he  is  really  so  happy?" — "Yes, 
madam,"  replied  he,  "it  is  certainly  his,  and  he  will 
one  day  be  the  cn^dit  and  the  support  of  our  fami- 
ly-"— "  Then  I  think  Providence,"  cried  she,  "  that 
my  last  letter  to  him  has  miscarried. — Yes,  my 
dear,"  continued  she,  turning  to  me,  "I  will  now 
confess,  that  thou,gh  the  hand  of  Heaven  is  sore 
upon  us  in  other  i  nstances,  it  has  been  favourable 
here.  By  the  last  letter  I  wrote  my  son,  which  was 
in  the  bitterness  of  anger,  I  desired  him,  upon  his 
mother's,  blessing,  and  if  he  had  the  heart  of  a  man, 
to  .see  justice  dofee  his  father  and  sister,  and  avenge 
our.  cause.  But  thanks  be  to  Him  that  directs  all 
things,  it  has  miscarried,  and  I  am  at  rest." — "Wo- 
man," cried  I,  "thou  hast  done  very  ill,  and  at 
another  time  my  reproaches  might  have  been  more 
severe.  Oh!  what  a  tremendous  gulf  hast  thou  es- 
caped, that  would  have  buried  both  thee  and  him 
in  endless  ruin.  Providence  indeed  has  here  been 
kinder  to  us  than  we  to  ourselves.  It  has  reserved 
that  son  to  be  the  father  and  protector  of  my  chil- 
dren when  I  shall  be  away.  How  unjustly  did  I 
complain  of  being  stripped  of  every  comfort,  when 
still  I  hear  that  he  is  happy,  and  insensible  of  our 
afflictions;  still  kept  in  reserve  to  support  his  wi- 
dowed mother,  and  to  protect  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters. But  what  sisters  has  he  left?  he  has  no  sis* 
ters  now;  they  are  all  gone,  robbed  from  me,  and  I 
am  undone." — "  Father,"  interrupted  my  son,  "  1 
beg  you  will  give  me  leave  to  read  this  letter,  I 
know  it  will  please  you."  Upon  which,  with  my 
permission,  he  read  as  follows : — 

'  Honoured  Sir, 

'  I  HAVE  called  off  my  imagination  a  few  mo- 
ments from  the  pleasures  that  surround  me,  to  fix 
it  upon  objects  that  are  still  more  pleasing,  the  dear 
httle  fire-side  at  home.  My  fancy  draws  that  harm- 
less group  at  listening  to  every  line  of  this  with 
great  composure.  I  view  those  faces  with  delight 
which  never  felt  the  deforming  hand  of  ambition  or 
distress!  But  whatever  your  happiness  may  be  at 
home,  I  am  sure  it  will  be  some  addition  to  it  ta 
hear,  that  I  am  perfectly  pleased  with  my  situation^ 
and  every  way  happy  here. 

'  Our  regiment  is  countermanded,  and  is  not  ta 
leave  the  kingdom :  the  colonel,  who  professes  him- 
self my  friend,  takes  me  with  him  to  all  companies 
where  he  is  acquainted,  and  after  my  first  visit  I 
generally  find  myself  received  with  increased  re- 
spect upon  repeating  it.     I  danced  last  night  vnth 

Lady  G ,  and  could  I  forget  you  know  whom, 

I  might  be  perhaps  successful.  But  it  is  my  fate 
still  to  remember  others,  while  I  am  myself  forgotten 
by  most  of  my  absent  friends;  and  in  this  number  I 


no 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


fear,  sir,  that  I  must  consider  you^  for  I  have  long 
expected  the  pleasure  of  a  letter  friom  home,  to  no 
purpose.  Olivia  and  Sophia  too  promised  to  write, 
but  seem  to  have  forgotten  rae.  jTell  them  they 
are  two  arrant  little  baggages,  and  that  I  am  this 
moment  in  a  most  violent  passion  with  them:  yet 
still,  I  know  not  how,  though  I  want  to  bluster  a 
^little,  ray  heart  is  respondent  only  to  softer  emo- 
tions. Then  tell  them,  sir,  that  after  all  I  love 
them  affectionately,  and  be  assured  of  my  ever  re- 
maining Your  dutiful  son." 

"In  all  our  miseries,"  cried  I,  "what  thanks 
have  we  not  to  return,  that  one  at  least  of  our  fami- 
ly is  exempted  from  what  we  suffer.  Heaven  be 
his  guard,  and  keep  my  boy  thus  happy,  to  be  the 
supporter  of  his  vndowed  mother,  and  the  father  of 
these  two  babes,  which  is  all  the  patrimony  I  can 
now  bequeath  him.  May  ]re  keep  their  innocence 
from  the  temptations  of  want,  and  be  their  conduc- 
tor in  the  paths  of  honour!"  I  had  scarcely  said 
these  words,  when  a  noise  like  that  of  a  tumult 
seemed  to  proceed  from  the  prison  below;  it  died 
away  soon  after,  and  a  clanking  of  fetters  was 
heard  along  the  passage  that  led  to  my  apartment. 
The  keeper  of  the  prison  entered,  holding  a  man 
all  bloody,  wounded,  and  fettered  with  the  heaviest 
irons.  I  looked  with  compassion  on  the  wretch  as 
he  approached  me,  but  with  horror  when  I  found 
it  was  my  own  son. — "  My  George!  my  George! 
and  do  I  behold  thee  thus?  wounded — fettered! 
Is  this  thy  happiness?  is  this  the  manner  you  re- 
turn to  me?  O  that  this  sight  could  break  my  heart 
at  once,  and  let  me  die!" 

"Where,  sir,  is  your  fortitude?"  returned  my 
son  with  an  intrepid  voice.  "  I  must  suffer ;  my 
life  is  forfeited,  and  let  them  take  it." 

I  tried  to  restrain  my  passions  for  a  few  minutes 
in  silence,  but  I  thought  I  should  have  died  with 
the  effort. — "  O  my  boy,  my  heart  weeps  to  behold 
thee  thus;  and  I  can  not,  can  not  help  it.  In  the  mo- 
ment that  I  thought  thee  blessed,  and  prayed  for  thy 
safety,  to  behold  thee  thus  again!  Chained,  wound- 
ed! And  yet  the  death  of  the  youthful  is  happy. 
But  I  am  old,  a  very  old  man,  and  have  lived  to 
see  this  day!  To  see  my  children  all  untimely  fall- 
ing about  me,  while  I  continue  a  wretched  survivor 
in  the  midst  of  ruin!  May  all  the  curses  that  ever 
sunk  a  soul  fall  heavy  upon  the  murderer  of  my 
children!  May  he  live,  like  me,  to  see " 

"  Hold,  sir,"  replied  my  son,  "or  I  shall  blush  for 
thee.  How,  sir,  forgetful  of  your  age,  your  holy 
calling,  thus  to  arrogate  the  justice  of  Heaven,  and 
fiinT  those  curses  upward  that  must  soon  descend 
to  crush  thy  own  gray  head  witli  destructio]i!  No, 
sir,  let  it  be  your  care  now  to  fit  me  for  that  vile 
death  I  must  shortly  suffer;  to  arm  me  with  hope 
%nd  resolution;  to  give  me  courage  to  drink  of  that 
bitterness  which  must  shortly  be  my  portion." 


"My  child,  you  must  not  die:  I  am  sure  no  of 
fence  of  thine  can  deserve  so  vale  a  punishment 
My  George  could  never  be  guilty  of.  any  crime  to 
make  his  ancestors  ashamed  of  him." 

"  Mine,  sir,"  returned  my  son,  "  is,  I  fear,  an 
unpardonable  one.  When  I  received  my  mother's 
letter  from  home,  I  immediately  came  down,  de- 
termined to  punish  the  betrayer  of  our  honour,  and 
sent  liim  an  order  to  meet  me,  which  he  answered, 
not  in  person,  but  by  despatching  four  of  his  do- 
mestics to  seize  me.  I  wounded  one  who  first  as- 
saulted me,  and  I  fear  desperately;  but  the  rest 
made  me  their  prisoner.  The  coward  is  determin- 
ed to  put  the  law  in  execution  against  me;  the 
proofs  are  undeniable :  I  have  sent  a  challenge,  and 
as  I  am  the  first  transgressor  upon  the  statute,  I 
see  no  hopes  of  pardon.  But  you  have  often  charm- 
ed me  with  your  lessons  of  fortitude ;  let  me  now, 
sir,  find  them  in  your  example." 

"  And,  my  son,  you  shall  find  them.  I  am  now 
raised  above  this  world,  and  all  the  pleasures  it  can 
produce.  From  this  moment  I  break  from  my 
heart  all  the  ties  that  held  it  down  to  earth,  and 
will  prepare  to  fit  us  both  for  eternity.  Yes,  my 
son,  I  will  point  out  the  way,  and  my  soul  shall 
guide  yours  in  the  ascent,  for  we  will  take  oui 
flight  together.  I  now  see  and  am  convinced  you 
can  expect  no  pardon  here ;  and  I  can  only  exhort 
you  to  seek  it  at  that  greatest  tribunal  where  wo 
both  shall  shortly  answer.  But  let  us  not  be  nig- 
gardly in  our  exhortation,  but  let  all  our  fellow- 
prisoners  have  a  share: — Good  gaoler,  let  them  be 
permitted  to  stand  here  while  I  attempt  to  improve 
them."  Thus  saying,  I  made  an  effort  to  rise  from 
my  straw,  but  wanted  strength,  and  was  able  only 
to  recline  against  the  wall.  The  prisoners  assem- 
bled themselves  according  to  my  directions,  for 
they  loved  to  hear  my  counsel :  my  son  and  his  mo- 
ther supported  me  on  either  side;  I  looked  and  saw 
that  none  were  wanting,  and  then  addressed  them 
with  the  following  exhortation. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  equal  dealings  of  Providence  demonstrated  with  regard  to 
the  happy  and  the  miserable  here  below.— That  frooi  the 
nature  of  pleasure  anil  pain,  the  wretched  must  be  repaid 
the  balance  of  their  sufferings  in  the  life  hereafter. 

My  friends,  my  children,  and  fellow-sufferers, 
when  I  reflect  on  the  distribution  of  good  and  evil 
here  below,  I  find  that  much  has  been  given  man 
to  enjoy,  yet  still  more  to  suffer.  Though  we 
should  examine  the  whole  world,  we  shall  not  .^nd 
one  man  so  happy  as  to  have  nothing  left  to  wish 
for ;  but  we  daily  see  tiiousands,  who,  by  suicide, 
show  us  they  have  nothing  left  to  hope.  In  this 
life,  then,  it  appears  that  we  can  not  be  entirely 
blessed,  but  yet  we  may  be  completely  miserable. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


Ill 


Why  man  should  thus  feel  pain;  why  our  I 
wretchedness  should  be  requisite  in  the  formation 
of  universal  felicity ;  why,  when  all  other  systems 
are  made  perfect  by  the  perfection  of  their  subor- 
dinate parts,  the  great  system  should  require  for  its 
perfection  parts  that  are  not  only  subordinate  to 
others,  but  imperfect  in  themselves; — these  are 
questions  that  never  can  be  explained,  and  might 
be  useless  if  known.  On  this  subject.  Providence 
has  thought  fit  to  elude  our  curiosity,  satisfied  with 
granting  us  motives  to  consolation. 

In  this  situation  man  has  called  in  the  friendly 
assistance  of  philosophy,  and  Heaven,  seeing  the 
incapacity  of  that  to  console  him,  has  given  him 
the  aid  of  religion.  The  consolations  of  philosophy 
are  very  amusing,  but  often  fallacious.  It  tells  us 
that  Ufe  is  filled  with  comforts,  if  we  will  but  enjoy 
them;  and  on  the  other  hand,  that  though  we  una- 
voidably have  miseries  here,  life  is  short,  and  they 
will  soon  be  over.  Thus  do  these  consolations  de- 
stroy each  other ;  for,  if  life  is  a  place  of  comfort, 
its  shortness  must  be  misery,  and  if  it  be  long,  our 
griefs  are  protracted.  Thus  philosophy  is  weak; 
lut  religion  comforts  in  a  higher  strain.  Man  is 
[ere,  it  tells  us,  fitting  up  his  mind,  and  preparing 
it  for  another  abode.  When  the  good  man  leaves 
the  body  and  is  all  a  glorious  mind,  he  will  find  he 
has  been  making  himself  a  heaven  of  happiness 
here ;  while  the  wretch  that  has  been  maimed  and 
contaminated  by  his  vices,  shrinks  from  his  body 
with  terror,  and  finds  that  he  has  anticipated  the 
vengeance  of  Heaven.  To  religion  then  we  must 
hold  in  every  circumstance  of  life  for  our  truest 
comfort;  for  if  already  we  are  happy,  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  think  that  we  can  make  that  happiness  unend- 
ing ;  and  if  we  are  miserable,  it  is  very  consoling  to 
that  there  is  a  place  of  rest.  Thus,  to  the 
rtimate,  religion  holds  out  a  continuance  of  bliss; 
the  wretched,  a  change  from  pain. 
But  though  rehgion  is  very  kind  to  all  men,  it 
shas  promised  peculiar  rewards  to  the  unhappy :  the 
the  naked,  the  houseless,  the  heavy-laden,  and 
e  prisoner,  have  ever  most  frequent  promises  in 
ur  sacred  law.  The  author  of  our  religion  every 
<rhere  professes  himself  the  wretch's  friend,  and 
tnlike  the  false  ones  of  this  world,  bestows  all  his 
aresses  upon  the  forlorn.  The  unthinking  havi 
ensured  this  as  partiality,  as  a  preference  without 
fterit  to  deserve  it.  But  they  never  reflect,  that  it 
not  in  the  power  even  of  Heaven  itself  to  make 
;e  offer  of  unceasing  felicity  as  great  a  gift  to  the 
py  as  to  the  miserable.  To  the  first,  eternity 
but  a  single  blessing,  since  at  most  it  but  in- 
what  they  already  possess.  To  the  latter, 
is  but  a  double  advantage;  for  it  diminishes  their 
pain  here,  and  rewards  them  with  heavenly  bliss 
I  iiereafter. 

■    But  Providence  is  in  another  respect  kinder  to 
he  poor  than  the  rich;  for  as  it  thus  makes  the  life 


after  death  more  desirable,  so  it  smooths  the  pas- 
sage there.  The  wretched  have  had  a  long  fa 
miliarity  with  every  face  of  terror.  The  man  oJ 
sorrows  lays  himself  quietly  down,  without  pos- 
sessions to  regret,  and  but  few  ties  to  stop  his  de- 
parture: he  feels  only  nature's  pang  in  the  final 
separation,  and  this  is  no  way  greater  than  he  has 
often  fainted  under  before;  for  after  a  certain  de- 
gree of  pain,  every  new  breach  that  death  opens  in 
the  constitution,  nature  kindly  covers  with  insensi 
bility. 

Thus  Providence  has  given  the  wretched  two 
advantages  over  the  happy  in  this  Ufe — greater  fe- 
hcity  in  dying,  and  in  heaven  all  that  superiority 
of  pleasure  which  arises  from  contrasted  enjoy- 
ment. And  this  superiority,  my  friends,-  is  n(» 
small  advantage,  and  seems  to  be  one  of  the  plea- 
sures of  the  poor  man  in  the  parable ;  for  though  he 
was  already  in  heaven,  and  felt  all  the  raptures  it 
could  give,  yet  it  was  mentioned  as  an  addition  to 
his  happiness,  that  he  had  once  been  wretched,  and 
now  was  comforted;  that  he  had  known  what  it 
was  to  be  miserable,  and  now  felt  what  it  was  to  be 
happy. 

Thus,  my  friends,  you  see  religion  does  what 
philosophy  could  never  do :  it  shows  the  equal  deal- 
ings of  Heaven  to  the  happy  and  the  unhappy,  and 
levels  all  human  enjoyments  to  nearly  the  same 
standard.  It  gives  to  both  rich  and  poor  the  same 
happiness  hereafter,  and  equal  hopes  to  aspire  after 
it ;  but  if  the  rich  have  the  advantage  of  enjoying 
pleasure  here,  the  poor  have  the  endless  satisfac- 
tion of  knowing  what  it  was  once  to  be  miserable, 
when  crowned  with  endless  felicity  hereaftet ;  and 
even  though  this  should  be  called  a  small  advan- 
tage, yet  being  an  eternal  one,  it  must  make  up  by 
duration  what  the  temporal  happiness  of  the  great 
may  have  exceeded  by  intcnseness. 

These  are,  therefore,  the  consolations  which  the 
wretched  have  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  in  which 
they  are  above  the  rest  of  mankind ;  in  other  re- 
spects, they  are  below  them.  They  who  would 
know  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  must  see  life  and 
endure  it.  To  declaim  on  the  temporal  advantages 
they  enjoy,  is  only  repeating  what  none  either  be- 
lieve or  practise.  The  men  who  have  the  neces- 
saries of  living  are  not  poor,  and  they  who  want 
them  must  be  miserable.  Yes,  my  friends,  we 
must  be  miserable.  No  vain  efforts  of  a  refined 
imagination  can  soothe  the  wants  of  nature,  can 
give  elastic  sweetness  to  the  dark  vapour  of  a  dun- 
geon, or  ease  the  throbbings  of  a  broken  heart.  Let 
the  philosopher  from  his  couch  of  softness  tell  us 
that  we  can  resist  all  these :  alas!  the  effort  by 
which  we  resist  them  is  still  the  greatest  pain. 
Death  is  slight,  and  any  man  may  sustain  it ;  but 
torments  are  dreadful,  and  these  no  man  can  en- 
dure. 
To  us  then,  my  friends,  the  promises  of  happi- 


112 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ness  in  heaven  should  be  peculiarly  dear ;  for  if  our 
reward  be  in  this  life  alone,  we  are  then  indeed  of 
all  men  the  most  miserable.  When  I  look  round 
these  gloomy  walls,  made  to  terrify  as  well  as  to 
confine  us ;  this  light,  that  only  serves  to  show  the 
horrors  of  the  place;  those  shackles,  that  tyranny 
has  imposed  or  crime  made  necessary ;  when  1  sur- 
vey these  emaciated  looks,  and  hear  those  groans, 
Ol  my  friends,  what  a  glorious  exchange  would 
heaven  be  for  these.  To  fly  through  regions  un- 
confined  as  air,  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  eternal 
bliss,  to  carol  over  endless  hymns  of  praise,  to  have 
no  master  to  threaten  or  insult  us,  but  the  form  of 
Goodness  himself  for  ever  in  our  eyes!  when  I 
think  of  these  things,  death  becomes  the  messen- 
ger of  very  glad  tidings;  when  I  think  of  these 
things,  his  sharpest  arrow  becomes  the  staff'  of  my 
support;  when  I  think  of  these  things,  what  is 
there  in  life  worth  having?  when  I  think  of  these 
things,  what  is  there  that  should  not  be  spurned 


ing,  that  he  must  be  obliged  to  remove  my  son  into 
a  stronger  cell,  but  that  he  should  be  permitted  to 
revisit  me  every  morning.  I  thanked  him  for  his 
clemency,  and  grasping  my  boy's  hand,  bade  him 
farewell,  and  be  mindful  of  the  great  duty  that  was 
before  him. 

I  again  therefore  laid  me  down,  and  one  of  my 
little  ones  sat  by  my  bed-side  reading,  when  Mr. 
Jenkinson  entering,  informed  me  that  there  was 
news  of  my  daughter;  for  that  she  was  seen  by  a 
person  about  two  hours  before  in  a  strange  gentle- 
man's company,  and  that  they  had  stopped  at  a 
neighbouring  village  for  refreshment,  and  seemed 
as  if  returning  to  town.  He  had  scarcely  delivered 
this  news  when  the  gaoler  came  with  looks  of  haste 
and  pleasure  to  inform  me,  that  my  daughter  was 
found.  Moses  came  running  in  a  moment  after, 
crying  out  that  his  sister  Sophy  was  below,  and 
coming  up  with  our  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell. 

Just  as  he  delivered  this  news,  my  dearest  girl 


away?  Kings  in  their  palaces  should  groan  for  such  |  entered,  and  with  looks  almost  wild  with  pleasure, 


advantages;  but  we,  humbled  as  we  are,  should 
yearn  for  them. 

And  shall  these  things  be  ours?  Ours  they  will 
certainly  be  if  we  but  try  for  them;  and  what  is  a 
comfort,  we  are  shut  out  from  many  temptations  that 
would  retard  our  pursuit.  Only  let  us  try  for  them, 
and  they  will  certainly  be  ours ;  and  what  is  still  a 
comfort,  shortly  too:  for  if  we  look  back  on  a  past 
life,  it  appears  but  a  very  short  span,  and  whatever 
we  may  think  of  the  rest  of  life,  it  will  yet  be  found 
of  less  duration;  as  we  grow  older,  the  days  seem 
to  grow  shorter,  and  our  intimacy  with  time  ever 
lessens  the  perception  of  his  stay.  Then  let  us 
take  comfort  now,  for  we  shall  soon  be  at  our  jour- 
ney's end;  we  shall  soon  lay  down  the  heavy  bur- 
den laid  by  Heaven  upon  us;  and  though  death, 
the  only  friend  of  the  wretched,  for  a  little  while 
mocks  the  weary  traveller  with  the  view,  and  Uke 
his  horizon  still  flies  before  him;  yet  the  time  will 
certainly  and  shortly  come,  when  we  shall  cease 
from  our  toil;  when  the  luxurious  great  ones  of  the 
world  shall  no  more  tread  us  to  the  earth ;  when  we 
shall  think  with  pleasure  of  our  sufferings  below; 
when  we  shall  be  surrounded  with  all  our  friends, 
or  such  as  deserved  our  friendship ;  when  our  bhss 
shall  be  imutteiable,  and  still,  to  crown  all,  un- 
ending. 


ran  to  kiss  me  in  a  transport  of  affection.  Her  mo- 
ther's tears  and  silence  also  showed  her  pleasure — 
"Here,  papa,"  cried  the  charming  girl,  "here  is 
the  brave  man  to  whom  I  owe  my  delivery;  to  this 
gentleman's  intrepidity  I  am  indebted  for  my  hap- 
piness and  safety "  A  kiss  from  Mr.  Burch- 
ell, whose  pleasure  seemed  even  greater  than  hers, 
interrupted  what  she  was  going  to  add. 

."Ah,  Mr.  Burchell,"  cried  I,  "this  is  but  a 
wretched  habitation  you  now  find  us  in ;  and  we 
are  now  very  different  from  what  you  last  saw  us. 
You  were  ever  our  friend :  we  have  long  discover- 
ed our  errors  wdth  regard  to  you,  and  repent  of  our 
ingratitude.  After  the  vile  usage  you  then  receiv- 
ed at  my  hands,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  behold 
your  face ;  yet  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  as  I  was 
deceived  by  a  base  ungenerous  wretch,  who  under 
the  mask  of  friendship  has  undone  me." 

"  It  is  impossible,"  replied  Mr.  Burchell,  "  that 
I  should  forgive  you,  as  you  never  deserved  my  re- 
sentment. I  partly  saw  your  delusion  then,  and 
as  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  restrain,  I  could  only 
pity  it." 

"  It  was  ever  my  conjecture,"  cried  I,  "  that  your 
mind  was  noble,  but  now  I  find  it  so.  But  tell  me, 
my  dear  child,  how  thou  hast  been  relieved,  or  who 
the  ruflSans  were  who  carried  thee  away." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "  as  to  the  villain  who 
carried  me  off",  I  am  yet  ignorant.  For,  as  my 
mamma  and  I  were  walking  out,  he  came  behind 
us,  and  almost  before  I  could  call  for  help,  forced 
me  into  the  post-chaise,  and  in  an  instant  the 
horses  drove  away.  I  met  several  on  the  road  to 
whom  I  cried  out  for  assistance,  but  they  disregard- 
When  I  had  thus  finished,  and  my  audience  was  ed  my  entreaties.  In  the  mean  time  the  ruflian 
retired,  the  gaoler,  who  was  one  of  the  most  hu-himselfused  every  art  to  hinder  me  from  crying  out: 
mane  of  his  profession,  hoped  I  would  not  be  dis-  he  flattered  and  threatened  by  turhs,  and  swore 
pleased,  as  what  he  did  was  but  his  duty,  observ-  that  if  I  continued  but  alent  he  intended  no  harm. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Happier  prospects  begin  to  appear.— Let  us  be  inflexible,  and 
fortune  will  at  last  change  incur  favour. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


113 


In  the  mean  time  I  had  broken  the  canvass  that  he 
had  drawn  up,  and  whom  should  I  perceive  at  some 
distance  but  your  old  friend  Mr.  Burchell,  walking 
along  with  his  usual  swiftness,  with  the  great  stick 
for  which  we  so  much  used  to  ridicule  him.  As 
soon  as  we  came  within  hearing,  I  called  out  to 
him  by  name,  and  entreated  his  help.  I  repeated 
my  exclamations  several  times,  upon  which  with  a 
very  loud  voice  he  bid  the  postillion  stop;  but  the 
boy  took  no  notice,  but  drove  on  with  still  greater 
speed.  I  now  thought  he  could  never  overtake  us, 
when,  in  less  than  a  minute,  I  saw  Mr.  Burchell 
come  running  up  by  the  side  of  the  horses,  and  with 
one  blow  knock  the  postillion  to  the  ground.  The 
horses,  when  he  was  fallen,  soon  stopped  of  them- 
selves, and  the  ruffian  stepping  out,  with  oaths  and 
menaces  drew  his  sword,  and  ordered  him  at  his 
i)eril  to  retire;  but  Mr.  Burchell  running  up  shiver- 
ed his  sword  to  pieces,  and  then  pursued  liim  for  near 
a  quarter  of  a  mile ;  but  he  made  his  escape.  I  was 
at  this  time  come  out  myself,  willing  to  assist  my 
Jeliverer;  but  he  soon  returned  to  me  in  triumph. 
The  postillion,  who  was  recovered,  was  going  to 
aiake  his  escape  too;  but  Mr.  Burchell  ordered  him 
at  his  peril  to  mount  again  and  drive  back  to  town. 
Finding  it  impossible  to  resist,  he  reluctantly  com- 
plied, though  the  wound  he  had  received  seemed  to 
me  at  least  to  be  dangerous.  He  continued  to  com 
plain  of  the  pain  as  we  drove  along,  so  that  he  at 
last  excited  Mr.  Burchell's  compassion,  who  at  my 
request  exchanged  him  for  another,  at  an  inn 
where  we  called  on  our  return." 

"Welcome,  then,"  cried  I,  "  my  child!  and  thou, 
her  gallant  deliverer,  a  thousand  welcomes!  Though 
our  cheer  is  but  wretched,  yet  our  hearts  are  ready 
to  receive  you.  And  now,  Mr.  Burchell,  as  you 
have  delivered  my  girl,  if  you  think  she  is  a  recom- 
Dense,  she  is  yours;  if  you  can  stoop  to  an  alliance 
with  a  family  so  poor  as  mine,  take  her ;  obtain  her 
consent,  as  I  know  you  have  her  heart,  and  you 
have  mine.  And  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  give 
you  no  small  treasure:  she  has  been  celebrated  for 
beauty,  it  is  true,  but  that  is  not  my  meaning,  I 
give  you  up  a  treasure  in  her  mind." 

"  But  I  suppose,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Burchell,  "that 
you  are  apprized  of  my  circumstances,  and  of  my 
incapacity  to  support  her  as  she  deserves." 

"If  your  present  objection,"  replied  I,  "be  meant 
aa  an  evasion  of  my  offer,  I  desist :  but  I  know  no 
man  so  worthy  to  deserve  her  as  you ;  and  if  I 
could  give  her  thousands,  and  thousands  sought 
her  from  me,  yet  my  honest  brave  Burchell  should 
be  my  dearest  choice." 

To  all  this  his  silence  alone  seemed  to  give  a 
mortifying  refusal,  and  without  the  least  reply  to 
my  offer,  he  demanded  if  we  could  not  be  furnish- 
ed with  refresliments  from  the  next  inn ;  to  wliich 
being  answered  in  the  aflirmative,  he  ordered  them 
to  send  in  the  best  dinner  that  could  be  provided  up- 


on such  short  notice.  He  bespoke  also  a  dozen  of 
their  best  wine,  and  some  cordials  for  me;  adding 
with  a  smile,  that  he  would  stretch  a  little  for  once, 
and  though  in  a  prison,  asserted  he  was  never  better 
disposed  to  be  merry.  The  waiter  soon  made  his 
appearance  with  preparations  for  dinner ;  a  table 
was  lent  us  by  the  gaoler,  who  seemed  remarkably 
assiduous;  the  wine  was  disposed  in  order,  and  two 
very  well-dressed  dishes  were  brought  in. 

My  daughter  had  not  yet  heard  of  her  poor  bro- 
ther's melancholy  situation,  and  we  all  seemed  un- 
willing to  damp  her  cheerfulness  by  the  relation. 
But  it  was  in  vain  that  I  attempted  to  appear  cheer- 
ful, the  circumstances  of  my  unfortunate  son  broke 
through  all  efforts  to  dissemble;  so  that  I  was  at 
last  obliged  to  damp  our  mirth,  by  relating  his  mis- 
fortunes, and  wishing  that  he  might  be  permitted 
to  share  with  us  in  this  little  interval  of  satisfaction. 
After  my  guests  were  recovered  from  the  conster- 
nation my  account  had  produced,  I  requested  also 
that  Mr.  Jenkinson,  a  fellow-prisoner,  might  be  ad- 
mitted, and  the  gaoler  granted  my  request  with  an 
air  of  unusual  submission.  The  clanking  of  my 
son's  irons  was  no  sooner  heard  along  the  passage, 
than  his  sister  ran  impatiently  to  meet  him;  while 
Mr.  Burchell  in  the  mean  time  asked  me,  if  my 
son's  name  was  George:  to  which  replying  in  tho 
affirmative,  he  still  continued  silent.  As  soon  as 
my  boy  entered  the  room,  I  could  perceive  he  re- 
garded Mr.  Burchell  with  a  look  of  astonishment 
and  reverence.  "Come  on,"  cried  I,  "my  son; 
though  we  are  fallen  very  low,  yet  Providence  has 
been  pleased  to  grant  us  some  small  relaxation  from 
pain.  Thy  sister  is  restored  to  us,  and  there  is  her 
deliverer :  to  that  brave  man  it  is  that  I  am  indebt-  , 
ed  for  yet  having  a  daughter;  give  him,  my  boy, 
the  hand  of  friendship,  he  deserves  our  warmest 
gratitude." 

My  son  seemed  all  this  while  regardless  of  what 
I  said,  and  still  continued  fixed  at  respectful  dis- 
tance.  "My  dear  brother,"  cried  his  sister, 

"why  don't  you  thank  my  good  deUvererl  the 
brave  should  ever  love  each  other." 

He  still  continued  in  silence  and  astonishment 
till  our  guest  at  last  perceived  himself  to  be  knowri, 
and,  assuming  all  his  native  dignity,  desired  my  son 
to  come  forward.  Never  before  had  I  seen  any 
thing  so  truly  majestic  as  the  air  he  assumed  upon 
this  occasion.  The  greastest  object  in  the  universe, 
says  a  certain  philosopher,  is  a  good  man  struggling 
with  adversity ;  yet  there  is  still  a  greater,  which  is 
the  good  man  that  comes  to  relieve  it.  After  he 
had  regarded  my  son  for  some  time  with  a  superior 
air,  "  I  again  find,"  said  he,  "  unthinking  boy,  that 
the  same  crime — "  But  here  he  was  interrupted  by 
one  of  the  gaoler's  servants,  who  came  to  inform  us 
that  a  person  of  distinction,  who  had  driven  into 
town  with  a  chariot  and  several  attendants,  sent  his 
respects  to  the  gentleman  that  was  with  us,  and 


114 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


begged  to  know  when  he  should  think  proper  to  be 
waited  upon. — "Bid  the  fellow  wait,"  cried  our 
guest,  "  till  I  shall  have  leisure  to  receive  him;"  and 
then  turning  to  my  son,  *'  I  again  find,  sir,"  pro- 
ceeded he,  "  (hat  you  are  guilty  of  the  same  offence, 
for  which  you  once  had  my  reproof,  and  for  which 
the  law  is  now  preparing  its  justest  punishments. 
You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  a  contempt  for  your 
own  life  gives  you  a  right  to  take  that  of  another: 
but  where,  sir,  is  the  difference  between  a  duellist 
who  hazards  a  Ufe  of  no  value,  and  the  murderer 
who  acts  with  greater  security  1  Is  it  any  diminu- 
tion of  the  gamester's  fraud,  when  he  alleges  that 
he  has  staked  a  counter  T' 

"  Alas,  sir,'-'  cried  I,  "  whoever  you  are,  pity  the 
poor  misguided  creature ;  for  what  he  has  done  was 
in  obedience  to  a  deluded  mother,  who,  in  the  bit- 
terness of  her  resentment,  required  him,  upon  her 
blessing,  to  avenge  her  quarrel.  Here,  sir,  is  the 
letter,  which  will  serve  to  convince  you  of  her  im- 
prudence, and  diminish  his  guilt." 

He  took  the  letter  and  hastily  read  it  over. 
"  This,"  says  he,  "  though  not  a  perfect  excuse,  is 
such  a  palliation  of  his  fault  as  induces  me  to  for- 
give him.  And,  now,  sir,"  continued  he,  kindly 
taldng  my  son  by  the  hand,  "  I  see  you  are  sur- 
prised at  findhig  me  here ;  but  I  have  often  visited 
prisons  upon  occasions  less  interesting.  I  am  now 
come  to  see  justice  done  a  worthy  man,  for  whom 
I  have  the  most  sincere  esteem.  I  have  long  been 
a  disguised  spectator  of  thy  father's  benevolence.  I 
have  at  his  little  dwelling  enjoyed  respect  uncon- 
taminated  by  flattery  ;  and  have  received  that  hap- 
piness that  courts  could  not  give  from  the  amusing 
simplicity  round  his  fire-side.  My  nephew  has 
been  apprised  of  my  intentions  of  coming  here,  and 
I  find  is  arrived.  It  would  be  wronging  him  and 
you  to  condemn  him  without  examination :  if  there 
be  injury,  there  shall  be  redress ;  and  this  I  may 
say,  without  boasting,  that  none  have  ever  taxed 
the  injustice  of  Sir  William  Thornhill." 

We  now  found  the  personage  whom  we  had  so 
long  entertained  as  a  harmless  amusing  compan- 
ion, was  no  other  than  the  celebrated  Sir  William 
Thornhill,  to  whose  virtues  and  singularities  scarce- 
ly any  were  strangers.  The  poor  Mr.  Burchell 
was  in  reality  a  man  of  large  fortune  and  great  in- 
terest, to  whom  senates  listened  with  applause, 
and  whom  party  heard  with  conviction ;  who  was 
the  friend  of  his  country,  but  loyal  to  his  king.  My 
poor  wife,  recollecting  her  former  familiarity,  seem- 
ed to  shrink  with  apprehension ;  but  Sophia,  who 
a  few  moments  before  thought  him  her  own,  now 
perceiving  the  immense  distance  to  which  he  was 
removed  by  fortune,  was  unable  to  conceal  her  tears. 

"  Ah,  sir,"  cried  my  wife  with  a  piteous  aspect, 
"  how  is  it  possible  that  I  can  ever  have  your  for- 
giveness 1  The  slights  you  received  from  me  the 
last  tirce  I  had  the  honour  of  seeing  you  at  our 


house,  and  the  jokes  which  I  audaciously  threw 
out — these,  sir,  I  fear,  can  never  be  forgiven." 

"  My  dear  good  lady,"  returned  he  with  a  smile, 
"  if  you  had  your  joke,  I  had  my  answer :  I'll 
leave  it  to  all  the  company  if  mine  were  not  as 
good  as  yours.  To  say  the  truth,  I  know  nobody 
whom  I  am  disposed  to  be  angry  with  at  present, 
but  the  fellow  who  so  frighted  my  little  girl  here. 
I  had  not  even  time  to  examine  the  rascal's  person 
so  as  to  describe  him  in  an  advertisement.  Can 
you  tell  me,  Sophy,  my  dear,  whether  you  should 
know  him  again?" 

"Indeed,  sir,"  replied  she,  "I  can't  be  positive; 
yet  now  I  recollect  he  had  a  large  mark  over  one 
of  his  eyebrows." — "I  ask  pardon,  madam,"  inter- 
rupted Jenkinson,  who  was  by,  "  be  so  good  as  to 
inform  me  if  the  fellow  wore  his  own  red  hair?" — • 
"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  cried  Sophia,  "  And  did  your 
honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  WiUiam, 
"  observe  the  length  of  his  legs  ?" — "  I  can't  be  sure 
of  their  length,"  cried  the  baronet,  "  but  I  am  con- 
vinced of  their  swiftness;  for  he  outran  me,  which 
is  what  I  thought  few  men  in  the  kingdom  could 
have  done." — "Please  your  honour,"  cried  Jen- 
kinson, "  I  know  the  man :  it  is  certainly  the  same; 
the  best  runner  in  England;  he  has  beaten  Pin- 
wire  of  Newcastle  ;  Timothy  Baxter  is  his  name. 
I  know  him  perfectly,  and  the  very  place  of  his 
retreat  this  moment.  If  your  honour  will  bid  Mr. 
Gaoler  let  two  of  his  men  go  with  me,  I'll  engage 
to  produce  him  to  you  in  an  hour  at  furthest." 
Upon  this  the  gaoler  was  called,  who  instantly 
appearing.  Sir  William  demanded  if  he  knew  him. 
"Yes,  please  your  honour,"  replied  the  gaoler,  "I 
know  Sir  William  Thornhill  well,  and  everybody 
that  knows  any  thing  of  him  will  desire  to  know 
more  of  him." — "Well,  then,"  said  the  baronet, 
"my  request  is,  that  you  will  permit  this  man  and 
two  of  your  servants  to  go  upon  a  message  by  mj 
authority ;  and  as  I  am  in  the  commission  of  the 
peace,  I  undertake  to  secure  you." — "  Your  pro- 
mise is  sufficient,"  replied  the  other,  "  and  you  may 
at  a  minute's  warning  send  them  over  England 
whenever  your  honour  thinks  fit." 

In  pursuance  of  the  gaoler's  compliance  Jenkin- 
son was  dispatched  in  search  of  Timothy  Baxter, 
while  we  were  amused  with  the  assiduity  of  our 
youngest  boy  Bill,  who  had  just  come  in,  and 
climbed  up  Sir  WiUiam's  neck  in  order  to  kiss 
him.  His  mother  was  immediately  going  to  chas- 
tise his  familiarity,  but  the  worthy  man  prevented 
her ;  and  taking  the  child,  all  ragged  as  he  was, 
upon  his  knee,  "  What,  Bill,  you  chubby  rogue," 
cried  he,  "  do  you  remember  your  old  friend  Burch- 
ell? and  Dick  too,  my  honest  veteran,  are  you 
here  ?  you  shall  find  I  have  not  forgot  you."  So 
saying,  he  gave  each  a  large  piece  of  gingerbread, 
which  the  poor  fellows  ate  very  heartily,  as  they 
had  got  that  morning  but  a  very  scanty  breakfast. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


115 


We  now  sat  down  to  dinner,  which  was  almost 
cold,  but  previously,  my  arm  still  continuing  pain- 
ful, Sir  William  wrote  a  prescription,  for  he  had 
made  the  study  of  physic  his  amusement,  and  was 
more  than  moderately  skilled  in  the  profession: 
this  being  sent  to  an  apothecary  who  lived  in  the 
place,  my  arm  was  dressed,  and  I  found  almost  in- 
stantaneous relief.  We  were  waited  upon  at  din- 
ner by  the  gaoler  himself,  who  was  willing  to  do 
our  guest  all  the  honour  in  his  power.  But  before 
we  had  well  dined,  another  message  was  brought 
from  his  nephew,  desiring  permission  to  appear  in 
order  to  vindicate  his  innocence  and  honour ;  with 
which  request  the  baronet  complied,  and  desired 
Mr.  ThornhiU  to  be  introduced. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Former  Benevolence  now  repaid  with  unexpected  interest. 

Mr.  Thornhill  made  his  appearance  with  a 
«mile,  which  he  seldom  wanted,  and  was  going  to 
embrace  his  uncle,  which  the  other  repulsed  with 
an  air  of  disdain.  "  No  fawning,  sir,  at  present, 
cried  the  baronet,  with  a  look  of  severity;  "  the  only 
way  to  my  heart  is  by  the  road  of  honour;  but  here 
I  only  see  complicated  instances  of  falsehood,  cow- 
ardice, and  oppression.  How  is  it,  sir,  that  this 
poor  man,  fcr  whom  I  know  you  professed  a  friend- 
ship, is  used  thus  hardly?  His  daughter  vilely 
seduced  as  a  recompense  for  his  hospitality,  and  he 
himself  thrown  into  prison,  perhaps  but  for  resent- 
ing the  insult?  His  son,  too,  whom  you  feared  to 
face  as  a  man " 

"Is  it  possible,  sir,"  interrupted  his  nephew, 
"  that  my  uncle  could  object  that  as  a  crime,  which 
his  repeated  instructions  alone  have  persuaded  me 
to  avoid?" 

"Your  rebuke,"  cried  Sir  William,  "is  just; 
you  have  acted  in  this  instance  prudently  and  well, 
though  not  quite  as  your  father  would  have  done : 
my  brother,  indeed,  was  the  soul  of  honour;  but 
thou ^Yes,  you  have  acted  in  this  instance  per- 
fectly right,  and  it  has  my  warmest  approbation." 

"  And  I  hope,"  said  his  nephew,  "  that  the  rest 
of  my  conduct  will  not  be  found  to  deserve  censure. 
I  appeared,  sir,  with  this  gentleman's  daughter  at 
some  places  of  public  amusement :  thus,  what  was 
levity,  scandal  called  by  a  harsher  name,  and  it  was 
reported  that  I  had  debauched  her.  I  waited  on 
her  father  in  person,  willing  to  cle^  the  thing  to 
his  satisfaction,  and  he  received  me  only  with  in- 
sult and  abuse.  As  for  the  rest,  with  regard  to  his 
being  here,  my  attorney  and  steward  can  best  in- 


hardship  or  injustice  in  pursuing  the  most  legal 
means  of  redress." 

"  If  this,"  cried  Sir  William,  "  be  as  you  have 
stated  it,  there  is  nothing  unpardonable  in  your  of- 
fence; and  though  your  conduct  might  have  been 
more  generous  in  not  suffering  this  gentleman  to 
be  oppressed  by  subordinate  tyranny,  yet  it  has 
been  at  least  equitable." 

"  He  can  not  contradict  a  single  particular,"  re- 
plied the  'Squire;  "  I  defy  him  to  do  so;  and  several 
of  my  servants  are  ready  to  attest  what  I  say.  Thus, 
sir,"  continued  he,  finding  that  I  was  silent,  for  in 
fact  I  could  not  contradict  him;  "  thus,  sir,  my  own 
innocence  is  vindicated :  but  though,  at  your  en- 
treaty, I  am  ready  to  forgive  this  gentleman  every 
other  offence,  yet  his  attempts  to  lessen  me  in  your 
esteem  excite  a  resentment  that  I  can  not  govern; 
and  this,  too,  at  a  time  when  his  son  was  actually 
preparing  to  take  away  my  Ufe; — this,  I  say,  was 
such  guilt,  that  I  am  determined  to  let  the  law  take 
its  couift.  I  have  here  the  challenge  that  was  sent 
me,  and  two  witnesses  to  prove  it :  one  of  my  ser- 
vants has  been  wounded  dangerously;  and  even 
though  my  uncle  himself  should  dissuade  me,  which 
I  know  he  will  not,  yet  I  will  see  public  justice 
done,  and  he  shall  suffer  for  it." 

"  Thou  monster,"  cried  my  wife,  "  hast  thou  not 
had  vengeance  enough  already,  but  must  my  poor 
boy  feel  thy  cruelty?  I  hope  that  good  Sir  William 
will  protect  us ;  for  my  son  is  as  innocent  as  a  child : 
I  am  sure  he  is,  and  never  did  harm  to  man." 

"Madam,"  replied  the  good  man,  "your  wishes 
for  his  safety  are  not  greater  than  mine;  but  I  am 
sorry  to  find  his  guilt  too  plain;  and  if  my  nephew 
persists — "  But  the  appearance  of  Jenkinson  and 
the  gaoler's  two  servants  now  called  off  our  atten- 
tion, who  entered,  hauling  in  a  tall  man,  very 
genteelly  dressed,  and  answering  the  description 
already  given  of  the  ruffian  who  had  carried  off  my 
daughter: — "  Here,"  cried  Jenkinson,  pulUng  him 
in,  "here  we  have  him;  and  if  ever  there  was  a 
candidate  for  Tyburn,  this  is  one." 

The  moment  Mr.  Thornhill  perceived  the  pri 
soner,  and  Jenkinson  who  had  him  in  custody,  he 
seemed  to  shrink  back  with  terror.  His  face  be- 
came pale  with  conscious  guilt,  and  he  would  have 
withdrawn;  but  Jenkinson,  who  perceived  his  de- 
sign, stopped  him. — "What,  'Squire,"  cried  he, 
are  you  ashamed  of  your  two  old  acquaintances, 
Jenkinson  and  Baxter?  but  this  is  the  way  that  all 
great  men  forget  their  friends,  though  I  am  resolved 
we  will  not  forget  you.  Our  prisoner,  please  your 
honour,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Sir  William, 
has  already  confessed  all.  This  is  the  gentleman 
reported  to  be  so  dangerously  wounded.  He  de- 
clares that  it  was  Mr.  Thornhill  who  first  put  him 


form  you,  as  I  commit  the  management  of  business 
entirely  to  them.  If  he  has  contracted  debts,  and  |  upon  this  affair;  that  he  gave  him  the  clothes  he  now 
is  unwilling,  or  even  unable,  to  pay  them,  it  is  their  wears,  to  appear  Uke  a  gentleman;  and  fiimished 
business  to  proceed  in  this  manner;  and  I  see  no 'him  with  the  post-chaise.     The  plan  was  laid  be- 


116 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


tween  them,  that  he  should  carry  off  the  young 
lady  to  a  place  of  safety;  and  that  there  he  should 
threaten  and  terrify  her ;  but  Mr.  Thornhill  was  to 
come  in  in  the  mean  time,  as  if  by  accident,  to  her 
rescue;  and  that  they  should  fight  a  while,  and  then 
he  was  to  run  off, — by  which  Mr.  Thornhill  would 
have  the  better  opportunity  of  gaining  her  affections 
himself,  under  the  character  of  her  defender." 

Sir  William  remembered  the  coat  to  have  been 
Worn  by  his  nephew,  and  all  the  rest  the  prisoner 
himself  confirmed  by  a  more  circumstantial  account, 
concluding,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  had  often  declared 
to  him  that  he  was  in  love  with  both  sisters  at  the 
same  time. 

"  Heavens  !"  cried  Sir  William,  "  what  a  viper 
have  I  been  fostering  in  my  bosom !  And  so  fond 
of  public  justice,  too,  as  he  seemed  to  be !  But  he 
ehall  have  it ;  secure  him,  Mr.  Gaoler : — yet,  hold, 
I  fear  there  is  no  legal  evidence  to  detain  him." 

Upon  this  Mr.  Thornhill,  with  the  utmost  hu- 
mility, entreated  that  two  such  abandoned  vsnretches 
might  not  be  admitted  as  evidences  against  him, 
but  that  his  servants  should  be  examined. — "  Your 
servants!"  replied  Sir  William ;  "  wretch !  call  them 
yours  no  longer;  but  come  let  us  hear  what  these 
fellows  have  to  say;  let  his  butler  be  called." 

When  the  butler  was  introduced,  he  soon  per- 
ceived by  his  former  master's  looks  that  all  his 
power  was  now  over.  "  Tell  me,"  cried  Sir  Wil- 
liam sternly,  "  have  you  ever  seen  your  master  and 
that  fellow  dressed  up  in  his  clothes  in  company 
together." — "  Yes,  please  your  honour,"  cried  the 
butler ;  "a  thousand  times :  he  was  the  man  that 
always  brought  him  his  ladies." — "  How,"  inter- 
rupted young  Mr.  Thornhill,  "this  to  my  face!" — 
"Yes,"  replied  the  butler,  "  or  to  any  man's  face. 
To  tell  you  a  truth.  Master  Thornhill,  I  never 
either  loved  or  liked  you,  and  I  don't  care  if  I  tell 
you  now  a  piece  of  my  mind." — "Now,  then," 
cried  Jenkinson,  "tell  his  honour  whether  you 
know  any  thing  of  me." — "  I  can't  say,"  replied 
the  butler,  "  that  I  know  much  good  of  you.  The 
night  that  gentleman's  daughter  was  deluded  to 
our  house,  you  were  one  of  them." — "  So,  then," 
cried  Sir  William,  "  I  find  you  have  brought  a  very 
fine  witness  to  prove  your  innocence :  thou  stain  to 
humanity!  to  associate  with  such  wretches!  But," 
continuing  his  examination,  "you  tell  me,  Mr. 
Butler,  that  this  was  the  person  who  brought  him 
this  old  gentleman's  daughter." — "  No,  please  your 
honour,"  repUed  the  butler,  he  did  not  bring  her, 
for  the  'Squire  himself  undertook  that  business; 
but  he  brought  the  priest  that  pretended  to  marry 
them." — "It  is  but  too  true,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "I 
can  not  deny  it ;  that  was  the  employment  assigned 
me,  and  I  confess  it  to  my  confusion." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "how 
every  new  discovery  of  his  villany  alarms  me.  All 
his  guilt  is  now  too  plain,  and  I  find  his  prosecu- 


tion was  dictated  by  tyranny,  cowardice,  and  re- 
venge. At  my  request  Mr.  Gaoler,  set  this  young 
ofl^cer,  now  your  prisoner,  free,  and  trust  to  me  for 
the  consequences.  I'll  make  it  my  business  to  set 
the  affair  in  a  proper  light  to  my  friend  the  magis- 
trate who  has  committed  him. — But  where  is  the 
unfortunate  young  lady  herself?  Let  her  appear 
to  confront  this  wretch :  I  long  to  know  by  what 
arts  he  has  seduced  her.  Entreat  her  to  come  in. 
Where  is  she  7" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  question  stings  me  to 
the  heart ;  I  was  once  indeed  happy  in  a  daughter, 

but  her  miseries "     Another  interruption  here 

prevented  me ;  for  who  should  make  her  appearance 
but  Miss  Arabella  Wilmot,  who  was  next  day  to 
have  been  married  to  Mr.  Thornhill.  Nothing 
could  equal  her  surprise  at  seeing  Sir  William  and 
his  nephew  here  before  her ;  for  her  arrival  was 
quite  accidental.  It  happened  that  she  and  the  old 
gentleman  her  father  were  passing  through  the 
town  on  their  way  to  her  aunt's,  who  insisted  that 
her  nuptials  with  Mr.  Thornhill  should  be  con- 
summated at  her  house;  but  stopping  for  refresh- 
ment, they  put  up  at  an  inn  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town.  It  was  there,  from  the  v;indow,  that  the 
young  lady  happened  to  observe  one  of  my  little 
boys  playing  in  the  street,  and  instantly  sending  a 
footman  to  bring  the  child  to  her,  she  learned  from 
him  some  account  of  our  misfortunes;  but  was  still 
kept  ignorant  of  young  Mr.  Thornhill's  being  the 
cause.  Though  her  father  made  several  remon- 
strances on  the  impropriety  of  going  to  a  prison  to 
visit  us,  yet  they  were  ineffectual;  she  desired  the 
child  to  conduct  her,  which  he  did,  and  it  was  thus 
she  surprised  us  at  a  juncture  so  unexpected. 

Nor  can  I  go  on  without  a  reflection  on  those 
accidental  meetings,  which,  though  they  happen 
every  day,  seldom  excite  our  surprise  but  upon 
some  extraordinary  occasion.  To  what  a  fortuitous 
concurrence  do  we  not  owe  every  pleasure  and  con- 
venience of  our  lives !  How  many  seeming  acci- 
dents must  unite  before  we  can  be  clothed  or  fed! 
The  peasant  must  be  disposed  to  labour,  the  show- 
er must  fall,  the  wind  fill  the  merchant's  sail,  or 
numbers  must  want  the  usual  supply. 

We  all  continued  silent  for  some  moments,  while    ; 
my  charming  pupil,  which  was  the  name  I  gener-    i 
ally  gave  this  young  lady,  united  in  her  looks  com-    I 
passion  and  astonishment,  which  gave  new  finish- 
ing to  her  beauty.     "  Indeed,  my  dear  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill," cried  she  to  the  'Squire,  who  she  supposed 
was  come  here  to  succour,  and  not  to  oppress  us, 
"  I  take  it  a  little  unkindly  that  you  should  come 
here  without  me,  or  never  inform  me  of  the  situa- 
tion of  a  family  so  dear  to  us  both;  you  know  I 
should  take  as  much  pleasure  in  contributing  to  the 
relief  of  my  reverend  old  master  here,  whom  I  shall 
ever  esteem,  as  you  can.  But  I  find  that,  Uke  your 
uncle,  you  take  a  pleasure  in  doing  good  in  secret.' 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


117 


"He  find  pleasure  in  doing  good!"  cried  Sir 
William,  interrupting  lier.  "No,  my  dear,  his 
pleasure?  are  as  base  as  he  is.  You  see  in  him, 
madam,  as  complete  a  villain  as  ever  disgraced  hu- 
manity. A  wretch,  v^ho,  after  having  deluded  this 
poor  man's  daughter,  after  plotting  against  the  in 
nocence  of  her  sister,  has  thrown  the  father  into 
prison,  and  the  eldest  son  into  fetters,  because  he 
had  the  courage  to  face  her  betrayer.  And  give 
me  leave,  madam,  now  to  congratulate  you  upon 
an  escape  from  the  embraces  of  such  a  monster." 

"  O  goodness,"  cried  the  lovely  girl,  "  how  have 
J  been  deceived!  Mr.  Thornhill  informed  me  for 
certain  that  this  gentleman's  eldest  son,  Captain 
Primrose,  was  gone  off  to  America  with  his  new- 
married  lady." 

"My  sweetest  miss,"  cried  my  wife,  "he  has 
told  you  nothing  but  falsehoods.  My  son  George 
never  left  the  kingdom,  nor  ever  was  married. — 
Though  you  have  forsaken  him,  he  has  always 
loved  you  too  well  to  think  of  any  body  else;  and 
I  have  heard  him  say,  he  would  die  a  bachelor  for 
your  sake."  She  then  proceeded  to  expatiate  upon 
the  sincerity  of  her  son's  passion.  She  set  his  duel 
with  Mr.  Thornhill  in  a  proper  light;  from  thence 
she  made  a  rapid  digression  to  the  'Squire's  de- 
baucheries, his  pretended  marriages,  and  ended 
with  a  most  insulting  picture  of  his  cowardice. 

"  Good  Heaven!"  cried  Miss  Wilmot,  "how  very 
near  have  I  been  to  the  brink  of  ruin!  Ten  thou- 
sand falsehoods  has  this  gentleman  told  me :  he  had 
at  last  art  enough  to  persuade  me,  that  my  promise 
to  the  only  man  I  esteemed  was  no  longer  binding, 
since  he  had  been  unfaithful.  By  his  falsehoods 
I  was  taught  to  detest  one  equally  brave  and  gene- 
rous." 

But  by  this  time  my  son  was  freed  from  the  in 
cumbrances  of  justice,  as  the  person  supposed  to 
be  wounded  was  detected  to  be  an  impostor.  Mr. 
Jenkinson  also,  who  had  acted  as  his  valet  de  cham- 
bre,  had  dressed  up  his  hair,  and  furnished  him 
with  whatever  was  necessary  to  make  a  genteel 
appearance.  He  now  therefore  entered,  handsome- 
ly dressed  in  his  regimentals ;  and  without  vanity 
(for  I  am  above  it,)  he  appeared  as  handsome  a  fel- 
low as  ever  wore  a  military  dress.  As  he  entered, 
ho  made  Miss  Wilmot  a  modest  and  distant  bow, 
for  he  was  not  as  yet  acquainted  with  the  change 
which  the  eloquence  of  his  mother  had  wrought  in 
his  favour.  But  no  decorun?s  could  restrain  the 
impatience  of  his  blushing  mistress  to  be  forgiven. 
Her  tears,  her  looks,  all  contributed  to  discover  the 
real  sensations  of  her  heart,  for  having  forgotten 
her  former  promise,  and  having  suffered  herself  to 
be  deluded  by  an  impostor.  My  son  appeared 
amazed  at  her  condescension,  and  could  scarcely 
believe  it  real, — "  Sure,  madam,"  cried  he,  "this  is 
but  delusion!     I  can  never  have  merited  this!     To  I 


replied  she;  "I  have  been  deceived,  basely  deceiv- 
ed, else  nothing  could  have  ever  made  me  unjust  to 
my  promise.  You  know  my  friendship,  you  have 
long  known  it;  but  forget  what  I  have  done,  and 
as  you  once  had  my  warmest  vows  of  constancy, 
you  shall  now  have  them  repeated;  and  be  assured, 
that  if  your  Arabella  can  not  be  yours,  she  shall 
never  be  another's." — "  And  no  other's  you  shall 
be,"  cried  Sir  William,  "if  I  have  any  influence 
with  your  father," 

This  hint  was  sufficient  lor  my  son  Moses,  who 
immediately  flew  to  the  inn  where  the  old  gentle- 
man was,  to  inform  him  of  every  circumstance  that 
had  happened.  But  in  the  mean  time  the  'Squire, 
perceiving  that  he  was  on  every  side  undone,  now 
finding  that  no  hopes  were  left  from  flattery  and 
dissimulation,  concluded  that  his  wisest  way  would 
be  to  turn  and  face  his  pursuers.  Thus,  laying 
aside  all  shame,  he  appeared  the  open  hardy  vil- 
lain. "  I  find,  then,"  cried  he,  "that  I  am  to  ex- 
pect no  justice  here;  but  I  am  resolved  it  shall  be 
done  me.  You  shall  know,  sir,"  turning  to  Sir 
William,  "  I  am  no  longer  a  poor  dependant  upon 
your  favours.  I  scorn  them.  Nothing  can  keep 
Miss  Wilmot' s  fortune  from  me,  which,  I  thank 
her  father's  assiduity,  is  pretty  large.  The  articles 
and  a  bond  for  her  fortune  are  signed,  and  safe  in 
my  possession.  It  was  her  fortune,  not  her  person, 
that  induced  me  to  wish  for  this  match;  and  pos- 
sessed of  the  one,  let  who  will  take  the  other," 

This  was  an  alarming  blow.  Sir  William  was 
sensible  of  the  justice  of  his  claims,  for  he  had  been 
instrumental  in  drawing  up  the  marriage  articles 
himself.  Miss  Wilmot,  therefore,  perceiving  that 
her  fortune  was  irretrievably  lost,  turning  to  my 
son,  she  asked  if  the  loss  of  her  fortune  could  les- 
sen her  value  to  him?  "  Though  fortune,"  said 
she,  "  is  out  of  my  power,  at  least  I  have  my  heart 
to  give," 

"And  that,  madam,"  cried  her  real  lover,  "was 
indeed  all  that  you  ever  had  to  give;  at  least  all  that 
I  ever  thought  worth  the  acceptance.  And  I  now 
protest,  my  Arabella,  by  all  that's  happy,  your  want 
of  fortune  this  moment  increases  my  pleasure,  as 
it  serves  to  convince  my  sweet  girl  of  my  sincerity." 
Mr.  Wilmot  now  entering,  he  seemed  not  a  Ut- 
ile pleased  at  the  danger  his  daughter  had  just  es- 
caped, and  readily  consented  to  a  dissolution  of  the 
match.  But  finding  that  her  fortune,  which  was 
secured  to  Mr.  Thornhill  by  bond,  would  not  be 
given  up,  nothing  could  exceed  his  disappointment. 
He  now  saw  that  his  money  must  all  go  to  enrich 
one  who  had  no  fortune  of  his  own.  He  could 
bear  his  being  a  rascal,  but  to  want  an  equivalent 
to  his  daughter's  fortime  was  wormwood.  He  sat 
therefore  for  some  minutes  employed  in  the  most 
mortifying  speculations,  till  Sir  William  attempted 
to  lessen  his  anxiety. — "  I  must  confess,  sir,"  cried 


be  blessed  thus  is  to  be  too  happy."— -"  No,  sir,"  [he,  "that  your  present  disappointment  does  no* 


118 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


entirely  displease  me.  Your  immoderate  passion 
for  wealth  is  now  justly  punished.  But  though  the 
young  lady  can  not  be  rich,  she  has  still  a  compe- 
tence sufficient  to  give  content.  Here  you  see  an 
honest  young  soldier,  who  is  willing  to  take  her 
without  fortune:  they  have  long  loved  each  other; 
and  for  the  friendship  I  bear  his  father,  my  interest 
shall  not  be  wanting  in  his  promotion.  Leave  then 
that  ambition  which  disappoints  you,  and  for  once 
admit  that  happiness  which  courts  your  acceptance." 

"Sir  William,"  replied  the  old  gentleman,  "be 
assured  I  never  yet  forced  her  inclinations,  nor  will 
I  now.  If  she  still  continues  to  love  this  young 
gentleman,  let  her  have  him  with  all  my  heart. 
There  is  still,  thank  Heaven,  some  fortune  left, 
and  your  promise  will  make  it  something  more. 
Only  let  my  old  friend  here  (meaning  me)  give  me 
a  promise  of  settling  six  thousand  pounds  upon  my 
girl  if  ever  he  should  come  to  his  fortune,  and  I  am 
ready  this  night  to  be  the  first  to  join  them  toge- 
ther." 

As  it  now  remained  with  me  to  make  the  young 
couple  happy,  I  readily  gave  a  promise  of  making 
the  settlement  he  required,  which  from  one  who 
had  such  little  expectations  as  I,  was  no  great  fa- 
vour.— We  had  now,  therefore,  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  them  fly  into  each  other's  arms  in  a  trans- 
port.— "After  all  my  misfortunes,"  cried  my  son 
George,  "to  be  thus  rewarded!  Sure  this  is  more 
than  I  could  ever  have  presumed  to  hope  for.  To 
be  possessed  of  all  that's  good,  and  after  such  an 
interval  of  pain!  My  warmest  wishes  could  never 
rise  so  high!" 

"Yes,  my  George,"  returned  his  lovely  bride, 
"now  let  the  wretch  take  my  fortune;  since  you 
are  happy  without  it,  so  am  I.  O  what  an  exchange 
have  I  made  from  the  basest  of  men  to  the  dearest,. 
test! — Let  him  enjoy  our  fortune,  I  now  can  be 
happy  even  in  indigence." — "  And  1  promise  you," 
cried  the  'Squire,  with  a  malicious  grin,  "that  I 
shall  be  very  happy  with  what  you  despise." — 
"Hold,  hold,  sir,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "there are  two 
words  to  that  bargain.  As  for  that  lady's  fortune, 
sir,  you  shall  never  touch  a  single  stiver  of  it.  Pr^y, 
your  honour,"  continued  he  to  Sir  William,  "  can 
the  'Squire  have  this  lady's  fortune  if  he  be  marri- 
ed to  another!"— "  How  can  you  make  such  a 
simple  demand!"  replied  the  baronet:  "undoubt- 
edly he  can  not."— "I  am  sorry  for  that,"  cried 
Jenkinson;  "  for  as  this  gentleman  and  I  have  been 
old  fellow-sporters,  I  have  a  friendship  for  him. 
But  I  must  declare,  well  as  I  love  him,  that  his 
contract  is  not  worth  a  tobacco-stopper,  for  he  is 
married  already." — "  You  lie,  like  a  rascal,"  return- 
ed the  'Squire,  who  seemed  roused  by  this  insult; 
"  I  never  was  legally  married  to  any  woman." 

"Indeed,  begging  your  honour's  pardon,"  repli- 
ed the  other,  "  you  were;  and  I  hope  you  will  show 
A  proper  return  of  friendship  to  your  own  honest 


Jenkinson,  who  brings  you  a  wife;  and  if  the  com- 
pany restrain  their  curiosity  a  few  minutes,  they 
shall  see  her."  So  saying  he  went  off  with  his 
usual  celerity,  and  left  us  all  unable  to  form  any 
probable  conjecture  as  to  his  design.  "Ay,  let 
him  go,"  cfied  the  'Squire;  "whatever  else  1  may 
have  done,  I  defy  him  there.  I  am  too  old  now  to 
be  frightened  with  squibs." 

"  I  am  surprised,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what  the 
fellow  can  intend  by  this.  Some  low  piece  of  hu- 
mour, I  suppose." — "Perhaps,  sir,"  replied  I,  "he 
may  have  a  more  serious  meaning.  For  when  we 
reflect  on  the  various  schemes  this  gentleman  has 
laid  to  seduce  innocence,  perhaps  some  one,  more 
artful  than  the  rest,  has  been  found  able  to  deceive 
him.  When  we  consider  what  numbers  he  has 
ruined,  how  many  parents  now  feel  with  anguish 
the  infamy  and  the  contamination  which  he  has 
brought  into  their  families,  it  would  not  surprise 
me  if  some  one  of  them — Amazement!  Do  I  see 
my  lost  daughter?  do  I  hold  her?  It  is,  it  is  my  life, 
my  happiness.  #1  thought  thee  lost,  my  Olivia,  yet 
still  I  hold  thee — and  still  thou  shalt  live  to  bless 
me."  The  warmest  transports  of  the  fondest  lover 
were  not  greater  than  mine,  when  I  saw  him  in- 
troduce my  child,  and  held  my  daughter  in  my 
arms,  whose  silence  only  spoke  her  raptures. 

"And  art  thou  returned  to  mc,  my  darling,'' 

cried  I,  "  to  be  my  comfort  in  age!" "  That  she 

is,"  cried  Jenkinson,  "and  make  much  of  her,  for 
she  is  your  own  honourable  child,  and  as  honest  a 
woman  as  any  in  the  whole  room,  let  the  other  be 
who  she  will.  And  as  for  you,  'Squire,  as  sure  as 
you  stand  there,  this  young  lady  is  your  laAvful 
wedded  v/ife.  And  to  convince  you  that  I  speak 
nothing  but  truth,  here  is  the  license  by  which  you 
were  married  together." — So  saying,  he  put  tho 
license  into  the  baronet's  hands,  who  yead  it,  and 
found  it  perfect  in  every  respect.  "And  now, 
gentlemen,"  continued  he,  "I  find  you  are  sur- 
prised at  all  this;  but  a  few  words  will  explain  the 
difficulty.  That  there '  Squire  of  renown,  for  whom 
I  have  a  great  friendship  (but  that's  between  our- 
selves), has  often  employed  me  in  doing  odd  little 
things  for  him.  Among  the  rest  he  commissioned 
me  to  procure  him  a  false  license  and  a  false  priest^ 
in  order  to  deceive  this  young  lady.  But  as  I  was 
very  much  his  friend,  what  did  I  do,  but  went  and 
got  a.  true  license  and  a  true  priest,  and  married 
them  both  as  fast  as  the  cloth  could  make  them. 
Perhaps  you'll  think  it  was  generosity  that  made 
me  do  all  this :  but  no ;  to  my  shame  I  confess  it, 
my  only  design  was  to  keep  the  license,  and  let  the 
'Squire  know  that  I  could  prove  it  upon  him  when- 
ever I  thought  proper,  and  so  make  him  come  down 
whenever  I  wanted  money."  A  burst  of  pleasure 
now  seetaed  to  fill  the  whole  apartment;  our  joy 
reached  even  to  the  common  room,  where  the  pri- 
soners themselves  sympathized, 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


119 


And  shook  their  chains 

In  transport  and  rude  harmony. 

Happiness  was  expanded  upon  every  face,  and 
even  Olivia's  cheek  seemed  flushed  with  pleasure. 
To  be  thiis  restored  to  reputation,  to  friends  and 
fortune  at  once,  was  a  rapture  sufficient  to  stop  the 
progress  of  decay,  and  restore  former  health  and 
vivacity.  But  perhaps  among  all  there  was  not 
one  who  felt  sincerer  pleasure  than  I.  Still  hold- 
ing the  dear  loved  child  in  my  arms,  I  asked  my 
heart  if  these  transports  were  not  delusion.  "  How 
could  you,"  cried  I,  turning  to  Mr.  Jenkinson, 
"  how  could  you  add  to  my  miseries  by  the  story 
of  her  deaths  But  it  matters  not;  my  pleasure  at 
finding  her  again  is  more  than  a  recompense  for 
the  pain." 

"  As  to  your  question,"  replied  Jenkinson,  "that 
is  easily  answered.  I  thought  the  only  probable 
means  of  freeing  you  from  prison,  was  by  submit- 
ting to  the  'Squire,  and  consenting  to  his  marriage 
with  the  other  young  lady.  But  these  you  had 
vowed  never  to  grant  while  your  daughter  was  liv- 
ing; there  was  therefore  no  other  method  to  bring 
things  to  bear,  but  by  persuading  you  that  she  was 
dead.  I  prevailed  on  your  wife  to  join  in  the  de- 
ceit, and  we  have  not  had  a  fit  opportunity  of  un- 
deceiving you  till  now." 

In  the  whole  assembly  there  now  appeared  only 
two  faces  that  did  not  glow  with  transport.  Mr. 
Thornhili's  assurance  had  entirely  forsaken  him: 
he  now  saw  the  gulf  of  infamy  and  want  before 
him,  and  trembled  to  take  the  plunge.  He  there- 
fore fell  on  Ms  knees  before  his  uncle,  and  in  a 
voice  of  piercing  misery  implored  compassion.  Sir 
William  was  going  to  spurn  him  away,  but  at  my 
jequest  he  raised  Mm,  and,  after  pausing  a  few  mo- 
ments, "  Thy  vices,  crimes,  and  ingratitude,"  cried 
&e,  "deserve  no  tenderness;  yet  thou  shalt  not  be 
entirely  forsaken — a  bare  competence  shall  be  sup- 
plied to  support  the  wants  of  life,  but  not  its  follies. 
This  young  lady,  thy  wife,  shall  be  put  in  posses- 
sion of  a  third  part  of  that  fortune  which  once  was 
thine,  and  from  her  tenderness  alone  thou  art  to 
fixpect  any  extraordinary  suppUes  for  the  future." 
He  was  going  to  express  his  gratitude  for  such 
Kindness  in  a  set  speech;  but  the  baronet  prevented 
Mm,  by  bidding  him  not  aggravate  his  meanness, 
which  was  already  but  too  apparent.  He  ordered 
ftim  at  the  same  time  to  be  gone,  and  from  all  his 
ibrmer  domestics  to  choose  one,  such  as  he  should 
iMnk  proper,  wMch  was  all  that  should  be  granted 
to  attend  him. 

As  soon  as  he  left  us.  Sir  William  very  politely 
stepped  up  to  his  new  niece  with  a  smile,  and 
wished  her  joy.  His  example  was  followed  by 
Miss  Wilmot  and  her  father.  My  wife  too  kissed 
her  daughter  with  much  affection;  as,  to  use  her 
own  expression,  she  was  now  made  an  honest  wo- 
man of    Sophia  and  Moses  followed  in  turn,  and 


even  our  benefactor  Jenkinson  desired  to  be  ad- 
mitted to  that  honour.  Our  satisfaction  seemed 
scarcely  capable  of  increase.  Sir  Wilham,  whose 
greatest  pleasure  was  in  doing  good,  now  looked 
round  with  a  countenance  open  as  the  sun,  and  saw 
nothing  but  joy  in  the  looks  of  all  except  that  of 
my  daughter  Sophia,  who,  for  some  reasons  we 
could  not  comprehend,  did  not  seem  perfectly  satis- 
fied. "  1  think,  now,"  cried  he,  with  a  smile,  "  that 
all  the  company  except  one  or  two  seem  perfectly 
happy.  There  only  remains  an  act  of  justice  for 
me  to  do.  You  are  sensible,  sir,"  continued  he, 
turning  to  me,  "of  the  obligations  we  both  owe 
Mr.  Jenkinson,  and  it  is  but  just  we  should  both 
reward  him  for  it.  Miss  Sophia  will,  I  am  sure, 
make  him  very  happy,  and  he  shall  have  from  me 
five  hundred  pounds  as  her  fortune;  and  upon  this 
1  am  sure  they  can  live  very  comfortably  together. 
Come,  Miss  Sophia,  what  say  you  to  this  match 

of  my  making?  Will  you  have  him?" My  poor 

girl  seemed  almost  sinking  into  her  mother's  arms 
at  the  hideous  proposal, — "  Have  him,  sir!"  cried 
she  faintly:  "  No,  sir,  never." — "  What!"  cried  he 
again,  "  not  have  Mr.  Jenkinson,  your  benefactor, 
a  handsome  young  fellow,  with  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  good  expectations?" — "  I  beg,  sir," 
returned  she,  scarcely  able  to  speak,  "that  you'll 

desist,  and  not  make  me  so  very  wretched." 

"Was  ever  such  obstinacy  known?"  cried  he  again, 
"  to  refuse  a  man  whom  the  family  has  such  in- 
finite obligations  to,  who  has  preserved  your  sister, 
and  who  lias  five  hundred  pounds!  What,  not  have 

him?" "No,  sir,  never,"  replied  she  angrily; 

"  I'd  sooner  die  first." — "  If  that  be  the  case,  then," 
cried  he,  "if  you  will  not  have  Mm — I  think  I 
must  have  you  myself"  And  so  saying,  he  caught 
her  to  Ms  breast  with  ardour.  "  My  loveliest,  my 
most  sensible  of  girls,"  cried  he,  "how  could  you 
ever  think  your  own  Burchell  could  deceive  you,  or 
that  Sir  William  Thornhill  could  ever  cease  to  ad- 
mire a  mistress  that  loved  him  for  himself  alone?  I 
have  for  some  years  sought  for  a  woman,  who,  a 
stranger  to  my  fortune,  could  think  that  I  had 
merit  as  a  man.  After  having  tried  in  vain,  even 
amongst  the  pert  and  the  ugly,  how  great  at  last 
must  be  my  rapture  to  have  made  a  conquest  over 
such  sense  and  such  heavenly  beauty !"  Then 
turning  to  Jenldnson:  "As  I  can  not,  sir.  part 
with  this  young  lady  myself,  for  she  has  taken  a 
fancy  to  the  cut  of  my  face,  all  the  recompense  T 
can  make  is  to  give  you  her  fortune ;  and  you  may 
call  upon  my  steward  to-morrow  for  five  hundred 
pounds.'^  Thus,  we  had  all  our  compliments  to 
repeat,  and  Lady  Thornhill  underwent  the  same 
round  of  ceremony  that  her  sister  had  done  before. 
In  the  meantime.  Sir  WiUiam's  gentleman  appear- 
ed to  tell  us  that  the  equipages  were  ready  to  carry 
us  to  the  inn,  where  every  thing  was  prepared  for 
our  reception.    My  wife  and  I  led  the  van,  and 


120 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


left  those  gloomy  mansions  of  sorrow.  The  gener- 
ous baronet  ordered  forty  pounds  to  be  distributed 
^mong  the  prisoners,  and  Mr.  Wilmot,  induced  by 
his  example,  gave  half  that  sum.  We  were  re- 
ceived below  by  the  shouts  of  the  villagers,  and  I 
saw  and  shook  by  the  hand  two  or  three  of  my 
honest  parishioners,  who  were  among  the  number, 
They  attended  us  to  our  inn,  where  a  sumptuous 
entertainment  was  provided,  and  coarser  provisions 
were  distributed  in  great  quantities  among  the 
populace. 

After  supper,  as  my  spirits  were  exhausted  by 
the  alternation  of  pleasure  and  pain  which  they  had 
sustained  during  the  day,  I  asked  permission  to 
withdraw ;  and  leaving  the  company  in  the  midst 
of  their  mirth,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone,  I 
poured  out  my  heart  in  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  joy 
as  well  as  of  sorrow,  and  then  slept  undisturbed  till 
morning. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


The  Conclusion. 


The  next  morning  as  soon  as  I  awaked,  I  found 
my  eldest  son  sitting  by  my  bed-side,  who  came  to 
increase  my  joy  with  another  turn  of  fortune  in  my 
favour.  First  having  released  me  from  the  settle- 
ment that  I  had  made  the  day  before  in  his  favour, 
he  let  me  know  that  my  merchant  who  had  failed 
in  town  was  arrested  at  Antwerp,  and  there  had 
given  up  effects  to  a  mnch  greater  amount  than 
what  was  due  to  his  creditors.  My  boy's  generosi- 
ty pleased  me  almost  as  much  as  this  unlooked-for 
good  fortune;  but  I  had  some  doubts  whether  I 
ought  in  justice  to  accept  his  offer.  While  I  was 
pondering  upon  this,  Sir  William  entered  the  room, 
to  whom  I  communicated  my  doubts.  His  opinion 
was,  that  as  my  son  was  already  possessed  of  a  very 
affluent  fortune  by  his  marriage,  I  might  accept  his 
offer  without  any  hesitation.  His  business,  how- 
ever, was  to  inform  me,  that  as  he  had  the  night 
before  sent  for  the  licenses,  and  expected  them 
every  hour,  he  hoped  that  I  would  not  refuse  my 
assistance  in  making  all  the  company  happy  that 
morning.  A  footman  entered  while  we  were  speak- 
ing, to  tell  us  that  the  messenger  was  returned;  and 
as  I  was  by  this  time  ready,  I  went  down,  where  I 
found  the  whole  company  as  merry  as  affluence 
and,  innocence  could  make  them.  However,  as 
they  were  now  preparing  for  a  very  solemn  cere- 
mony, their  laughter  entirely  displeased  me.  I  told 
them  of  the  grave,  becoming,  and  sublime  deport- 
ment they  should  assume  upon  this  mystical  occa- 
sion, and  read  them  two  homilies,  and  a  thesis  of 
my  own  composing,  in  order  to  prepare  them.  Yet 
they  still  seemed  perfectly  refractory  and  ungovern- 
able.   Even  as  we  were  going  along  to  church,  to 


which  I  led  the  way,  all  gravity  had  quite  forsaken 
them,  and  I  was  often  tempted  to  turn  back  in  in- 
dignation. In  church  a  new  dilemma  arose,  which 
promised  no  easy  solution.  This  was,  which  couple 
should  be  married  first.  My  son's  bride  warmly 
insisted  that  Lady  Thornhill  (that  was  to  be) 
should  take  the  lead:  but  this  the  other  refused 
with  equal  ardour,  protesting  she  would  not  be 
guilty  of  such  rudeness  for  the  world.  The  argu- 
ment was  supported  for  some  time  between  both 
with  equal  obstinacy  and  good-breeding.  But  as 
I  stood  all  this  time  with  my  book  ready,  1  was  at 
last  quite  tired  of  the  contest;  and  shutting  it,  "  1 
perceive,"  cried  I,  "  that  none  of  you  have  a  mind 
to  be  married,  and  I  think  we  had  as  good  go  back 
again;  for  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  business  done 
here  to-day." — This  at  once  reduced  them  to  rea- 
son. The  baronet  and  his  lady  were  first  married, 
and  then  my  son  and  his  lovely  partner. 

I  had  previously  that  morning  given  orders  that 
a  coach  should  be  sent  for  my  honest  neighbom: 
Flamborough  and  his  family;  by  which  means, 
upon  our  return  to  the  inn,  we  had  the  pleasure  of 
finding  tho  two  Miss  Flamboroughs  alighted  be- 
fore us.  Mr.  Jenkinson  gave  his  hand  to  the  eld- 
est and  my  son  Moses  led  up  the  other  (and  I 
have  since  found  that  he  has  taken  a  real  liking  to 
the  girl,  and  my  consent  and  bounty  he  shall  have, 
whenever  he  thinks  proper  to  demand  them.)  We 
were  no  sooner  returned  to  the  inn,  but  numbers 
of  my  parishioners,  hearing  of  my  success,  came  to 
congratulate  me :  but  among  the  rest  were  those 
who  rose  to  rescue  me,  and  whom  I  formerly  re- 
buked with  such  sharpness.  I  told  the  story  to 
Sir  William,  my  son-in-law,  who  went  out  and  re- 
proved them  with  great  severity;  but  finding  them 
quite  disheartened  by  his  harsh  reproof,  he  gave 
them  half  a  guinea  a-piece  to  drink  his  health,  and 
raise  their  dejected  spirits. 

Soon  after  this  we  were  called  to  a  very  genteel 
entertainment,  which  was  dressed  by  Mr.  Thorn- 
hill's  cook.  And  it  may  not  be  improper  to  observe, 
with  respect  to  that  gentleman,  that  he  now  resides, 
in  quality  of  companion,  at  a  relation's  house,  be- 
ing very  well  liked,  and  seldom  sitting  at  the  side- 
table,  except  when  there  is  no  room  at  the  other; 
for  they  make  no  stranger  of  him.  His  time  is 
pretty  much  taken  up  in  keeping  his  relation,  who 
is  a  little  melancholy,  in  spirits,  and  in  learning  to 
blow  the  French  horn.  My  eldest  daughter,  how- 
ever, still  remembers  him  with  regret ;  and  she  has 
even  told  me,  though  I  make  a  secret  of  it,  that 
when  he  reforms  she  may  be  brought  to  relent. — 
But  to  return,  for  I  am  not  apt  to  digress  thus  j 
when  we  were  to  sit  down  to  dinner  our  ceremo- 
nies were  going  to  be  renewed.  The  question  was, 
whether  my  eldest  daughter,  as  being  a  matron, 
hould  not  sit  above  the  two  young  brides;  but  the 
debate  was  cut  short  by  my  son  George,  who  pro- 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


121 


posed  that  the  company  should  sit  indiscriminately, 
every  gentleman  by  his  lady.  This  was  received 
with  great  approbation  by  all,  excepting  my  wife, 
who,  I  could  perceive,  was  not  perfectly  satisfied, 
as  she  expected  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  carving  the  meat  for 
all  the  company.  But,  notwithstanding  this,  it  is 
impossible  to  describe  our  good-humour.  I  can't 
say  whether  we  had  more  wit  among  us  now  than 
usual;  but  I  am  certain  we  had  more  laughing, 
which  answered  the  end  as  well.  One  jest  I  par- 
ticularly remember :  old  Mr.  Wilmot  drinking  to 
Moses,  whose  head  was  turned  another  way,  my 
i  ion  replied,  "  Madam,  I  thank  you."    Upon  which 


the  old  gentleman,  winking  upon  the  rest  of  the 
company,  observed,  that  he  was  thinking  of  his 
mistress:  at  which  jest  I  thought  the  two  Misa 
Flamboroughs  would  have  died  with  laughing.  As 
soon  as  dinner  was  over,  according  to  my  old  cus- 
tom, I  requested  that  the  table  might  be  taken  away, 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  all  my  family  assem- 
bled once  more  by  a  cheerful  fire-side.  My  tyvo 
little  ones  sat  upon  each  knee,  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany by  their  partners.  I  had  nothing  now  on  this 
side  of  the  grave  to  wish  for;  all  my  cares  were 
over;  my  pleasure  was  unspeakable.  It  now  only 
remained,  that  my  gratitude  in  good  fortune  should 
exceed  my  former  submission  in  adversity. 


AN  IxaUIRY 


INTO 


Kftt  ^vtmnt  State  of  polite  ntnvnim,* 


tnroTi  yivotro. 
Tolcrabile  sijEdificia  nostra  diruerent  Mdijicandi  capaces. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Introduction. 


It  has  been  so  long  the  practice  to  represent  lit- 
erature as  declining,  that  every  renewal  of  this 
complaint  now  comes  with  diminished  influence. 
The  public  has  been  so  often  excited  by  a  false 
alarm,  that  at  present  the  nearer  we  approach  the 
threatened  period  of  decay,  the  more  our  security 
increases. 

It  will  now  probably  be  said,  that,  taking  the 
decay  of  genius  for  granted,  as  I  do,  argues  either 
resentment  or  partiality.  The  writer  possessed  of 
fame,  it  may  be  asserted,  is  willing  to  enjoy  it  with- 
out a  rival,  by  lessening  every  competitor;  or,  if 
unsuccessful,  he  is  desirous  to  turn  upon  others  the 
contempt  which  is  levelled  at  himself;  and  being 
convicted  at  the  bar  of  literary  justice,  hopes  for 
pardon  by  accusing  every  brother  of  the  same  pro- 
fession. 

Sensible  of  this,  I  am  at  a  loss  where  to  find  an 
apology  for  persisting  to  arraign  the  merit  of  the 
age ;  for  joining  in  a  cry  which  the  judicious  have 
long  since  left  to  be  kept  up  by  the  vulgar ;  and  for 
adopting  the  sentiments  of  the  multitude,  in  a  per- 
formance that  at  best  can  please  only  a  few. 

Complaints  of  our  degeneracy  in  literature,  as 
well  as  in  morals,  I  own,  have  been  frequently  ex- 
hibited of  late,  but  seem  to  be  enforced  more  with 
the  ardour  of  devious  declamation  than  the  calm- 
ness of  deliberate  inquiry.  The  dullest  critic,  who 
strives  at  a  reputation  for  delicacy,  by  showing  he 
can  not  be  pleased,  may  pathetically  assure  us,  that 
our  taste  is  upon  the  decline ;  may  consign  every 
modern  performance  to  oblivion,  and  bequeath  no- 
thing to  posterity,  except  the  labours  of  our  ances- 
tors, or  his  own.  Such  general  invective,  however, 


•  The  first  edition  of  this  work  ai)p8ared  in  1759,  and  the 
second  was  printed  in  1774. 


conveys  no  instruction ;  all  it  teaches  is,  that  the 
writer  dislikes  an  age  by  which  he  is  probably  dis- 
regarded. The  manner  of  being  useful  on  the 
subject,  would  be,  to  point  out  the  symptoms,  to  in- 
vestigate the  causes,  and  direct  to  the  remedies  of 
the  approaching  decay.  This  is  a  subject  hitherto 
unattempted  in  criticism, — perhaps  it  is  the  only 
subject  in  which  criticism  can  be  useful. 

How  far  the  writer  is  equal  to  such  an  under- 
taking the  reader  must  determine;  yet  perhaps  his 
observations  may  be  just,  though  his  manner  of 
expressing  them  should  only  serve  as  an  example 
of  the  errors  he  undertakes  to  reprove. 

Novelty,  however,  is  not  permitted  to  usurp  the 
place  of  reason ;  it  may  attend,  but  it  shall  not  con- 
duct the  inquiry.  But  it  should  be  observed,  that 
the  more  original  any  performance  is,  the  more  it 
is  liable  to  deviate ;  for  cautious  stupidity  is  always 
in  the  right. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Causes  which  contribute  to  the  Decline  of  Learning. 

If  we  consider  the  revolutions  which  have  hap- 
pensed  in  the  commonwealth  of  letters,  survey  tho 
rapid  progress  of  learning  in  one  period  of  antiqui- 
ty, or  its  amazing  decline  in  another,  we  shall  be 
almost  induced  to  accuse  nature  of  partialitj^ ;  as 
if  she  had  exhausted  ail  her  eiForts  in  adorning  one 
age,  while  she  left  the  succeeding  entirely  neglect 
ed.  It  is  not  to  nature,  however,  but  to  ourselves 
alone,  that  this  partiality  must  be  ascribed :  the  seeds 
of  excellence  are  sown  in  every  age,  and  it  is  wholly 
owing  to  a  wrong  direction  in  the  passions  or  pur- 
suits of  mankind,  that  they  have  not  received  the 
proper  cultivation. 

As,  in  the  best  regulated  societies,  the  very  laws 
which  at  first  give  the  government  solidity,  may  in 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  POLITE  LEARNING. 


123 


the  tsrtd  contribute  to  its  dissolution,  so  the  efforts 
which  might  have  promoted  learning  in  its  feeble 
commencement,  may,  if  continued,  retard  its  pro- 
gress. The  paths  of  science,  which  were  at  first 
intricate  because  untrodden,  may  at  last  grow  toil 
some,  because  too  much  frequented.  As  learning 
advances,  the  candidates  for  its  honours  become 
more  numerous,  and  the  acquisition  of  fame  more 
^mcertain :  the  modest  may  despair  of  attaining  it, 
and  the  opulent  think  it  too  precarious  to  pursue. 
Thus  the  task  of  supporting  the  honour  of  the 
times  may  at  last  devolve  on  indigence  and  effron- 
tery, while  learning  must  partake  of  the  contempt 
of  its  professors. 

To  illustrate  these  assertions,  it  may  be  proper 
to  take  a  slight  review  of  the  decline  of  ancient 
learning;  to  consider  how  far  its  depravation  was 
ovsdng  to  the  impossibility  of  supporting  continued 
perfection;  in  what  respects  it  proceeded  from  vol- 
untary corruption;  and  how  far  it  was  hastened  on 
by  accident.  If  modern  learning  be  compared  with 
ancient,  in  these  different  Ughts,  a  parallel  between 
both,  which  has  hitherto  produced  only  vain  dis; 
pute,  may  contribute  to  amusement,  perhaps  to  in- 
struction. We  shall  thus  be  enabled  to  perceive 
what  period  of  antiquity  the  present  age  most  re- 
sembles, whether  we  are  making  advances  towards 
excellence,  or  retiring  again  to  primeval  obscurity; 
we  shall  thus  be  taught  to  acquiesce  in  those  de- 
fects which  it  is  impossible  to  prevent,  and  reject 
all  faulty  innovations,  though  offered  under  the 
specious  titles  of  improvement. 

Learning,  when  planted  in  any  country,  is  tran- 
sient and  fading,  nor  does  it  flourish  till  slow  gra- 
dations of  improvement  have  naturalized  it  to  the 
soil.  It  makes  feeble  advances,  begins  among  the 
vulgar,  and  rises  into  reputation  among  the  great. 
It  can  not  be  established  in  a  state  at  once,  by  intro- 
ducing the  learned  of  other  countries;  these  may 
grace  a  court,  but  seldom  enlighten  a  kingdom. 
Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  Constantino  Porphyroge- 
neta,  Alfred,  or  Charlemagne,  might  have  invited 
learned  foreigners  into  their  dominions,  but  could 
not  establish  learning.  While  in  the  radiance  of 
Toyal  favour,  every  art  and  science  seemed  to  flour- 
ish; but  when  that  was  withdrawn,  they  quickly 
felt  the  rigours  of  a  strange  climate,  and  with  exo- 
tic constitutions  perished  by  neglect. 

As  the  arts  and  sciences  are  slow  in  coming  to 
maturity,  it  is  requisite,  in  order  to  their  perfection, 
that  the  state  should  be  permanent  which  gives 
them  reception.  There  are  numberless  attempts 
without  success,  and  experiments  without  conclu- 
sion, between  the  first  rudiments  of  an  art,  and  its 
utmost  perfection;  between  the  outlines  of  a  sha- 
dow, and  the  picture  of  an  Apelles.  Leisure  is  re- 
quired to  go  through  the  tedious  interval,  to  join 
the  experience  of  predecessors  to  our  own,  or  en- 
large our  views,  by  building  on  the  ruined  attempts 


of  former  adventurers.  All  this  may  be  performed 
in  a  society  of  long  continuance,  but  if  the  kingdom 
be  but  of  short  duration,  as  was  the  case  of  Arabia, 
learning  seems  coeval,  sympathizes  with  its  politi- 
cal struggles,  and  is  annihilated  in  its  dissolution. 

But  permanence  in  a  state  is  not  akjac^ufficient; 
it  is  requisite  also  for  this  end  that  it  should  be  free. 
Naturalists  assure  us,  that  all  animals  are  sagac. 
ous  in  proportion  as  they  are  removed  from  the 
tyranny  of  others.  In  native  liberty,  the  elephant 
is  a  citizen,  and  the  beaver  an  architect;  but  when- 
ever the  tyrant  man  intrudes  upon  their  communi- 
ty, their  spirit  is  broken,  they  seem  anxious  only 
for  safety,  and  their  intellects  suffer  an  equal  dimi- 
nution with  their  prosperity.  The  parallel  will  hold 
with  regard  to  mankind.  Fear  naturally  represses 
invention ;  benevolence,  ambition :  for  in  a  nation 
of  slaves,  as  in  the  despotic  governments  of  the 
East,  to  labour  after  fame  is  to  be  a  candidate  for 
danger. 

To  attain  literary  excellence  also,  it  is  requisite 
that  the  soil  and  climate  should,  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, conduce  to  happiness.  The  earth  must  sup- 
ply man  with  the  necessaries  of  hfe,  before  he  has 
leisure  or  inclination  to  pursue  more  refined  enjoy- 
ments. The  climate  also  must  be  equally  indulgent ; 
for  in  too  warm  a  region  the  mind  is  relaxed  into 
languor,  and  by  the  opposite  excess  is  chilled  into 
torpid  inactivity. 

These  are  the  principal  advantages  which  tend 
to  the  improvement  of  learning;  and  all  these  were 
united  in  the  states  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

We  must  now  examine  what  hastens,  or  pre- 
vents its  decline. 

Those  who  behold  the  phenomena  of  nature, 
and  content  themselves  with  the  view  without  in- 
quiring into  their  causes,  are  perhaps  wiser  than  is 
generally  imagined.  In  this  manner  our  rude  an- 
cestors were  acquainted  with  facts;  and  poetry, 
which  helped  the  imagination  and  the  memory,  was 
thought  the  most  proper  vehicle  for  conveying  their 
knowledge  to  posterity.  It  was  the  poet  who  har- 
monized the  ungrateful  accents  of  his  native  dia 
lect,  who  Ufted  it  above  common  conversation,  and 
shaped  its  rude  combinations  into  order.  From 
him  the  orator  formed  a  style :  and  though  poetry 
first  rose  out  of  prose,  in  turn  it  gave  birth  to  every 
prosaic  excellence.  Musical  period,  concise  ex- 
pression, and  delicacy  of  sentiment,  were  all  excel- 
lencies derived  from  the  poet;  in  short,  he  not  onl}' 
preceded  but  formed  the  orator,  philosopher,  and 
historian. 

When  the  observations  of  past  ages  were  col- 
lected, philosophy  next  began  to  examine  their 
causes.  She  had  numberless  facts  from  which  to 
draw  proper  inferences,  and  poetry  had  taught  her 
the  strongest  expression  to  enforce  them.  Thus 
the  Greek  philosophers,  for  instance,  exerted  all 
their  happy  talents  in  the  investigation  of  truth. 


124 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


and  the  production  of  beauty.  They  saw,  that 
there  was  more  excellence  in  captivating  the  judg- 
ment, than  in  raising  a  momentary  astonishment. 
In  their  arts  they  imitated  only  such  parts  of  nature 
as  might  please  in  the  representation ;  in  the  sci- 
ences, they  cultivated  such  parts  of  knowledge  as  it 
was  every  man's  duty  to  know.  Thus  learning 
was  encouraged,  protected,  and  honoured;  and  in 
its  turn  it  adorned,  strengthened,  and  harmonized 
the  community. 

But  as  the  mind  is  vigorous  and  active,  and  ex 
periment  is  dilatory  and  painful,  the  spirit  of  phi 
losophy  being  excited,  the  reasoner,  when  destitute 
of  experiment,  had  recourse  to  theory,  and  gave  up 
what  was  useful  for  refinement. 

Critics,  sophists,  grammarians,  rhetoricians,  and 
commentators,  now  began  to  figure  in  the  literary 
commonwealth.  In  the  dawn  of  science  such  are 
generally  modest,  and  not  entirely  useless.  Their 
performances  serve  to  mark  the  progress  of  learn- 
ing, though  they  seldom  contribute  to  its  improve- 
ment. But  as  n  othing  but  speculation  was  required 
in  making  proficients  in  their  respective  depart- 
ments, so  neither  the  satire  nor  the  contempt  of  the 
wise,  though  Socrates  was  of  the  number,  nor  the 
laws  levelled  at  them  by  the  state,  though  Cato 
was  in  the  legislature,  could  prevent  their  ap- 
proaches.* Possessed  of  all  the  advantages  of  un- 
feeling dulness,  laborious,  insensible,  and  persever- 
ing, they  still  proceed  mending  and  mending  every 
work  of  genius,  or,  to  speak  without  irony,  under- 
mining all  that  was  polite  and  useful.  Libraries 
were  loaded,  but  not  enriched  with  their  labours, 
while  the  fatigue  of  reading  their  explanatory  com- 
ments was  tenfold  that  which  might  suffice  for  un- 
derstanding the  original,  and  their  works  effectual- 
ly increased  our  application,  by  professing  to  re- 
move it. 

Against  so  obstinate  and  irrefragable  an  enemy, 
what  could  avail  the  unsupported  sallies  of  genius, 
or  the  opposition  of  transitory  resentment  1  In 
short,  they  conquered  by  persevering,  claimed  the 
right  of  dictating  upon  every  work  of  taste,  senti- 
ment, or  genius,  and  at  last,  when  destitute  of  em- 
ployment, like  the  supernumerary  domestics  of  the 
great,  made  work  for  each  other. 

They  now  took  upon  them  to  teach  poetry  to 
those  who  wanted  genius :  and  the  power  of  dis- 
puting, to  those  who  knew  nothing  of  the  subject 
in  debate.  It  was  observed  how  some  of  the  mpst 
admired  poets  had  copied  nature.  From  these  they 
collected  dry  rules,  dignified  with  long  names,  and 
such  were  obtruded  upon  the  public  for  their  im- 
provement. Common  sense  would  be  apt  to  sug- 
gest, that  the  art  might  be  studied  more  to  advan- 
tage, rather  by  imitation  than  precept.  It  might 
suggest,  that  those  rules  were  (Collected,  not  from 
nature,  but  a  copy  of  nature,  and  would  consequent- 


Vide  Sueton.  Hist.  Gram. 


ly  give  us  still  fainter  resemblances  of  original  beau- 
ty. It  might  still  suggest,  that  explained  wit  makes 
but  a  feeble  impression;  that  the  observations  of 
others  are  soon  forgotten,  those  made  by  ourselves 
are  permanent  and  useful.  But  it  seems,  under- 
standings of  every  size  were  to  be  mechanically  in- 
structed in  poetry.  If  the  reader  was  too  dull  to 
relish  the  beauties  of  Virgil,  the  comment  of  Ser 
vius  was  ready  to  brighten  his  imagination;  if  Te- 
rence could  not  raise  him  to  a  smile,  Evantius  was 
at  hand,  with  a  long-winded  scholium  to  increase 
his  titilation.  Such  rules  are  calculated  to  make 
blockheads  talk,  but  all  the  lemmata  of  the  Lyceum 
are  unable  to  give  him  feeling. 

But  it  would  be  endless  to  recount  all  the  ab- 
surdities which  were  hatched  in  the  schools  of 
those  specious  idlers;  be  it  suflTicient  to  say,  that 
they  increased  as  learning  improved,  but  swarmed 
on  its  decline.  It  was  then  that  every  work  of 
taste  was  buried  in  long  comments,  every  useful 
subject  in  morals  was  distinguished  away  into  casu- 
istry, and  doubt  and  subtlety  characterized  the  learn- 
ing of  the  age.  Metrodorus,  Valerius  Probus, 
Aulus  Gellius,  Pedianus,  Boethius,  and  a  hundred 
others,  to  be  acquainted  with  whom  might  show 
much  reading,  and  but  little  judgment ;  these,  I 
say,  made  choice  each  of  an  author,  and  delivered 
all  their  load  of  learning  on  his  back.  Shame  to 
our  ancestors !  many  of  their  works  have  reached 
our  times  entire,  while  Tacitus  himself  has  suffer- 
ed mutilation. 

In  a  word,  the  commonwealth  of  Uterature  was 
at  last  wholly  overrun  by  these  studious  triflers. 
Men  of  real  genius  were  lost  in  the  multitude,  or, 
as  in  a  world  of  fools  it  were  folly  to  aim  at  being 
an  only  exception,  obliged  to  conform  to  every  pre- 
vailing absurdity  of  the  times.  Original  produc- 
tions seldom  appeared,  and  learning,  as  if  grown 
superannuated,  bestowed  all  its  panegyric  upon 
the  vigour  of  its  youth,  and  turned  encomiast  upon 
its  former  achievements. 

It  is  to  these,  then,  that  the  depravation  of  an- 
cient polite  learning  is  principally  to  be  ascribed. 
By  them  it  was  separated  from  common  sense,  and 
made  the  proper  employment  of  speculative  idlers. 
Men  bred  up  among  books,  and  seeing  nature  only 
by  reflection,  could  do  little,  except  hunt  after  per- 
plexity and  confusion.  The  public,  therefore,  with 
reason,  rejected  learning,  when  thus  rendered  bar 
ren,  though  voluminous;  for  we  may  be  assured, 
that  the  generality  of  mankind  never  lose  a  passion 
for  letters,  while  they  continue  to  be  either  amus- 
ing or  useful. 

It  was  such  writers  as  these,  that  rendered  learn- 
ing unfit  for  uniting  and  strengthening  civil  socie- 
ty, or  for  promoting  the  views  of  ambition.  True 
philosophy  had  kept  the  Grecian  states  cemented 
into  one  effective  body,  more  than  any  law  for  tnat 
purpose;  and  the  Etrurian  philosophy,  which  pre- 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


125 


vailed  in  the  first  ages  of  Rome,  inspired  those  pa- 
triot virtues  which  paved  the  way  to  universal  em 
pire.     But  by  the  labours  of  commentators,  when 
philosophy  became  abstruse,  or  triflingly  minute, 
when  doubt  was  presented  instead  of  knowledge, 
when  the  orator  was  taught  to  oharm  the  multitude 
with  the  music  of  his  periods,  and  pronounced  a 
declamation  that  might  be  sung  as  well  as  spoken, 
and  often  upon  subjects  wholly  fictitious ;  in  such 
circumstances,  learning  was  entirely  unsuited  to  all 
the  purposes  of  government,  or  the  designs  of  the 
ambitious.  As  long  as  the  sciences  could  influence 
the  state,  and  its  politics  were  strengthened  by  them, 
so  long  did  the  community  give  them  countenance 
and  protection.     But  the  wiser  part  of  mankind 
would  not  be  imposed  upon  by  unintelligible  jar- 
gon, nor,  Uke  the  knight  in  Pantagruel,  swallow  a 
chimera  for  a  breakfast,  though  even  cooked  by 
Aristotle.    As  the  philosopher  grew  useless  in  the 
state,  he  also  became  contemptible.     In  the  times 
of  Lucian,  he  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  his  ava- 
rice, his  impudence,  and  his  beard. 

Under  the  auspicious  influence  of  genius,  arts 
and  sciences  grew  up  together,  and  mutually  illus- 
trated each  other.  But  when  once  pedants  became 
lawgivers,  the  sciences  began  to  want  grace,  and 
the  polite  arts  solidity;  these  grew  crabbed  and 
sour,  those  meretricious  and  gaudy;  the  philosopher 
became  disgustingly  precise,  and  the  poet,  ever 
straining  after  grace,  caught  only  finery. 

These  men  also  contributed  to  obstruct  the  pro- 
gress of  wisdom,  by  addicting  their  readers  to  one 
particular  sect,  or  some  favourite  science.  They 
generally  carried  on  a  petty  traffic  in  some  Uttle 
creek:  within  that  they  busily  plied  about,  and 
drove  an  insignificant  trade ;  but  never  ventured 
out  into  the  great  ocean  of  knowledge,  nor  went 
beyond  the  bounds  that  chance,  conceit,  or  laziness, 
had  first  prescribed  their  inquiries.  Their  disci- 
ples, instead  of  aiming  at  being  originals  them- 
selves, became  imitators  of  that  merit  alone  which 
was  constantly  proposed  for  their  admiration.  In 
exercises  of  this  kind,  the  most  stupid  are  generally 
most  successful ;  for  there  is  not  in  nature  a  more 
imitative  animal  than  a  dunce. 

Hence  ancient  learning  may  be  distinguished 
into  three  periods.  Its  commencement,  or  the  age 
of  poets ;  its  maturity,  or  the  age  of  philosophers ; 
and  its  decline,  or  the  age  of  critics.  In  the  poeti- 
cal age  commentators  were  very  few,  but  might 
have  in  some  respects  been  useful.  In  its  philoso- 
phical, their  assistance  must  necessarily  become 
obnoxious;  yet,  as  if  the  nearer  we  approached 
perfection  the  more  we  stood  in  need  of  their  direc- 
tions, in  this  period  they  began  to  grow  numerous. 
But  when  polite  learning  was  no  more,  then  it 
was  those  literary  lawgivers  made  the  most  formi- 
dable appearance 


But  let  us  take  a  more  distinct  view  of  those 
ages  of  ignorance  in  which  false  refinement  had  in- 
volved mankind,  and  see  how  far  they  resemble  ouf 
own. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  View  of  the  Obscure  Ages. 

Whatever  the  skill  of  any  country  may  be  in 
the  sciences,  it  is  from  its  excellence  in  pohte  learn- 
ing alone,  that  it  must  expect  a  character  from  pos- 
terity. The  poet  and  the  historian  are  they  who 
diffuse  a  lustre  upon  the  age,  and  the  philosopher 
scarcely  acquires  any  applause,  unless  liis  charac- 
ter be  introduced  to  the  vulgar  by  their,  mediation. 
The  obscure  ages,  which  succeeded  the  decline 
of  the  Roman  empire,  are  a  striking  instance  of 
the  truth  of  this  assertion.  Whatever  period  of 
those  ill-fated  times  we  happen  to  turn  to,  we  shall 
perceive  more  skill  in  the  sciences  among  the  pro- 
fessors of  them,  more  abstruse  and  deeper  inquiry 
into  every  philosophical  subject,  and  a  greater 
show  of  subtlety  and  close  reasoning,  than  in  the 
most  enlightened  ages  of  all  antiquity.  But  their 
writings  were  mere  speculative  amusements,  and 
all  their  researches  exhausted  upon  trifles.  Un- 
skilled in  the  arts  of  adorning  their  knowledge,  or 
adapting  it  to  common  sense,  their  volmninous 
productions  rest  peacefully  in  our  libraries,  or  at 
best  are  inquired  after  from  motives  of  curiosity, 
not  by  the  scholar,  but  the  virtuoso. 

I  am  not  insensible,  that  several  late  French 
historians  have  exhibited  the  obscure  ages  in  a 
very  diflTerent  hght.  They  have  represented  them 
as  utterly  ignorant  both  of  arts  and  sciences,  buried 
in  the  profoundest  darkness,  or  only  illuminated 
with  a  feeble  gleam,  which,  like  an  expiring  taper^ 
rose  and  sunk  by  intervals.  Such  assertions,  how- 
ever, though  they  serve  to  help  out  the  declaimer^ 
should  be  cautiously  admitted  by  the  historian.. 
For  instance,  the  tenth  century,  is  particularly  dis- 
tinguished by  posterity,  with  the  appellation  of 
obscure.  Yet,  even  in  this,  the  reader's  memory 
may  possibly  suggest  the  names  of  some,  whose 
works,  still  preserved,  discover  a  most  extensive 
erudition,  though  rendered  almost  useless  by  affec- 
tation and  obscurity.  A  few  of  their  names  and 
writings  may  be  mentioned,  which  will  serve  at 
once  to  confirm  what  I  assert,  and  give  the  reader 
an  idea  of  what  kind  of  learning  an  age  declining^ 
into  obscurity  chiefly  chooses  to  cultivate. 

About  the  tenth  century  flourished  Leo  the  phi- 
losopher. We  have  seven  volumes  folio  of  Iiis  col- 
lections of  laws,  pubUshed  at  Paris,  1647.    He 


rimas  leges.    Tacit. 


wrote  upon  the  art  miUtary,  and  understood  also 
Corrwptissima  republican  pZii-  astronomy  and  judicial  astrology.    He  was  sevcD 


I  times  more  voluminous  than  Plato. 


126 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Solomon,  the  German,  wrote  a  most  elegant  dic- 
tionary of  the  Latin  tongue,  still  preserved  in  the 
university  of  Louvain;  Pantaleon,  in  the  lives  of 
his  illustrious  countrymen,  speaks  of  it  in  the  warm- 
est strains  of  rapture.  Dictionary  writing  was  at 
that  time  much  in  fashion. 

Constantino  Porphyrogenta  was  a  man  univer- 
sally skilled  in  the  sciences.  His  tracts  on  the  ad- 
ministration of  an  empire,  on  tactics,  and  on  laws, 
were  published  some  years  since  at  Ley  den.  His 
court,  for  he  was  emperor  of  the  East,  was  resorted 
to  by  the  learned  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Luitprandus  was  a  most  voluminous  historian, 
and  particularly  famous  for  the  history  of  his  own 
times.  The  compliments  paid  him  as  a  writer  are 
said  to  exceed  even  his  own  voluminous  produc- 
tions. I  can  not  pass  over  one  of  a  later  date  made 
him  by  a  German  divine,  Luitprandus  nunquam 
Luitprando  dissimilis. 

Alfric  composed  several  grammars  and  dictiona- 
ries still  preserved  among  the  curious. 

Pope  Sylvester  the  Second  wrote  a  treatise  on 
the  sphere,  on  arithmetic  and  geometry,  published 
some  years  since  at  Paris. 

Michael  Psellus  lived  in  this  age,  whose  books 
in  the  sciences,  I  will  not  scruple  to  assert,  contain 
more  learning  than  those  of  any  one  of  the  earlier 
ages.  His  erudition  was  indeed  amazing;  and  he 
was  as  voluminous  as  he  was  learned.  The  cha- 
racter given  him  by  Allatius  has,  perhaps,  more 
truth  in  it  than  will  be  granted  by  those  who  have 
seen  none  of  his  productions.  There  was,  says  he, 
no  science  with  which  he  was  unacquainted,  none 
which  he  did  not  write  something  upon,  and  none 
which  he  did  not  leave  better  than  he  found  it.  To 
mention  his  works  would  be  endless.  His  com- 
mentaries on  Aristotle  alone  amount  to  three  fohos. 

Bertholdus  Teutonicus,  a  very  voluminous  his- 
torian, was  a  politician,  and  wrote  against  the  gov- 
ernment under  which  he  lived :  but  most  of  his 
writings,  though  not  all,  are  lost. 

Constantius  Afer  was  a  philosopher  and  physi- 
cian. We  have  remaining  but  two  volumes  folio 
of  his  philological  performances.  However,  the 
historian  who  prefixes  the  life  of  the  author  to  his 
works,  says,  that  he  wrote  many  more,  as  he  kept 
on  writing  during  the  course  of  a  long  life. 

Lambertus  published  a  universal  history  about 
this  time,  which  has  been  printed  at  Frankfort  in 
folio.  An  universal  history  in  one  folio !  If  he  had 
consulted  with  his  bookseller,  he  would  have  spun 
it  out  to  ten  at  least;  but  Lambertus  might  have 
had  too  much  modesty. 

By  this  time  the  reader  perceives  the  spirit  of 
learning  which  at  that  time  prevailed.  The  igno- 
rance of  the  age  was  not  owing  to  a  dislike  of  know- 
ledge but  a  false  standard  of  taste  was  erected,  and 
a  wrong  direction  given  to  philosophical  inquiry. 
It  was  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  write  dictionaries, 


commentaries,  and  compilations,  and  to  evaporate 
in  a  folio  the  spirit  that  could  scarcely  have  sufficed 
for  an  epigram.  The  most  barbarous  times  had 
men  of  learning,  if  commentators,  compilers,  po- 
lemic divines,  and  intricate  metaphysicians,  de- 
served the  title, 

I  have  mentioned  but  a  very  inconsiderable  num- 
ber of  the  writers  in  this  age  of  obscurity.  The 
multiplicity  of  their  publications  will  at  least  equal 
those  of  any  similar  period  of  the  most  polite  an- 
tiquity. As,  therefore,  the  writers  of  those  times 
are  almost  entirely  forgotten,  we  may  infer,  that  the 
number  of  publications  alone  will  never  secure  any 
age  whatsoever  from  oblivion.  Nor  can  printing, 
contrary  to  what  Mr,  Baumelle  has  remarked,  pre- 
vent literary  decline  for  the  future,  since  it  only  in- 
creases the  number  of  books,  without  advancing 
their  intrinsic  merit. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Of  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Italj. 

From  ancient  we  are  now  come  to  modern  time^ 
and,  in  running  over  Europe,  we  shall  find,  that 
wherever  learning  has  been  cultivated,  it  has  flour- 
ished by  the  same  advantages  as  in  Greece  and 
Rome;  and  that,  wherever  it  has  declined,  it  sinks 
by  the  same  causes  of  decay. 

Dante,  the  poet  of  Italy,  who  wrote  in  the  thir- 
teenth century,  was  the  first  who  attempted  to  bring 
learning  from  the  cloister  into  the  community,  and 
paint  human  nature  in  a  language  adapted  to  mo- 
dern manners.  He  addressed  a  barbarous  people 
in  a  method  suited  to  their  apprehensions;  united 
purgatory  and  the  river  Styx,  St,  Peter  and  Virgil, 
Heaven  and  Hell  together,  and  shows  a  strange 
mixture  of  good  sense  and  absurdity.  The  truth 
is,  he  owes  most  of  his  reputation  to  the  obscurity 
of  the  times  in  which  he  lived.  As  in  the  land  of 
Benin  a  man  may  pass  for  a  prodigy  of  parts  who 
can  read,  so  in  an  age  of  barbarity,  a  small  degree 
of  excellence  ensures  success.  But  it  was  great 
merit  in  him  to  have  lifted  up  the  standard  of  na- 
ture, in  spite  of  all  the  opposition  and  the  persecu- 
tion he  received  from  contemporary  criticism.  To 
this  standard  every  succeeding  genius  resorted;  the 
erm  of  every  art  and  science  began  to  unfold;  and 
to  imitate  nature  was  found  to  be  the  surest  way 
of  imitating  antiquity.  In  a  century  or  two  after^ 
modern  Italy  might  justly  boast  of  rivalling  ancient 
Rome ;  equal  in  some  branches  of  polite  learningj 
and  not  far  surpassed  in  others. 

They  soon,  however,  fell  from  emulating  the 
wonders  of  antiquity  into  simple  admiration.  As 
if  the  word  had  been  given  when  Vida  and  Tasso 
wrote  on  the  arts  of  poetry,  the  whole  swarm  o£ 
critics  was  up.     The  Speronis  of  the  age  attempt 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  POLITE  LEARNING. 


127 


©d  to  be  awkwardly  merry;  and  the  Virtuosi  and 
the  Nascotti  sat  upon  the  merits  of  every  contem 
porary  performance.  After  the  age  of  Clement  VII. 
the  Italians  seemed  to  think  that  there  was  more 
merit  in  praising  or  censuring  well,  than  in  writing 
well;  almost  every  subsequent  performance  since 
their  time,  being  designed  rather  to  show  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  critic's  taste  than  his  genius.  One 
or  two  poets,  indeed,  seem  at  present  born  to  re- 
deem the  honour  of  their  country.  Metastasio  has 
restored  nature  in  all  her  simplicity,  and  Maffei  is 
the  first  that  has  introduced  a  tragedy  among  his 
countrymen  without  a  love-plot.  Perhaps  the  Sam- 
son of  Milton,  and  the  Athalia  of  Racine,  might 
have  been  his  guides  in  such  an  attempt.  But  two 
poets  in  an  age  are  not  suffered  to  revive  the  splen- 
dour of  decaying  genius;  nor  should  we  consider 
them  as  the  standard  by  which  to  characterize  a 
nation.  Our  measures  of  literary  reputation  must 
be  taken  rather  from  that  numerous  class  of  men, 
who,  placed  above  the  vulgar,  are  yet  beneath  the 
great,  and  who  confer  fame  on  others  without  re 
ceiving  any  portion  of  it  themselves. 

In  Italy,  then,  we  shall  no  where  find  a  stronger 
yassion  for  the  arts  of  taste,  yet  no  country  making 
more  feeble  efforts  to  promote  either.  The  Vir- 
tuosi and  Filosofi  seem  to  have  divided  the  Ency- 
clopedia between  each  other.  Both  inviolably  at- 
tached to  their  respective  pursuits ;  and,  from  an 
opposition  of  character,  each  holding  the  other  in 
the  most  sovereign  contempt.  The  Virtuosi,  pro- 
fessed critics  of  beauty  in  the  works  of  art,  judge 
of  medals  by  the  smell,  and  pictures  by  feeling;  in 
statuary,  hang  over  a  fragment  with  the  most  ar- 
dent gaze  of  admiration :  though  wanting  the  head 
and  the  other  extremities,  if  dug  from  a  ruin,  the 
Torse  becomes  inestimable.  An  unintelligible 
monument  of  Etruscan  barbarity  can  not  be  suffi- 
ciently prized;  and  any  thing  from  Herculaneum 
excites  rapture.  When  the  intellectual  taste  is 
thus  decayed,  its  relishes  become  false,  and,  like  that 
of  sense,  nothing  will  satisfy  but  what  is  best  suited 
to  feed  the  disease. 

Poetry  is  no  longer  among  them  an  imitation  of 
what  we  see,  but  of  what  a  visionary  might  wish. 
The  zephyr  breathes  the  most  exquisite  perfume, 
the  trees  wear  eternal  verdure ;  fawns,  and  dryads, 
and  hamadryads,  stand  ready  to  fan  the  sultry 
shepherdess,  who  has  forgot  indeed  the  pretti- 
nesses  with  which  Guarini's  shepherdesses  have 
been  reproached,  but  is  so  simple  and  innocent  as 
often  to  have  no  meaning.  Happy  country,  where 
^he  pastoral  age  begins  to  revive!  where  the  wits 
even  of  Rome,  are  united  into  a  rural  group  of 
nymphs  and  swains,  under  the  appellation  of  mo- 
dern Arcadians :  where  in  the  midst  of  porticos, 
processions,  and  cavalcades,  abbes  turned  shep- 
herds, and  shepherdesses  without  sheep  indulge 
their  innocent  divertimenti. 


i  The  Filosofi  are  entirely  different  from  the  for- 
mer. As  those  pretend  to  have  got  their  know- 
ledge from  conversing  with  the  living  and  polite,  so 
these  boast  of  having  theirs  from  books  and  study. 
Bred  up  all  their  lives  in  colleges,  they  have  there 
learned  to  think  in  track,  servilely  to  follow  the 
leader  of  their  sect,  and  only  to  adopt  such  opinions 
as  their  universities,  or  the  inqmsition,  are  pleased 
to  allow.  By  these  means,  they  are  behind  the  rest 
of  Europe  in  several  modern  improvements;  afraid 
to  think  for  themselves;  and  their  universities  sel- 
dom admit  opinions  as  true,  till  universally  received 
among  the  rest  of  mankind.  In  short,  were  I  to 
personize  my  ideas  of  learning  in  this  country,  I 
would  represent  it  in  the  tawdry  habits  of  the  stage, 
or  else  in  the  more  homely  guise  of  bearded  school- 
philosophy. 


CHAPTER  V 

Of  Polite  Learning  in  Germany. 


If  we  examine  the  state  of  learning  in  Germany, 
we  shall  find  that  the  Germans  early  discovered  a 
passion  for  polite  literature ;  but  unhappily,  like  con- 
querors, who,  invading  the  dominions  of  others, 
leave  their  own  to  desolation,  instead  of  studying 
the  German  tongue,  they  continue  to  write  in  Latin. 
Thus,  while  they  cultivated  an  obsolete  language, 
and  vainly  laboured  to  apply  it  to  modem  manners, 
they  neglected  their  own. 

At  the  same  time  also,  they  began  at  the  wrong 
end,  I  mean  by  being  commentators;  and  though 
they  have  given  many  instances  of  their  industry, 
they  have  scarcely  afforded  any  of  genius.  If  cri- 
ticism could  have  improved  the  taste  of  a  people, 
the  Germans  would  have  been  the  most  polite  na- 
tion alive.  We  shall  no  where  behold  the  learned 
wear  a  more  important  appearance  than  here;  no 
where  more  dignified  with  professorships,  or  dress- 
ed out  in  the  fopperies  of  scholastic  finery.  How- 
ever, they  seem  to  earn  all  the  honours  of  this  kind 
which  they  enjoy.  Their  assiduity  is  unparal- 
leled; and  did  they  employ  half  those  hours  on 
study  which  they  bestow  on  reading,  we  might 
be  induced  to  pity  as  well  as  praise  their  painful 
pre-eminence.  But  guilty  of  a  fault  too  common 
to  great  readers,  they  write  through  volumes,  while 
they  do  not  think  through  a  page.  Never  fatigued 
themselves,  they  think  the  reader  can  never  be 
weary;  so  they  drone  on,  saying  all  that  can  be  said 
on  the  subject,  not  selecting  what  may  be  advanc- 
ed to  the  purpose.  Were  angels  to  write  books, 
they  never  would  write  folios. 

But  let  the  Germans  have  their  due;  if  they  are 
didl,  no  nation  alive  assumes  a  more  laudable  so-  ' 
lemnity,  or  better  understands  all  the  decorums  of 
stupidity.     Let  the  discourse  of  a  professor  run  on 


128 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


never  so  heavily,  it  can  not  be  irksome  to  his  dozing 
pupils,  who  frequently  lend  him  sympathetic  nods 
of  approbation.  I  have  sometimes  attended  their 
disputes  at  gradation.  On  this  occasion  they  often 
dispense  with  their  gravity,  and  seem  reall}"^  all 
alive.  The  disputes  are  managed  between  the  fol- 
lowers of  Cartesius  (whose  exploded  system  they 
continue  to  call  the  new  philosophy)  and  those  of 
Aristotle.  Though  both  parties  are  in  the  wrong, 
they  argue  with  an  obstinacy  worthy  the  cause  of 
truth;  Nego,  Probo,  and  Distinguo,  grow  loud;  the 
disputants  become  warm,  the  moderator  can  not 
be  heard,  the  audience  take  part  in  the  debate,  till 
at  last  the  whole  hall  buzzes  with  sophistry  and 
error. 

There  arc,  it  is  true,  several  societies  in  this 
country,  which  are  chiefly  calculated  to  promote 
knowledge.  His  late  majesty  as  elector  of  Hano- 
ver, has  established  one  at  Gottingen,  at  an  expense 
of  not  less  than  a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  This 
university  has  already  pickled  monsters,  and  dis- 
sected Uve  puppies  without  number.  Their  trans- 
actions have  been  published  in  the  learned  world 
at  proper  intervals  since  their  institution;  and  will, 
it  is  hoped,  one  day  give  them  just  reputation. 
But  had  the  fourth  part  of  the  immense  sum  above 
mentioned  been  given  in  proper  rewards  to  genius, 
in  some  neighbouring  countries,  it  would  have  ren- 
dered the  name  of  the  donor  immortal,  and  added 
to  the  real  interests  of  society. 

Yet  it  ought  to  be  observed,  that,  of  late,  learn- 
ing has  been  patronized  here  by  a  prince,  who,  in 
the  humblest  station,  would  have  been  the  first  of 
mankind.  The  society  established  by  the  king  of 
Prussia,  at  BerUn,  is  one  of  the  finest  literary  in- 
stitutions that  any  age  or  nation  has  produced. 
This  academy  comprehends  all  the  sciences  under 
four  different  classes ;  and  although  the  object  of 
each  is  different,  and  admits  of  being  separately 
treated,  yet  these  classes  mutually  influence  the 
progress  of  each  other,  and  concur  in  the  same 
general  design.  Experimental  philosophy,  mathe- 
matics, metaphysics,  and  poUte  literature,  are  here 
carried  on  together.  The  members  are  not  col- 
lected from  among  the  students  of  some  obscure 
seminary,  or  the  wits  of  a  metropolis,  but  chosen 
from  all  the  literati  of  Europe,  supported  by  the 
bounty,  and  ornamented  by  the  productions  of  their 
royal  founder.  We  can  easily  discern  how  much 
such  an  institution  excels  any  other  now  subsisting. 
One  fundamental  error  among  societies  of  this  kind, 
is  their  addicting  themselves  to  one  branch  of  sci- 
ence, or  some  particular  part  of  polite  learning. 
Thus,  in  Germany,  there  are  no  where  so  many 
establishments  of  this  nature;  but  as  they  generally 
profess  the  promotion  of  natural  or  medical  know- 


minated  by  no  resulting  phenomena.  To  make 
experiments,  is,  I  own,  the  only  way  to  promote 
natural  knowledge;  but  to  treasure  up  every  unsuc 
cessful  inquiry  into  nature,  or  to  communicate 
every  experiment  without  conclusion,  is  not  to  pro- 
mote science,  but  oppress  it.  tiad  the  members 
of  these  societies  enlarged  their  plans,  and  taken 
in  art  as  well  as  science,  one  part  of  knowledge 
would  have  repressed  any  faulty  luxuriance  in  the 
other,  and  all  would  have  mutually  assisted  each 
other's  promotion.  Besides,  the  society  which, 
with  a  contempt  of  all  collateral  assistance,  admits 
of  members  skilled  in  one  science  only,  whatever 
their  diligence  or  labour  may  be,  will  lose  much 
time  in  th6  discovery  of  such  truths  as  are  yrell 
known  already  to  the  learned  in  a  different  line; 
consequently,  their  progress  must  be  slow  in  gain- 
ing a  proper  eminence  from  which  to  view  their 
subject,  and  their  strength  will  be  exhausted  in  at- 
taining the  station  whence  they  should  have  set  out. 
With  regard  to  the  Royal  Society  of  London,  the 
greatest,  and  perhaps  the  oldest  institution  of  the 
kind,  had  it  widened  the  basis  of  its  institution, 
though  they  might  not  have  propagated  more  dis- 
coveries, they  would  probably  have  deUvered  them 
in  a  more  pleasing  and  compendious  form.  They 
would  have  been  free  from  the  contempt  of  the  ill, 
natured,  and  the  raillery  of  the  wit,  for  which,  even 
candour  must  allow,  there  is  but  too  much  founda- 
tion. But  the  Berlin  academy  is  subject  to  none  of 
all  these  inconveniences,  but  every  one  of  its  indivi- 
duals is  in  a  capacity  of  deriving  more  from  tho 
common  stock  than  he  contributes  to  it,  while  each 
academician  serves  as  a  check  upon  the  rest  of  his 
fellows. 

Yet,  very  probably,  even  this  fine  institution  will 
soon  decay.  As  it  rose,  so  it  will  decline  with  its 
great  encourager.  The  society,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
is  artificially  supported.  The  introduction  of  fo- 
reigners of  learning  was  right;  but  in  adopting  a 
foreign  language  also,  I  mean  the  French,  in  which 
all  the  transactions  are  to  be  published,  and  ques- 
tions debated,  in  this  there  was  an  error.  As  I 
have  already  hinted,  the  language  of  the  natives  of 
every  country  should  be  also  the  language  of  its 
polite  learning.  To  figure  in  polite  learning,  every 
country  should  make  their  own  language  from  their 
own  manners;  nor  will  they  ever  succeed  by  intro- 
ducing that  of  another,  which  has  been  formed 
from  manners  which  are  different.  Besides,  an 
academy  composed  of  foreigners  must  still  be  re- 
cruited from  abroad,  unless  all  the  natives  of  the 
country  to  which  it  belongs,  are  in  a  capacity  of 
becoming  candidates  for  its  honoiu-s  or  rewards. 
While  France  therefore  continues  to  supply  Berlin, 
polite  learning  will  flourish;  but  when  royal  favour 


ledge,  he  who  reads  their  Acta  will  only  find  an  is  withdrawn,  learning  will  return  to  its  natural 
obscure  farago  of  experiment,  most  frequently  ter- !  country. 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


1S9 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Of  Polite  Learning  in  Holland,  and  some  other  Countries  of 
Europe. 

Holland,  at  first  view,  appears  to  have  some 
pretensions  to  polite  learning.  It  may  be  regarded 
as  the  great  emporium,  not  less  of  literature  than  of 
every  other  commodity.  Here,  though  destitute 
of  what  may  be  properly  called  a  language  of  their 
own,  all  the  languages  are  understood,  cultivated, 
and  spoken.  All  useful  inventions  in  arts,  and 
new  discoveries  in  science,  are  pubUshed  here  almost 
as  soon  as  at  the  places  which  first  produced  them. 
Its  individuals  have  the  same  faults,  however,  with 
the  Germans,  of  making  more  use  of  their  memory 
than  their  judgment.  The  chief  employment  of 
their  literati  is  to  criticise,  or  answer,  the  new  per- 
formances which  appear  elsewhere. 

A  dearth  of  wit  in  France  or  England  naturally 
produces  a  scarcity  in  Holland.  What  Ovid  says 
of  Echo,  may  be  applied  here.  Nee  loqui  prius  ipsa 
didicit  nee  reticere  loquenti.  They  wait  till  some- 
thing new  comes  out  from  others;  examine  its  me- 
rits, and  reject  it,  or  make  it  reverberate  through 
the  rest  of  Europe. 

After  all,  I  know  not  whether  they  should  be 
allowed  any  national  character  for  polite  learning. 
All  their  taste  is  derived  to  them  from  neighbouring 
nations,  and  that  in  a  language  not  their  own. 
They  somewhat  resemble  their  brokers,  who  trade 
for  immense  sums  without  having  any  capital. 

The  other  countries  of  Europe  may  be  consider- 
ed as  immersed  in  ignorance,  or  making  but  feeble 
efforts  to  rise.  Spain  has  long  fallen  from  amazing 
Europe  with  her  wit,  to  amusing  them  with  the 
greatness  of  her  catholic  credulity.  Rome  consi- 
ders her  as  the  most  favourite  of  all  her  children, 
and  school  divinity  still  reigns  there  in  triumph. 
In  spite  of  all  attempts  of  the  Marquis  D'Ensana- 
da,  who  saw  with  regret  the  barbarity^f  his  coun- 
trymen, and  bravely  offered  to  oppose  it  by  intro- 
ducing new  systems  of  learning,  and  suppressing 
the  seminaries  of  monastic  ignorance;  in  spite  of 
the  ingenuity  of  Padre  Feio,  whose  book  of  vulgar 
errors  so  finely  exposes  the  monkish  stupidity  of 
the  times, — the  religious  have  prevailed.  Ensana- 
da  has  been  banished,  and  now  lives  in  exile.  Feio 
has  incurred  the  hatred  and  contempt  of  every  bigot 
whose  errors  he  has  attempted  to  oppose,  and  feels 
no  doubt  the  unremitting  displeasure  of  the  priest- 
hood. Persecution  is  a  tribute  the  great  must  ever 
pay  for  pre-eminence. 

It  is  a  Uttle  extraordinary,  however,  how  Spain, 
whose  genius  is  naturally  fine,  should  be  so  much 
behind  the  rest  of  Europe  in  this  particular;  or 
why  school  divinity  should  hold  its  ground  there 
for  nearly  six  hundred  years.  The  reason  must 
be  that  philosophical  opinions,  which  are  otherwise 


transient,  acquire  stability  in  proportion  as  they  are 
connected  with  the  laws  of  the  coimtry;  and  phi- 
losophy and  law  have  no  where  been  so  closely 
united  as  here. 

Sweden  has  of  late  made  some  attempts  in  polite 
learning  in  its  own  language.  Count  Tessin's  in- 
structions to  the  prince,  his  pupil,  are  no  bad  be- 
ginning. If  the  Muses  can  fix  their  residence  so 
far  northward,  perhaps  no  country  bids  so  fair  for 
their  reception.  They  have,  I  am  told,  a  language 
rude  but  energetic ;  if  so,  it  will  bear  a  polish.  They 
have  also  a  jealous  sense  of  liberty,  and  that  strength 
of  thinking  peculiar  to  northern  climates,  without 
its  attendant  ferocity.  They  wdll  certainly  in  time 
produce  somewhat  great,  if  their  intestine  divisions 
do  not  imhappily  prevent  them. 

The  history  of  polite  learning  in  Denmark  may 
be  comprised  in  the  life  of  one  single  man :  it  rose 
and  fell  with  the  late  famous  Baron  Holberg.  This 
was,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  per- 
sonages that  has  done  honour  to  the  present  cen- 
tury. His  being  the  son  of  a  private  sentinel  did 
not  abate  the  ardour  of  his  ambition,  for  he  learned 
to  read  though  without  a  master.  Upon  the  death 
of  his  father,  being  left  entirely  destitute,  he  was  in 
volved  in  all  that  distress  wliich  is  common  among 
the  poor,  and  of  which  the  great  have  scarcely  any 
idea.  However,  though  only  a  boy  of  nine  years 
qld,  he  still  persisted  in  pursuing  his  studies,  tra- 
velled about  from  school  to  school,  and  begged  his 
learning  and  his  bread.  When  at  the  age  of  sev- 
enteen, instead  of  applying  himself  to  any  of  the 
lower  occupations,  which  seem  best  adapted  to  such 
circumstances,  he  was  resolved  to  travel  for  im- 
provement from  Norway,  the  place  of  his  birth,  to 
Copenhagen  the  capital  city  of  Denmark.  He 
lived  there  by  teaching  French,  at  the  same  time 
avoiding  no  opportunity  of  improvement  that  his 
scanty  funds  could  permit.  But  his  ambition  was 
not  to  be  restrained,  or  his  thirst  of  knowledge  sa- 
tisfied, until  he  had  seen  the  world.  Without  mo- 
ney, recommendations,  or  friends,  he  undertook  to 
set  out  upon  his  travels,  and  make  the  tour  of  Eu- 
rope on  foot.  A  good  voice,  and  a  trifling  skill  in 
music,  were  the  only  finances  he  had  to  support  an 
undertaking  so  extensive;  so  he  travelled  by  day, 
and  at  night  sung  at  the  door  of  peasants'  houses 
to  get  himself  a  lodging.  In  this  manner,  while 
yet  very  young,  Holberg  passed  through  France, 
Germany,  and  Holland;  and  coming  over  to  Eng- 
land, took  up  his  residence  for  two  years  in  the 
university  of  Oxford.  Here  he  subsisted  by  teach- 
ing French  and  music,  and  wrote  his  universal 
history,  his  earliest,  but  worst  performance.  Fur- 
nished with  all  the  learning  of  Europe,  he  at  last 
thought  proper  to  return  to  Copenhagen,  where  liis 
ingenious  productions  quickly  gained  him  that  fa- 
vour he  deserved.  He  composed  not  less  than  eigh- 
teen comedies.     Those  in  his  own  language  are 


130 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


said  to  excel,  and  those  which  are  translated  into 
French  have  peculiar  merit.  He  was  honoured 
with  nobility,  and  enriched  by  the  bounty  of  the 
king ;  so  that  a  life  begun  in  contempt  and  penury, 
ended  in  opulence  and  esteem. 

Thus  we  see  in  what  a  low  state  polite  learning 
is  in  the  countries  I  have  mentioned;  either  past 
its  prime,  or  not  yet  arrived  at  maturity.  And 
though  the  sketch  I  have  drawn  be  general,  yet  it 
was  for  the  most  part  taken  on  the  spot.  I  am  sen- 
sible, however,  of  the  impropriety  of  national  reflec- 
tion; and  did  not  truth  bias  me  more  than  inclina- 
tion in  this  particular,  I  should,  instead  of  the  account 
already  given,  have  presented  the  reader  with  a 
panegyric  on  many  of  the  individuals  of  every  coun- 
try, whose  merits  deserve  the  warmest  strains  of 
praise.  Apostolo  Zeno,  Algarotti,  Goldoni,  Mu- 
ratori,  and  Stay,  in  Italy;  Haller,  Klopstock,  and 
Rabner,  in  Germany;  Muschenbroek,  and  Gau- 
bius,  in  Holland;  all  deserve  the  highest  applause. 
Men  like  these,  united  by  one  bond,  pursuing  one 
design,  spend  their  labour  and  their  lives  in  making 
their  fellow-creatures  happy,  and  in  repairing  the 
breaches  caused  by  ambition.  In  this  light,  the 
meanest  philosopher,  though  all  his  possessions  are 
his  lamp  or  his  cell,  is"  more  truly  valuable  than  he 
whose  name  echoes  to  the  shout  of  the  million,  and 
who  stands  in  all  the  glare  of  admiration.  In  this 
light,  though  poverty  and  contemptuous  neglect 
are  all  the  wages  of  his  good-will  from  mankind, 
yet  the  rectitude  of  his  intention  is  an  ample  re- 
compense; and  self-applause  for  the  present,  and 
the  alluring  prospect  of  fame  for  futurity,  reward 
his  labours..  The  perspective  of  life  brightens  up- 
on us,  when  terminated  by  an  object  so  charming. 
Every  intermediate  image  of  want,  banishment,  or 
sorrow,  receives  a  lustre  from  its  distant  influence. 
With  this  in  view,  the  patriot,  philosopher,  and 
poet,  have  often  looked  with  calmness  on  disgrace 
and  famine,  and  rested  on  their  straw  with  cheer- 
ful serenity.  Even  the  last  terrors  of  departing 
nature  abate  of  their  severity,  and  look  kindly  on 
him  who  considers  his  sufferings  as  a  passport  to 
immortality,  and  lays  his  sorrows  on  the  bed  of 
fame. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Of  Polite  Learning  in  France. 

We  have  hitherto  seen,  that  wherever  the  poet 
was  permitted  to  begin  by  improving  his  native 
language,  polite  learning  flourished ;  but  where  the 
critic  undertook  the  same  task,  it  has  never  risen 
to  any  degree  of  perfection.  Let  us  now  examine 
the  merits  of  modern  learning  in  France  and  Eng- 
land; where,  though  it  may  be  on  the  decline,  yet 
it  ia  still  capable  of  retrieving  much  of  its  former 


splendour.  In  other  places  learning  has  not  yet 
been  planted,  or  has  suffered  a  total  decay.  To 
attempt  amendment  there,  would  be  only  like  the 
application  of  remedies  to  an  insensible  or  a  morti- 
fied part,  but  here  there  is  still  life,  and  there  is 
hope.  And  indeed  the  French  themselves  are  so 
far  from  giving  into  any  despondence  of  this  kind, 
that  on  the  contrary,  they  admire  the  progress  they 
are  daily  making  in  every  science.  That  levity,  for 
which  we  are  apt  to  despise  this  nation,  is  probably 
the  principal  source  of  their  happiness.  An  agree- 
able oblivion  of  past  pleasures,  a  freedom  from  soli- 
citude about  future  ones,  and  a  poignant  zest  of 
every  present  enjoyment,  if  they  be  not  philosophy, 
are  at  least  excellent  substitutes.  By  this  they  are 
taught  to  regard  the  period  in  which  they  live  with 
admiration.  The  present  manners,  and  the  pre- 
sent conversation,  surpkss  all  that  preceded.  A 
similar  enthusiasm  as  strongly  tinctures  their  learn- 
ing and  their  taste.  While  we,  with  a  despondence 
characteristic  of  our  nature,  are  for  removing  back 
British  excellence  to  the  reign  of  Clueen  Elizabeth, 
oiu"  more  happy  rivals  of  the  continent  cry  up  the 
writers  of  the  present  times  with  rapture,  and  re- 
gard the  age  of  Louis  XV.  as  the  true  Augustan 
age  of  France. 

The  truth  is,  their  present  writers  have  not  fall 
en  so  far  short  of  the  merits  of  their  ancestors  as 
ours  have  done.  That  self-sufiiciency  now  men- 
tioned, may  have  been  of  service  to  them  in  this  par- 
ticular. By  fancying  themselves  superior  to  their 
ancestors,  they  have  been  encouraged  to  enter  the 
lists  with  confidence;  and  by  not  being  dazzled  at 
the  splendour  of  another's  reputation,  have  some- 
times had  sagacity  to  mark  out  an  unbeaten  path  to 
fame  for  themselves. 

Other  causes  also  may  be  assigned,  that  their 
second  growth  of  genius  is  still  more  vigorous  than 
ours.  Their  encouragements  to  merit  are  more 
skilfully  directed,  the  link  of  patronage  and  learn- 
ing still  continues  unbroken.  The  French  nobility 
have  certainly  a  most  pleasing  way  of  satisfying  the 
vanity  of  an  author,  without  indulging  his  avarice. 
A  man  of  literary  merit  is  sure  of  being  caressed  by 
the  great,  though  seldom  enriched.  His  pension 
from  the  crown  just  supplies  half  a  competence, 
and  the  sale  of  his  labours  makes  some  small  addi- 
tion to  his  circumstances.  Thus  the  author  leads 
a  life  of  splendid  poverty,  and  seldom  becomes 
wealthy  or  indolent  enough  to  discontinue  an  ex- 
ertion of  those  abilities  by  which  he  rose.  With 
the  English  it  is  diflferent.  Our  writers  of  rising 
merit  are  generally  neglected,  while  the  few  of  an 
established  reputation  are  overpaid  by  luxurious  af- 
fluence. The  young  encounter  every  hardship 
which  generally  attends  upon  aspiring  indigence ; 
the  old  enjoy  the  vulgar,  and  perhaps  the  more  pru- 
dent, satisfaction,  of  putting  riches  in  competition 
with  fame.     Those  are  often  seen  to  spend  their 


THE  PRE&ENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


131 


youth  in  want  and  obscurity;  these  are  sometimes 
tbund  to  lead  an  old  age  of  indolence  and  avarice. 
But  such  treatment  must  naturally  be  expected  from 
EngUshmen,  whose  national  character  it  is  to  be 
slow  and  cautious  in  making  friends,  but  violent  in 
friendships  once  contracted.  The  English  nobili 
ty,  in  short,  are  often  known  to  give  greater  re- 
wards to  genius  than  the  French,  who,  however, 
I  are  much  more  judicious  in  the  appUcation  of  their 
empty  favours. 

The  fair  sex  in  France  have  also  not  a  little  con- 
tributed to  prevent  the  dechne  of  taste  and  literature, 
by  expecting  such  qualifications  in  their  admirers. 
A  man  of  fashion  at  Paris,  however  contemptible 
we  may  think  him  here,  must  be  acquainted  with 
the  reigning  modes  of  philosophy  as  well  as  of  dress, 
to  be  able  to  entertain  his  mistress  agreeably.  The 
sprightly  pedants  are  not  to  be  caught  by  dumb 
show,  by  the  squeeze  of  the  hand,  or  the  ogling  of 
a  broad  eye;  but  must  be  pursued  at  once  through 
all  the  labyrinths  of  the  Newtonian  system,  or  the 
metaphysics  of  Locke.  I  have  seen  as  bright  a  cir- 
cle of  beauty  at  the  chemical  lectures  of  Rouelle  as 
gracing  the  court  of  Versailles.  And  indeed  wis- 
dom never  appears  so  charming  as  when  graced 
and  protected  by  beauty. 

To  these  advantages  may  be  added,  the  recep- 
tion of  their  language  in  the  different  courts  of  Eu- 
rope. An  author  who  excels  is  sure  of  having  all 
the  polite  for  admirers,  and  is  encouraged  to  write 
by  the  pleasing  expectation  of  universal  fame.  Add 
to  this,  that  those  countries  who  can  make  nothing 
good  from  their  own  language,  have  lately  began 
to  write  in  tliis,  some  of  whose  productions  contri- 
bute to  support  the  present  literary  reputation  of 
France. 

There  are,  therefore,  many  among  the  French 
who  do  honour  to  the  present  age,  and  whose  writ- 
ings will  be  transmitted  to  posterity  with  an  ample 
share  of  fame;  some  of  the  most  celebrated  are  as 
follow : — 

Voltaire,  whose  voluminous,  yet  spirited  produc- 
tions are  too  well  known  to  require  an  eulogy. 
Does  he  not  resemble  the  champion  mentioned  by 
Xenophon,  of  great  reputation  in  all  the  g3rmnastic 
exercises  united,  but  inferior  to  each  champion 
singly,  who  excels  only  in  one  7 

Montesquieu,  a  name  equally  deserving  fame 
with  the  former.  The  Spirit  of  Laws  is  an  instance 
how  much  genius  is  able  to  lead  learning.  His  sys- 
tem has  been  adopted  by  the  literati;  and  yet,  is  it 
not  possible  for  opinions  equally  plausible  to  be 
formed  upon  opposite  principles,  if  a  genius  like 
his  could  be  found  to  attempt  such  an  undertaking? 
He  seems  more  a  poet  than  a  philosopher. 

Rousseau  of  Geneva,  a  professed  man-hater,  or 
more  properly  speaking,  a  philosopher  enraged  with 
one  half  of  mankind,  because  they  unavoidably 
make  the  other  half  unhappy.     Such  sentiments 


are  generally  the  result  of  much  good-nature  and 
httle  experience. 

Piron,  an  author  possessed  of  as  much  wit  as 
any  man  ahve,  yet  with  as  Uttle  prudence  to  turn  it 
to  his  own  advantage.  A  comedy  of  liis,  called 
La  Metromanie,  is  the  best  theatrical  production 
that  has  appeared  of  late  in  Europe.  But  I  know 
not  whether  I  should  most  commend  his  genius  or 
censure  his  obscenity.  His  Ode  d  Priape  has  just- 
ly excluded  him  from  a  place  in  the  academy  of  Bel- 
les-Lettres.  However,  the  good-natured  Montes- 
quieu, by  his  interest,  procured  the  starving  bard  a 
trifling  pension.  His  own  epitaph  was  all  the  re- 
venge he  took  upon  the  academy  for  being  repulsed. 
Ci-git  Piron,  qui  ne  fut  jamais  rien, 
Pas  meme  academicien. 

Crebillon,  junior,  a  writer  of  real  merit,  but  guil- 
ty of  the  same  indelicate  faults  with  the  former. 
Wit  employed  in  dressing  up  obscenity  is  like  the 
art  used  in  painting  a  corpse ;  it  may  be  thus  ren- 
dered tolerable  to  one  sense,  but  fails  not  quickly 
to  offend  some  other. 

Gresset  is  agreeable  and  easy.  His  comedy  call- 
ed the  Mechant,  and  a  humorous  poem  entitled 
Ververt,  have  original  merit.  He  was  bred  a 
Jesuit ;  but  his  wit  procured  his  dismission  from  the 
society.  This  last  work  particularly  could  expect 
no  pardon  from  the  Convent,  being  a  satire  against 
nunneries! 

D' Alembert  has  united  an  extensive  skill  in  sci- 
entifical  learning  with  the  most  refined  taste  for 
the  polite  arts.  His  excellence  in  both  has  procur- 
ed him  a  seat  in  each  academy. 

Diderot  is  an  elegant  writer  and  subtle  reasoner, 
He  is  the  supposed  author  of  the  famous  Thesis 
which  the  abbe  Prade  sustained  before  the  doctors 
of  the  Sorbonne.  It  was  levelled  against  Chris- 
tianity, and  the  Sorbonne  too  hastily  gave  it  their 
sanction.  They  perceived  its  purport,  however, 
when  it  was  too  late.  The  college  was  brought  in- 
to some  contempt,  and  the  abbe  obliged  to  take 
refuge  at  the  court  of  Berlin. 

The  Marquis  D'Argens  attempts  to  add  the 
character  of  a  philosopher  to  the  vices  of  a  debau- 
chee. 

The  catalogue  might  be  increased  with  several 
other  authors  of  merit,  such  as  Marivaux,  Lefranc, 
Saint-Foix,  Destouches,  and  Modonville ;  but  let  it 
suffice  to  say,  that  by  these  the  character  of  the 
present  age  is  tolerably  supported.  Though  their 
poets  seldom  rise  to  fine  enthusiasm,  they  never 
sink  into  absurdity;  though  they  fail  to  astonish, 
they  are  generally  possessed  of  talents  to  please. 

The  age  of  Lotus  XIV,  notwithstanding  these 
respectable  names,  is  still  vastly  superior.  For  be- 
side the  general  tendency  of  critical  corruption, 
which  shall  be  spoken  of  by  and  by,  there  are  other 
symptoms  which  indicate  a  dechne.  There  is,  for 
instance,   a  fondness  of  scepticism,   which  runs 


132 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


through  the  works  of  some  of  their  most  applauded 
writers,  and  which  the  numerous  class  of  their  imi- 
tators have  contributed  to  diffuse.  Nothing  can 
be  a  more  certain  sign  that  genius  is  in  the  wane, 
than  its  being  obliged  to  fly  to  paradox  for  support, 
and  attempting  to  be  erroneously  agreeable.  A 
man  who,  with  all  the  impotence  of  wit,  and  all  the 
eager  desires  of  infidelity,  writes  against  the  religion 
of  his  country,  may  raise  doubts,  but  will  never 
give  conviction ;  all  he  can  do  is  to  render  society 
less  happy  than  he  found  it.  It  was  a  good  man- 
ner which  the  father  of  the  late  poet,  Saint-Foix, 
took  to  reclaim  his  son  from  this  juvenile  error. 
The  young  poet  had  shut  himself  up  for  some  time 
in  his  study ;  and  his  father,  willing  to  know  what 
had  engaged  his  attention  so  closely,  upon  entering 
found  him  busied  in  drawing  up  a  new  system  of 
religion,  and  endeavouring  to  show  the  absurdity 
of  that  already  established.  The  old  man  knew 
by  experience,  that  it  was  useless  to  endeavour  to 
convince  a  vain  young  man  by  right  reason,  so 
only  desired  his  company  up  stairs.  When  come 
into  the  father's  apartment,  he  takes  his  son  by  the 
hand,  and  drawing  back  a  curtain  at  one  end  of 
the  room,  discovered  a  crucifix  exquisitely  painted. 
"  My  son,"  says  he,  "you  desire  to  change  the  re- 
ligion of  your  country, — ^behold  the  fate  of  a  re- 
former." The  truth  is,  vanity  is  more  apt  to  mis- 
guide men  than  false  reasoning.  As  some  would 
rather  be  conspicuous  in  a  mob  than  unnoticed 
even  in  a  privy-council,  so  others  choose  rather  to 
be  foremost  in  the  retinue  of  error  than  follow  in 
the  train  of  truth.  What  influence  the  conduct 
of  such  writers  may  have  on  the  morals  of  a  people, 
is  not  my  business  here  to  determine.  Certain  1 
am,  that  it  has  a  manifest  tendency  to  subvert  the 
literary  merits  of  the  country  in  view.  The  change 
of  reUgion  in  every  nation  has  hitherto  produced 
barbarism  and  ignorance;  and  such  will  be  proba- 
bly its  consequence  in  every  future  period.  For 
when  the  laws  and  opinions  of  society  are  made  to 
clash,  harmony  is  dissolved,  and  all  the  parts  of 
peace  imavoidably  crushed  in  the  encounter. 

The  writers  of  this  country  have  also  of  late 
fallen  into  a  method  of  considering  every  part  of  art 
and  science  as  arising  from  simple  principles.  The 
success  of  Montesquieu,  and  one  or  two  more,  has 
induced  all  the  subordinate  ranks  of  genius  into  vi- 
cious imitation.  To  this  end  they  turn  to  our  view 
that  side  of  the  subject  which  contributes  to  sup- 
port their  hypothesis,  while  the  objections  are  gen- 
erally passed  over  in  silence.  Thus  a  universal 
system  rises  from  a  partial  representation  of  the 
question,  a  whole  is  concluded  from  a  part,  a  book 
appears  entirely  new,  and  the  fancy-built  fabric  is 
styled  for  a  short  time  very  ingenious.  In  this 
manner,  we  have  seen  of  late  almost  every  subject 
in  morals,  natural  history,  politics,  economy,  and 
commerce,  treated.    Subjects  naturally  proceeding 


on  many  principles,  and  some  even  opposite  to 
each  other,  are  all  taught  to  proceed  along  the  line 
of  systematic  simplicity,  and  continue,  like  othci 
agreeable  falsehoods,  extremely  pleasing  till  the;y 
are  detected. 

I  must  still  add  another  fault,  of  a  nature  some 
what  similar  to  the  former.  As  those  above  men- 
tioned, are  for  contracting  a  single  science  into 
system,  so  those  I  am  going  to  speak  of  are  for  ^ 
drawing  up  a  system  of  all  the  sciences  united. 
Such  undertakings  as  these  are  carried  on  by  dif- 
ferent writers  cemented  into  one  body,  and  con- 
curring in  the  same  design  by  the  mediation  of  a 
bookseller.  From  these  inauspicious  combinations 
proceed  those  monsters  of  learning  the  Trevoux, 
Encyclopedies,  and  Bibliotheques  of  the  age.  In 
making  these,  men  of  every  rank  in  literature  are 
employed,  wits  and  dunces  contribute  their  share, 
and  Diderot,  as  well  as  Desmaretz,  are  candidates 
for  oblivion.  The  genius  of  the  first  suppUes  the 
gale  of  favour,  and  the  latter  adds  the  useful  ballast 
of  stupidity.  By  such  means,  the  enormous  mass 
heavily  makes  its  way  among  the  public,  and,  to 
borrow  a  bookseller's  phrase,  the  whole  impression 
moves  off.  These  great  collections  of  learning 
may  serve  to  malie  us  inwardly  repine  at  our  own 
ignorance ;  may  serve,  when  gilt  and  lettered,  to 
adorn  the  lower  shelves  of  a  regidar  library ;  but 
wo  to  the  reader,  who,  not  daunted  at  the  immense 
distance  between  one  great  pasteboard  and  the 
other,  opens  the  volume,  and  explores  his  way 
through  a  region  so  extensive,  but  barren  of  enter 
tainment.  No  unexpected  landscape  there  to  de 
light  the  imagination ;  no  diversity  of  prospect  to 
cheat  the  painful  journey.  He  sees  the  wide  ex- 
tended desert  lie  before  him :  what  is  past,  only  in 
creases  his  terror  of  what  is  to  come.  His  course 
is  not  half  finished ;  he  looks  behind  him  with  af- 
fright, and  forward  with  despair.  Perseverance  is 
at  last  overcome,  and  a  night  of  oblivion  lends  its 
friendly  aid  to  terminate  the  perplexity. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Of  Learning  in  Great  Britain, 
To  acquire  a  character  for  learning  among  the 
English  at  present,  it  is  necessary  to  know  much 
more  than  is  either  important  or  useful.  It  seems 
the  spirit  of  the  times  for  men  here  to  exhaust  their 
natural  sagacity  in  exploring  the  intricacies  of  ano- 
ther man's  thought,  and  thus  never  to  have  leisure 
to  think  for  themselves.  Others  have  carried  &n 
learning  from  that  stage,  where  the  good  sense  of 
our  ancestors  have  thought  it  too  minute  or  too 
speculative  to  instruct  or  amuse.  By  the  industry 
of  such,  the  sciences,  which  in  themselves  ar^  easy 
of  access,  affright  the  learner  with  the  severity  of 
their  appearance.    He  sees  them  surrounded  with 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  POLITE  LEARNING. 


133 


speculation  and  subtlety,  placed  there  by  their  pro- 
fessors, as  if  with  a  view  of  deterring  his  approach 
Hence  it  happens,  that  the  generality  of  readers  fly 
from  the  scholar  to  the  compiler,  who  offers  them 
a  more  safe  and  speedy  conveyance. 

From  this  fault  also  arises  that  mutual  contempt 
between  the  scholar  and  the  man  of  the  world,  of 
which  every  day's  experience  furnishes  instances. 

The  man  of  taste,  however,  stands  neutral  in 
tliis  controversy.  He  seems  placed  in  a  middle  sta- 
tion, between  the  world  and  the  cell,  between  learn 
ing  and  common  sense.  He  teaches  the  vulgar  on 
what  part  of  a  character  to  lay  the  emphasis  of 
praise,  and  the  scholar  where  to  point  his  applica- 
tion so  as  to  deserve  it.  By  his  means,  even  the 
philosopher  acquires  popular  applause,  and  all  that 
are  truly  great  the  admiration  of  posterity.  By 
means  of  polite  learning  alone,  the  patriot  and  the 
hero,  the  man  who  praises  virtue,  and  he  who  prac- 
tises it,  who  fights  successfully  for  his  country,  or 
who  dies  in  its  defence,  becomes  immortal.  But 
this  taste  now  seems  cultivated  with  less  ardour  than 
formerly,  and  consequently  the  public  must  one  day 
expect  to  see  the  advantages  arising  from  it,  and 
the  exquisite  pleasures  it  affords  our  leisure,  en- 
tirely annihilated.  For  if,  as  it  should  seem,  the 
rewards  of  genius  are  improperly  directed;  if  those 
who  are  capable  of  supporting  the  honour  of  the 
times  by  their  writings  prefer  opulence  to  fame;  if 
the  stage  should  be  shut  to  writers  of  merit,  and 
open  only  to  interest  or  intrigue ; — if  such  should 
happen  to  be  the  vile  complexion  of  the  times  (and 
that  it  is  nearly  so  we  shall  shortly  see),  the  very 
virtue  of  the  age  will  be  forgotten  by  posterity,  and 
nothing  remembered,  except  our  filling  a  chasm  in 
the  registers  of  time,  or  having  served  to  continue 
the  species. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Of  re-warding  Genius  in  England. 

There  is  nothing  authors  arc  more  apt  to  lament 
than  want  of  encouragement  from  the  age.  What- 
ever their  differences  in  other  respects,  they  are  all 
ready  to  unite  in  this  complaint,  and  each  indirectly 
offers  himself  as  an  instance  of  the  truth  of  liis  as- 
sertion. 

The  beneficed  divine,  whose  wants  are  only  ima- 
ginary, expostulates  as  bitterly  as  the  poorest  au- 
thor. Should  interest  or  good  fortune  advance  the 
divine  to  a  bishopric,  or  the  poor  son  of  Parnassus 
into  that  place  which  the  other  has  resigned,  both 
are  authors  no  longer ;  the  one  goes  to  prayers  once 
a-day,  kneels  upon  cushions  of  velvet,  and  thanks 
gracious  Heaven  for  having  made  the  circumstances 
of  all  mankind  so  extremely  happy;  the  other  bat- 
tens on  all  the  delicacies  of  life,  enjoys  his  wife  and 


his  easy  chair,  and  sometimes,  for  the  sake  of  con- 
versation, deplores  the  luxury  of  these  degenerate 
days. 

All  encouragements  to  merit  are  therefore  mis- 
applied, which  make  the  author  too  rich  to  con 
tinue  his  profession.  There  can  be  nothing  more 
just  than  the  old  observation,  that  authors,  hke 
running  horses,  should  be  fed  but  not  fattened.  If 
we  would  continue  them  in  our  service,  we  should 
reward  them  with  a  little  money  and  a  great  deal 
of  praise,  still  keeping  their  avarice  subservient  to 
their  ambition.  Not  that  I  think  a  writer  incapa- 
ble of  filling  an  employment  with  dignity :  I  would 
only  insinuate,  that  when  made  a  bishop  or  states- 
man, he  will  continue  to  please  us  as  a  writer  no 
longer;  as,  to  resume  a  former  allusion,  the  nmning 
horse,  when  fattened,  will  still  be  fit  for  very  useful 
purposes,  though  unqualified  for  a  courser. 

No  nation  gives  greater  encouragements  to  learn- 
ing than  we  do ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  none  are  so 
injudicious  in  the  application.  We  seem  to  confer 
them  with  the  same  view  that  statesmen  have  been 
known  to  grant  employments  at  court,  rather  as 
bribes  to  silence  than  incentives  to  emulation. 

Upon  this  principle,  all  our  magnificent  endow- 
ments of  colleges  are  erroneous ;  and  at  best  more 
frequently  enrich  the  prudent  than  reward  the  in- 
genuous. A  lad  whose  passions  are  not  strong 
enough  in  youth  to  mislead  him  from  that  path  of 
science  which  his  tutors,  and  not  his  inclinations,  < 
have  chalked  out,  by  four  or  five  years'  perseverance 
may  probably  obtain  every  advantage  and  honour 
his  college  can  bestow.  I  forget  whether  the  simile 
has  been  used  before,  but  I  would  compare  the  man, 
whose  youth  has  been  thus  passed  in  the  tran- 
quillity of  dispassionate  prudence,  to  liquors  which 
never  ferment,  and  consequently  continue  always 
muddy.  Passions  may  raise  a  commotion  in  the 
youthful  breast,  but  they  disturb  only  to  refine  it. 
However  this  be,  mean  talents  are  often  rewarded 
in  colleges  with  an  easy  subsistence.  The  candi- 
dates for  preferments  of  this  kind  often  regard  their 
admission  as  a  patent  for  future  indolence ;  so  that 
a  life  begun  in  studious  labour  is  often  continued 
in  luxurious  indolence. 

Among  the  universities  abroad,  I  have  ever  ob- 
served their  riches  and  their  learning  in  a  recipro- 
cal proportion,  their  stupidity  and  pride  increasing 
with  their  opulence.  Happening  once,  in  conver- 
sation with  Gaubius  of  Ley  den,  to  mention  the 
college  of  Edinburgh,  he  began  by  complaining, 
that  all  the  English  students  which  formerly  came 
to  his  university  now  went  entirely  there ;  and  the 
fact  surprised  him  more,  as  Leyden  was  now  ass 
well  as  ever  furnished  with  masters  excellent  in 
their  respective  professions.  He  concluded  by  ask- 
ing, if  the  professors  of  Edinburgh  were  rich  1  I 
replied,  that  the  salary  of  a  professor  there  seldom 
amounted  to  more  than  thirty  pounds  a  year.    Poor 


134 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


men,  says  he,  I  heartily  wish  they  were  better  pro 
vided  for ;  until  they  become  rich,  we  can  have  no 
expectation  of  English  students  at  Leyden. 

Premiums  also,  proposed  for  literary  excellence, 
when  given  as  encouragements  to  boys,  may  be 
useful ;  but  when  designed  as  rewards  to  men,  are 
certainly  misapphed.  We  have  seldom  seen  a  per- 
formance of  any  great  merit,  in  consequence  of  re- 
wards proposed  in  this  manner.  Who  has  ever 
observed  a  writer  of  any  eminence  a  candidate  in 
so  precarious  a  contest?  The  man  who  knows  the 
real  value  of  his  own  genius,  will  no  more  venture 
it  upon  an  uncertainty,  than  he  who  knows  the  true 
iise  of  a  guinea  will  stake  it  with  a  sharper. 

Every  encouragement  given  to  stupidity,  when 
known  to  be  such,  is  also  a  negative  insult  upon 
genius.  This  appears  in  nothing  more  evident  thaii 
the  undistinguished  success  of  those  who  solicit  sub- 
scriptions. When  first  brought  into  fashion,  sub- 
scriptions were  conferred  upon  the  ingenious  alone, 
or  those  who  were  reputed  such.  But  at  present, 
we  see  them  made  a  resource  of  indigence,  and  re- 
quested, not  as  rewards  of  merit,  but  as  a  relief  of 
distress.  If  tradesmen  happen  to  want  skill  in  con- 
ducting their  own  business,  yet  they  are  able  to 
write  a  book :  if  mechanics  want  money,  or  ladies 
shame,  they  write  books  and  solicit  subscriptions. 
Scarcely  a  morning  passes,  that  proposals  of  this 
nature  are  not  thrust  into  the  half-opening  doors 
of  the  rich,  with,  perhaps,  a  paltry  petition,  show- 
ing the  author's  wants,  but  not  his  merits.  I  would 
not  willingly  prevent  that  pity  which  is  due  to  in- 
digence ;  but  while  the  streams  of  liberality  are  thus 
diffused,  they  must,  in  the  end,  become  proportiona- 
bly  shallow. 

What  then  are  the  proper  encouragements  of 
genius']  I  answer,  subsistence  and  respect ;  for  these 
are  rewards  congenial  to  its  nature.  Every  animal 
has  an  aliment  peculiarly  suited  to  its  constitution. 
The  heavy  ox  seeks  nourishment  from  earth ;  the 
light  cameleon  has  been  supposed  to  exist  on  air; 
a  sparer  diet  even  than  this  will  satisfy  the  man  of 
true  genius,  for  he  makes  a  luxurious  banquet  upon 
empty  applause.  It  is  this  alone  which  has  in- 
spired all  that  ever  was  truly  great  and  noble  among 
us.  It  is,  as  Cicero  finely  calls  it,  the  echo  of  virtue. 
Avarice  is  the  passion  of  inferior  natures ;  money 
the  pay  of  the  common  herd.  The  author  who 
draws  his  quill  merely  to  take  a  purse,  no  more  de- 
serves success  than  he  who  presents  a  pistol. 

When  the  link  between  patronage  and  learning 
was  entire,  then  all  who  deserved  fame  were  in  a 
capacity  of  attaining  it.  When  the  great  Somers 
was  at  the  helm,  patronage  was  fashionable  among 
our  nobility.  The  middle  ranks  of  mankind,  who 
generally  imitate  the  great,  then  followed  their  ex- 
ample, and  applauded  from  fashion  if  not  from  feel- 
ing.  I  have  heard  an  old  poet*  of  that  glorious  age 


'  Pr.  Young. 


say,  that  a  dinner  with  his  lordship  has  procured 
him  invitations  for  the  whole  week  following;  that 
an  airing  in  his  patron's  chariot  has  supplied  him 
with  a  citizen's  coach  on  every  future  occasion.  For 
who  would  not  be  proud  to  entertain  a  man  who 
kept  so  much  good  company? 

But  this  link  now  seems  entirely  broken.  Since 
the  days  of  a  certain  prime  minister  of  inglorious 
memory,  the  learned  have  been  kept  pretty  much 
at  a  distance.  A  jockey,  or  a  laced  player,  sup- 
plies the  place  of  the  scholar,  poet,  or  the.  man  of 
virtue.  Those  conversations,  once  the  result  of 
wisdom,  wit,  and  innocence,  are  now  turned  to 
humbler  topics,  little  more  being  expected  fronra 
companion  than  a  laced  coat,  a  pliant  bow,  and  an 
immoderate  friendship  for a  well-served  table. 

Wit.  when  neglected  by  the  great,  is  generally 
despised  by  the  vulgar.  Those  who  are  unacquaint- 
ed with  the  world,  are  apt  to  fancy  the  man  of  wit 
as  leading  a  very  agreeable  life.  They  conclude, 
perhaps,  that  he  is  attended  to  with  silent  admira- 
tion, and  dictates  to  the  rest  of  mankind  with  all 
the  eloquence  of  conscious  superiority.  Very  dif- 
ferent is  his  present  situation.  He  is  called  an 
author,  and  all  know  that  an  author  is  a  thing  only 
to  be  laughed  at.  His  person,  not  his  jest,  becomes 
the  mirth  of  the  company.  At  his  approach,  the 
most  fat  unthinking  face  brightens  into  malicious 
meaning.  Even  aldermen  laugh,  and  revenge  on 
him  the  ridicule  which  was  lavished  on  their  fore- 
fathers : 

Etiam  victis  redit  in  praecordia  virtus, 
Victoresque  cadunt. 

It  is  indeed  a  reflection,  somewhat  mortifying  to 
the  author,  who  breaks  his  ranks,  and  singles  out 
for  public  favour,  to  think  that  he  must  combat 
contempt  before  he  can  arrive  at  glory.  That  he 
nmst  expect  to  have  all  the  fools  of  society  united 
against  him,  before  he  can  hope  for  the  applause 
of  the  judicious.  For  this,  however,  he  must  pre- 
pare beforehand;  as  those  who  have  no  idea  of  the 
difficulty  of  his  employment,  will  be  apt  to  regard 
his  inactivity  as  idleness,  and  not  having  a  notion 
of  the  pangs  of  uncomplying  thought  in  themselves, 
it  is  not  to  be  expected  they  should  have  any  de- 
sire of  rew^arding  it  in  others. 

Voltaire  has  finely  described  the  hardships  a 
man  must  encounter  who  writes  for  the  public.  I 
need  make  no  apology  for  the  length  of  the  quota- 
tion. 

"  Your  fate,  ray  dear  Le  Fevre,  is  too  strongly 
marked  to  permit  your  retiring.  The  bee  must 
toil  in  maldng  honey,  the  silk- worm  must  spin,  the 
philosopher  must  dissect  them,  and  you  are  born  to 
sing  of  their  labours.  You  must  be  a  poet  and  a 
scholar,  even  though  your  inclinations  should  re- 
sist :  nature  is  too  strong  for  inclination.  But  hope 
not,  my  friend,  to  find  tranquillity  in  the  employ- 
ment you  are  going  to  pursue.  The  route  of  geniua 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OF  POLITE  LEARNING. 


13i> 


!3  not  less  obstructed  with  disappointment  than 
that  of  ambition. 

"  If  you  have  the  misfortune  not  to  excel  in  your 
profession  as  a  poet,  repentance  must  tincture  all 
your  future  enjoyments:  if  you  succeed  you  make 
enemies.  You  tread  a  narrow  path.  Contempt 
on  one  side,  and  hatred  on  the  other,  are  ready  to 
seize  you  upon  the  slightest  deviation. 

"  But  why  must  I  be  hated,  you  will  perhaps 
reply ;  why  must  I  be  persecuted  for  having  writ- 
ten a  pleasing  poem,  for  having  produced  an  ap- 
plauded tragedy,  or  for  otherwise  instructing  or 
amusing  mankind  or  myself  7 

"  My  dear  friend,  these  very  successes  shall  ren- 
der you  miserable  for  life.  Let  me  suppose  your 
performance  has  merit;  let  me  suppose  you  have 
surmounted  the  teasing  employments  of  printing 
and  publishing;  how  will  you  be  able  to  lull  the 
critics,  who,  Uke  Cerberus,  are  posted  at  all  the 
avenues  of  hterature,  and  who  settle  the  merits  of 
every  new  performance?  How,  I  say,  will  you  be 
able  to  make  them  open  in  your  favour?  There 
are  always  three  or  four  literary  journals  in  France, 
as  many  in  Holland,  each  supporting  opposite  in- 
terests. The  booksellers  who  guide  these  periodi- 
cal compilations,  find  their  account  in  being  severe ; 
the  authors  employed  by  them  have  wretchedness 
to  add  to  their  natural  malignity.  The  majority 
may  be  in  your  favour,  but  you  may  depend  on 
being  torn  by  the  rest.  Loaded  with  unmerited 
scurrility,  perhaps  you  reply;  they  rejoin;  both 
plead  at  the  bar  of  the  public,  and  both  are  con- 
demned to  ridicule. 

"  But  if  you  write  for  the  stage,  your  case  is  still 
more  worthy  compassion.  You  are  there  to  be 
judged  by  men  whom  the  custom  of  the  times  has 
rendered  contemptible.  Irritated  by  their  own  in- 
feriority, they  exert  all  their  little  tyranny  upon 
you,  revenging  upon  the  author  the  insults  they 
receive  from  the  public.  From  such  men,  then, 
you  are  to  expect  your  sentence.  Suppose  your 
piece  admitted,  acted:  one  single  ill-natured  jest 
from  the  pit  is  sufficient  to  cancel  all  your  labours. 
But  allowing  that  it  succeeds.  There  are  a  hun- 
dred squibs  flying  all  abroad  to  prove  that  it  should 
not  have  succeeded.  You  shall  find  your  brightest 
scenes  burlesqued  by  the  ignorant;  and  the  learned, 
who  know  a  little  Greek,  and  nothing  of  their  na- 
tive language,  affect  to  despise  you. 

"  But  perhaps,  with  a  panting  heart,  you  carry 
your  piece  before  a  woman  of  quality.  She  gives 
the  labours  of  your  brain  to  her  maid  to  be  cut  into 
shreds  for  curling  her  hair;  while  the  laced  foot- 
man, who  carries  the  gaudy  Uvery  of  luxury,  in- 
sults your  appearance,  who  bear  the  livery  of  indi- 
gence. 

"  But  granting  your  excellence  has  at  last  forced 
*nvy  to  confess  that  your  works  have  some  merit; 
this  then  is  all  the  reward  you  can  expect  while 


living.  However,  for  this  tribute  of  applause,  you 
must  expect  persecution.  You  will  be  reputed  the 
author  of  scandal  which  you  have  never  seen,  of 
verses  you  despise,  and  of  sentiments  directly  con- 
trary to  your  own.  In  short,  you  must  embark  in 
some  one  party,  or  all  parties  will  be  against  you. 

"  There  are  among  us  a  number  of  learned  so- 
cieties, where  a  lady  presides,  whose  wit  begins  to 
twinkle  when  the  splendour  of  her  beauty  begins 
to  decUne.  One  or  two  men  of  learning  compose 
her  ministers  of  state.  These  must  be  flattered,  or 
made  enemies  by  being  neglected.  Thus,  though 
you  had  the  merit  of  all  antiquity  united  in  yout 
person,  you  grow  old  in  misery  and  disgrace.  Eve 
ry  place  designed  for  men  of  letters  is  filled  up  by 
men  of  intrigue.  Some  nobleman's  private  tutor, 
some  court  flatterer,  shall  bear  away  the  prize,  and 
leave  you  to  anguish  and  to  disappointment." 

Yet  it  were  well  if  none  but  the  dunces  of  socie 
ty  were  combined  to  render  the  profession  of  an 
author  ridiculous  or  unhappy.  Men  of  the  first 
eminence  are  often  found  to  indulge  this  illiberal 
vein  of  raillery.  Two  contending  writers  often,  by 
the  opposition  of  their  wit,  render  their  profession 
contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  ignorant  persons,  who 
should  have  been  taught  to  admire.  And  yet,  what- 
ever the  reader  may  think  of  himself,  it  is  at  least 
two  to  one  but  he  is  a  greater  blockhead  than  the 
most  scribbling  dunce  he  affects  to  despise. 

The  poet's  poverty  is  a  standing  topic  of  con- 
tempt. His  writing  for  bread  is  an  unpardonable 
offence.  Perhaps  of  all  mankind  an  author  in 
these  times  is  used  most  hardly.  We  keep  him 
poor,  and  yet  revile  his  poverty.  Like  angry  pa- 
rents who  correct  their  children  till  they  cry,  and 
then  correct  them  for  crying,  we  reproach  him  for 
living  by  his  wit,  and  yet  allow  him  no  other  means 
to  live. 

His  taking  refuge  in  garrets  and  cellars,  has  of 
late  been  violently  objected  to  him,  and  that  by  men 
who  I  dare  hope  are  more  apt  to  pity  than  insult 
his  distress.  Is  poverty  the  writer's  fault'?  No 
doubt  he  knows  how  to  prefer  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne to  the  nectar  of  the  neighbouring  alehouse, 
or  a  venison  pasty  to  a  plate  of  potatoes.  Want 
of  delicacy  is  not  in  him  but  in  us,  who  deny  him 
the  opportunity  of  making  an  elegant  choice. 

Wit  certainly  is  the  property  of  those  who  have 
it,  nor  should  we  be  displeased  if  it  is  the  only  pro- 
perty a  man  sometimes  has.  We  must  not  under- 
rate him  who  uses  it  for  subsistence,  and  flies  from 
the  ingratitude  of  the  age  even  to  a  bookseller  for 
redress.  If  the  profession  of  an  author  is  to  be 
laughed  at  by  the  stupid,  it  is  certainly  better  to  be 
contemptibly  rich  than  contemptibly  poor.  For  all 
the  wit  that  ever  adorned  the  human  mind,  will  at 
present  no  more  shield  the  author's  poverty  from 
ridicule,  than  his  high-topped  gloves  conceal  the 
unavoi'lable  omissions  of  his  laundress. 


136 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


To  be  more  serious,  new  fashions,  follies,  and 
vices,  make  new  monitors  necessary  in  every  age. 
An  author  may  be  considered  as  a  merciful  sub- 
stitute to  the  legislature.  He  acts  not  by  punishing 
crimes,  but  preventing  them.     However  virtuous 
the  present  age,  there  may  be  still  growing  employ- 
ment for  ridicule  or  reproof,  for  persuasion  or  satire. 
If  the  author  be  therefore  still  so  necessary  among 
us,  let  us  treat  him  with  proper  consideration  as  a 
child  of  the  public,  not  a  rent-charge  on  the  com- 
munity. And  indeed  a  child  of  the  pubUc  he  is  in  all 
respects;  for  while  so  well  able  to  direct  others,  how 
incapable  is  he  frequently  found  of  guiding  himself! 
His  simplicity  exposes  him  to  all  the  insidious  ap- 
proaches of  cunning;  his  sensibility,  to  the  slightest 
invasions  of  contempt.     Though  possessed  of  for- 
titude to  stand  unmoved  the  expected  bursts  of  an 
earthquake,  yet  of  feelings  so  exquisitely  poignant 
•  as  to  agonize  under  the  slightest  disappointment. 
Broken  rest,  tasteless  meals,  and  causeless  anxiety, 
shorten  his  hfe,  or  render  it  unfit  for  active  em- 
ployment: prolonged  vigils  and  intense  application 
still  further  contract  his  span,  and  make  his  time 
glide  insensibly  away.  Let  us  not,  then,  aggravate 
those  natural  inconveniences  by  neglect;  we  have 
had  sufficient  instances  of  this  kind  already.    Sale 
and  Moore  will  suffice  for  one  age  at  least.    But 
they  are  dead,  and  their  sorrows  are  over.     The 
neglected  author  of  the  Persian  eclogues,  which, 
however  inaccurate,  excel  any  in  our  language,  is 
still  alive, — happy,  if  insensible  of  our  neglect,  not 
raging  at  our  ingratitude.*    It  is  enough  that  the 
age  has  already  produced  instances  of  men  press- 
ing foremost  in  the  lists  of  fame,  and  worthy  of  bet- 
ter times;  schooled  by  continued  adversity  into  a 
hatred  of  their  kind;  flying  from  thought  to  drunk- 
enness; jdelding  to  the  united  pressure  of  labour, 
penury,  and  sorrow;  sinking  unheeded,  without 
one  friend  to  drop  a  tear  on  their  unattended  obse- 
quies, and  indebted  to  charity  for  a  grave. 

The  author,  when  unpatronized  by  the  great, 
has  naturally  recourse  to  the  bookseller.  There 
can  not  be  perhaps  imagined  a  combination  more 
prejudicial  to  taste  than  this.  It  is  the  interest  of 
the  one  to  allow  as  little  for  writing,  and  of  the 
other  to  write  as  much  as  possible.  Accordingly, 
tedious  compilations  and  periodical  magazines  are 
the  result  of  their  joint  endeavours.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances, the  author  bids  adieu  to  fame,  writes 
for  bread,  and  for  that  only  imagination  is  seldom 
called  in.  He  sits  down  to  address  the  venal  muse 
with  the  most  phlegmatic  apathy;  and,  as  we  are 
told  of  the  Russians,  courts  his  mistress  by  falling 
asleep  in  her  lap.  His  reputation  never  spreads  in 
a  wider  circle  than  that  of  the  trade,  who  generally 
value  him,  not  for  the  fineness  of  his  compositions, 
but  the  quantity  he  works  off  in  a  given  time. 

A  long  habit  of  wnriting  for  bread  thus  turns  the 


ambition  of  every  author  at  last  into  avarice.  He 
finds  that  he  has  written  many  years,  that  the  pub- 
lic are  scarcely  acquainted  even  with  his  name ;  he 
despairs  of  applause,  and  turns  to  profit  which  in- 
vites him.  He  finds  that  money  procures  all  those 
advantages,  that  respect,  and  that  ease,  which  he 
vainly  expected  from  fame.  Thus  the  man  who, 
under  the  protection  of  the  great,  might  have  done 
honour  to  humanity  when  only  patronized  by  the 
bookseller,  becomes  a  thing  little  superior  to  the 
fellow  who  works  at  the  press. 


■  Our  author  here  alludes  to  the  insanity  of  CoUina. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Of  the  Marks  of  Literary  Decay  in  France  and  England. 

The  faults  already  mentioned  are  such  as  learn- 
ing is  often  found  to  flourish  under;  but  there  is 
one  of  a  much  more  dangerous  nature,  which  has 
begun  to  fix  itself  among  us.  I  mean  criticism, 
which  may  properly  be  called  the  natural  destroyer 
of  poUte  learning.  We  have  seen  that  critics,  or 
those  whose  only  business  is  to  write  books  upon 
other  books,  are  always  more  numerous,  as  learning 
is  moredifl^used;  and  experience  has  shown,  that  in- 
stead of  promoting  its  interest,  which  they  profess 
to  do,  they  generally  injure  it.  This  decay  which 
criticism  produces  may  be  deplored,  but  can  scarcely 
be  remedied,  as  the  man  who  writes  against  the 
critics  is  obliged  to  add  himself  to  the  number. 
Other  depravations  in  the  republic  of  letters,  such 
as  affectation  in  some  popular  writer  leading  others 
into  vicious  imitation;  political  struggles  in  the 
state;  a  depravity  of  morals  among  the  people;  ill- 
directed  encouragement,  or  no  encouragement  from 
the  great, — these  have  been  often  found  to  co-ope- 
rate in  the  decline  of  literature ;  and  it  has  some- 
times declined,  as  in  modern  Italy,  without  them; 
but  an  increase  of  criticism  has  always  portended 
a  decay.  Of  all  misfortunes  therefore  in  the  com- 
monwealth of  letters,  this  of  judging  from  rule, 
and  not  from  feeling,  is  the  most  severe.  At  such 
a  tribunal  no  work  of  original  merit  can  please. 
Sublimity,  if  carried  to  an  exalted  height,  approach- 
es burlesque,  and  humour  sinks  into  vulgarity. 
The  person  w^ho  can  not  feel  may  ridicule  both  as 
such,  and  bring  rules  to  corroborate  his  assertion. 
There  is,  in  short,  no  excellence  in  writing  that 
such  judges  may  not  place  among  the  neighbouring 
defects.  Rules  render  the  reader  more  difficult  to 
be  pleased,  and  abridge  the  author's  power  of  pleas- 
ing. 

If  we  turn  to  either  country,  we  shall  perceive 
evident  symptoms  of  this  natural  decay  beginning 
to  appear.  Upon  a  moderate  calculation,  there 
seems  to  be  as  many  volumes  of  criticism  published 
in  those  countries,  as  of  all  other  kinds  of  polito 
erudition  united.    Paris  sends  forth  not  less  than 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


137 


four  litjcrary  journals  every  month,  the  Annee-Lit- 
teraire  and  the  Feuille  by  Freron,  the  Journal 
Etrangcr  by  the  Chevalier  D'Arc,  and  Le  Mer- 
cure  by  Marmontel.  We  have  tv^ro  literary  reviews 
in  London,  with  critical  newspapers  and  magazines 
without  number.  The  compilers  of  these  resem- 
ble the  commoners  of  Rome ;  they  are  all  for  level- 
ling property,  not  by  increasing  their  own,  but  by 
diminishing  that  of  others.  The  man  who  has  any 
good-nature  in  his  disposition  must,  however,  be 
somewhat  displeased  to  see  distinguished  reputation!? 
often  the  sport  of  ignorance, — to  see  by  one  false 
pleasantry,  the  future  peace  of  a  worthy  man's  life 
disturbed,  and  this  only,  because  he  has  unsuccess- 
fully attempted  to  instruct  or  amuse  us.  Though 
ill-nature  is  far  from  being  wit,  yet  it  is  generally 
laughed  at  as  such.  The  critic  enj  oy s  the  triumph, 
and  ascribes  to  his  parts  what  is  only  due  to  his  ef- 
frontery. I  fire  with  indignation,  when  I  see  per- 
sons wholly  destitute  of  education  and  genius  in- 
dent to  the  press,  and  thus  turn  book-malcers,  adding 
to  the  sin  of  criticism  the  sin  of  ignorance  also ; 
whose  trade  is  a  bad  one,  and  who  are  bad  work- 
men in  the  trade. 

When  I  consider  those  industrious  men  as  in- 
debted to  the  works  of  others  for  a  precarious  sub- 
sistence, when  I  see  them  coming  down  at  stated 
intervals  to  rummage  the  bookseller's  counter  for 
materials  to  work  upon,  it  raises  a  smile  though 
mixed  with  pity.  It  reminds  me  of  an  animal  call- 
ed by  naturalists  the  soldier.  This  little  creature, 
says  the  historian,  is  passionately  fond  of  a  shell, 
but  not  being  supplied  with  one  by  nature,  has  re- 
course to  the  deserted  shell  of  some  other.  I  have 
seen  these  harmless  reptiles,  continues  he,  come 
dovm  once  a-year  from  the  mountains,  rank  and 
file,  cover  the  whole  shore,  and  ply  busily  about, 
each  in  quest  of  a  shell  to  please  it.  Nothing  can 
be  more  amusing  than  their  industry  upon  this  oc- 
casion. One  shell  is  too  big,  another  too  little :  they 
enter  and  keep  possession  sometimes  for  a  good 
while,  until  one  is,  at  last,  found  entirely  to  please. 
When  all  are  thus  properly  equipped,  they  march 
up  again  to  the  mountains,  and  live  in  their  new 
acquisition  till  under  a  necessity  of  changing. 

There  is  indeed  scarcely  an  error  of  which  our 
present  writers  are  guilty,  that  does  not  arise  from 
their  opposing  systems;  there  is  scarcely  an  error 
that  criticism  can  not  be  brouglit  to  excuse.  From 
this  proceeds  the  alik^ted  security  of  our  odes,  the 
tuneless  flow  of  our  blank  verse,  the  pompous  epi- 
thet, laboured  diction,  and  every  other  deviation 
from  common  sense,  which  procures  the  poet  the 
applause  of  the  month :  he  is  praised  by  all,  read 
by  a  few,  and  soon  forgotten. 

There  never  was  an  unbeaten  path  trodden  by 
the  poet  that  the  critic  did  not  endeavour  to  reclaim 
him,  by  calling  his  attempt  innovation.  This  might 
be  instanced  in  Dante,  who  first  followed  nature, 


and  was  persecuted  by  the  critics  as  long  as  he  liv- 
ed. Thus  novelty,  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in 
poetry,  must  be  avoided,  or  the  connoisseur  be  dis- 
pleased. It  is  one  of  the  chief  privileges,  however, 
of  genius,  to  fly  from  the  herd  of  imitators  by  some 
happy  singularity;  for  should  he  stand  still,  his 
heavy  pursuers  will  at  length  certainly  come  up, 
and  fairly  dispute  the  victory. 

The  ingenious  Mr.  Hogarth  used  to  assert,  that 
every  one  except  the  connoisseur  was  a  judge  of 
painting.  The  same  may  be  asserted  of  writing : 
the  public,  in  general,  set  the  whole  piece  in  the 
proper  point  of  view ;  the  critic  lays  his  eye  close 
to  all  its  minuteness,  and  condemns  or  approves  in 
detail.  And  this  may  be  the  reason  why  so  many 
writers  at  present  arc  apt  to  appeal  from  the  tribu- 
nal of  criticism  to  that  of  the  people. 

From  a  desire  in  the  critic,  of  grafting  the  spirit 
of  ancient  languages  upon  the  English,  has  proceed- 
ed, of  late,  several  disagreeable  instances  of  pedant- 
ry. Among  the  number,  I  think  we  may  reckon 
blank  verse.  Nothing  but  the  greatest  sublimity 
of  subject  can  render  such  a  measure  pleasing; 
however,  we  now  see  it  used  upon  the  most  trivial 
occasions.  It  has  particularly  found  its  way  into 
our  didactic  poetry,  and  is  likely  to  bring  that  spe- 
cies of  composition  into  disrepute  for  which  the 
English  are  deservedly  famous. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  writing,  know 
that  our  language  runs  almost  naturally  into  blank 
verse.  The  writers  of  our  novels,  romances,  and 
all  of  this  class  who  have  no  notion  of  style,  natu- 
rally hobble  into  th^s  unharmonious  measure.  If 
rhymes,  therefore,  be  more  difllcult,  for  that  very 
reason  I  would  have  our  poets  write  in  rhyme. 
Such  a  restriction  upon  the  thought  of  a  good  poet, 
often  lifts  and  increases  the  vehemence  of  every 
sentiment ;  for  fancy,  Uke  a  fountain,  plays  high- 
est by  diminishing  the  aperture.  But  rhymes,  it ' 
will  be  said,  are  a  remnant  of  monkish  stupidity, 
an  innovation  upon  the  poetry  of  the  ancients. 
They  are  but  indifferently  acquainted  with  anti- 
quity who  make  the  assertion.  Rh3nnes  are  pro- 
bably of  older  date  than  either  the  Greek  or  Latin 
dactyl  and  spondee.  The  Celtic,  which  is  allowed 
to  be  the  first  language  spoken  in  Europe,  has  ever 
pijeserved  them,  as  we  may  find  in  the  Edda  of  Ice- 
land, and  the  Irish  carols,  still  sung  among  the  ori- 
ginal inhabitants  of  that  island.  Olaus  Wormius 
gives  us  some  of  the  Teutonic  poetry  in  this  way; 
and  Pontoppidan,  bishop  of  Bergen,  some  of  the 
Norwegian.  In  short,  this  jingle  of  sounds  is  al- 
most natural  to  mankind,  at  least  it  is  so  to  our  lan- 
guage, if  we  may  judge  from  many  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  throw  it  off. 

I  should  not  have  employed  so  much  time  in  op- 
posing this  erroneous  innovation,  if  it  were  not  apt 
to  introduce  another  in  its  train ;  I  mean,  a  disgust- 
ing manner  of  solemnity  into  our  poetry ;  and,  as  tho 


138 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


prose  writer  has  been  ever  found  to  follow  the  poet, 
it  must  consequently  banish  in  both  all  that  agreea- 
ble trifling,  which,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  often 
deceives  us  into  instruction.  The  finest  senti- 
ment and  the  most  weighty  truth  may  put  on  a 
pleasant  face,  and  it  is  even  virtuous  to  jest  when 
serious  advice  must  be  disgusting.  But  instead  of 
this,  the  most  trifling  performance  among  us  now 
assumes  all  the  didactic  stiflfness  of  wisdom.  The 
most  diminutive  son  of  fame  or  of  famine  has  his 
tee  and  his  us,  his  Jlrstlys  and  his  secondlys,  as 
methodical  as  if  bound  in  cow-hide,  and  closed  with 
clasps  of  brass.  Were  these  monthly  reviews  and 
magazines  frothy,  pert,  or  absurd,  they  might  find 
some  pardon ;  but  to  be  dull  and  dronish  is  an  en- 
croachment on  the  prerogative  of  a  folio.  These 
things  should  be  considered  as  pills  toffurge  melan- 
choly ;  they  should  be  made  up  in  our  splenetic  cli- 
mate to  be  taken  as  physic,  and  not  so  as  to  be  used 
when  we  take  it. 

However,  by  the  power  of  one  single  monosyl- 
lable, our  critics  have  almost  got  the  victory  over 
humour  amongst  us.  Does  the  poet  paint  the  ab- 
surdities of  the  vulgar,  then  he  is  low ;  does  he  ex- 
aggerate the  features  of  folly,  to  render  it  more 
thoroughly  ridiculous,  he  is  then  very  lore.  In 
short,  they  have  proscribed  the  comic  or  satirical 
muse  from  every  walk  but  high  life,  which,  though 
abounding  in  fools  as  well  as  the  humblest  station, 
is  by  no  means  so  fruitful  in  absurdity.  Among 
well-bred  fools  we  may  despise  much,  but  have  lit- 
tle to  laugh  at ;  nature  seems  to  present  us  with  a 
universal  blank  of  silk,  ribands,  smiles,  and  whis- 
pers. Absurdity  is  the  poet's  game,  and  good- 
breeding  is  the  nice  concealment  of  absurdities. 
The  truth  is,  the  critic  generally  mistakes  hu- 
mour for  wit,  which  is  a  very  different  excellence. 
Wit  raises  human  nature  above  its  level ;  humour 
acts  a  contrary  part,  and  equally  depresses  it.  To 
expect  exalted  humour  is  a  contradiction  in  terms ; 
and  the  critic,  by  demanding  an  impossibility  from 
the  comic  poet,  has,  in  effect,  banished  new  comedy 
from  the  stage.  But  to  put  the  same  thought  in 
a  different  light,  when  an  unexpected  similitude  in 
two  objects  strikes  the  imagination;  in  other  words, 
when  a  thing  is  wittily  expressed,  all  our  pleasure 
turns  into  admiration  of  the  artist,  who  had  fancy 
enough  to  draw  the  picture.  When  a  thing  is 
humorously  described,  our  burst  of  laughter  pro- 
ceeds from  a  very  different  cause ;  we  compare  the 
absurdity  of  the  character  represented  with  our  own, 
and  triumph  in  our  conscious  superiority.  No  na- 
tural defect  can  be  a  cause  of  laughter,  because  it 
is  a  misfortune  to  which  ourselves  are  liable.  A 
defect  of  this  kind  changes  the  passion  into  pity  or 
horror.  We  only  laugh  at  those  instances  of  mo- 
ral absurdity,  to  which  we  are  conscious  we  our 
selves  are  not  liable.  For  instance,  should  I  de 
scribe  a  man  as  wanting  his  nose,  there  is  no  hu 


mour  in  this,  as  it  is  an  accident  to  which  human 
nature  is  subject,  and  may  be  any  man's  case :  but 
should  I  represent  this  man  without  his  nose  as 
extremely  curious  in  the  choice  of  his  snuff-box, 
we  here  see  him  guilty  of  an  absurdity  of  which 
we  imagine  it  impossible  for  ourselves  to  be  guilty, 
and  therefore  applaud  our  own  good  sense  on  the 
comparison.  Thus,  then,  the  pleasure  we  receive 
from  wit  turns  to  the  admiration  of  another ;  that 
which  we  feel  from  humour,  centres  in  the  admi- 
ration of  ourselves.  The  poet,  therefore,  must 
place  the  object  he  would  have  the  subject  of  hu- 
mour in  a  state  of  inferiority ;  in  other  words,  the 
subject  of  humour  must  be  low. 

The  solemnity  worn  by  many  of  our  modern 
writers,  is,  I  fear,  often  the  mask  of  dulness ;  for 
certain  it  is,  it  seems  to  fit  every  author  who  pleases 
to  put  it  on.  By  the  complexion  of  many  of  our 
late  publications,  one  might  be  apt  to  cry  out  with 
Cicero,  Civem  mehercule  non  puto  esse  qui  his 
tenvporibus  rider e  pass  it :  on  my  conscience,  I  be- 
lieve we  have  all  forgot  to  laugh  in  these  days.  Such 
writers  probably  make  no  distinction  between  what 
is  praised  and  what  is  pleasing:  between  those  com- 
mendations which  the  reader  pays  his  own  discern- 
ment, and  those  which  are  the  genuine  result  of 
his  sensations.  It  were  to  be  wished,  therefore, 
that  we  no  longer  found  pleasure  with  the  inflated 
style  that  has  for  some  years  been  looked  upon 
as  fine  writing,  and  which  every  young  writer  is 
now  obliged  to  adopt,  if  he  chooses  to  be  read.  We 
should  now  dispense  with  loaded  epithet  and  dress- 
ing up  trifles  with  dignity.  For,  to  use  an  obvi- 
ous instance,  it  is  not  those  who  make  the  greatest 
noise  with  their  wares  in  the  streets  that  have  most 
to  sell.  Let  us,  instead  of  writing  finely,  try  to 
write  naturally ;  not  hunt  after  lofty  expressions  to 
deliver  mean  ideas,  nor  be  for  ever  gaping,  when 
we  only  mean  to  deliver  a  whisper. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Of  the  Stage. 

Our  theatre  has  been  generally  confessed  to 
share  in  this  general  decline,  though  partaking  of 
the  show  and  decoration  of  the  Italian  opera  with 
the  propriety  and  declamation  of  French  perform- 
ance. The  stage  also  is  more  magnificent  with  ua 
than  any  other  in  Europe,  and  the  people  in  gene- 
ral fonder  of  theatrical  entertainment.  Yet  still,  as 
our  pleasures,  as  well  as  more  important  concerns, 
are  generally  managed  by  party,  the  stage  has  felt 
its  influence.  The  managers,  and  all  who  espouse 
their  side,  are  for  decoration  and  ornament;  the 
critic,  and  all  who  have  studied  French  decorum, 
are  for  regularity  and  declamation.  Thus  it  is  al- 
most impossible  to  please  both  parties ;  and  the  po- 
et, by  attempting  :t,  finds  himself  often  incapable  of 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


139 


pleasing  either.  If  he  introduces  stage  pora?),  the 
critic  consigns  his  performance  to  the  vulgar;  if  he 
indulges  in  recital  and  simplicity,  it  is  accused  of 
insipidity,  or  dry  affectation. 

From  the  nature,  therefore,  of  our  theatre,  and 
the  genius  of  our  country,  it  is  extremely  difficult 
for  a  dramatic  poet  to  please  his  audience.  But 
happy  would  he  be,  were  these  the  only  difficulties 
he  had  to  encounter;  there  are  many  other  more 
dangerous  combinations  against  the  little  wit  of  the 
age.  Our  poet's  performance  must  undergo  a  pro- 
cess truly  chemical  before  it  is  presented  to  the  pub- 
lic. It  must  be  tried  in  the  manager's  fire,  strain- 
ed through  a  licenser,  suffer  from  repeated  correc- 
tions, till  it  may  be  a  mere  caput  mortuum  when  it 
arrives  before  the  public. 

The  success,  however,  of  pieces  upon  the  stage 
would  be  of  httle  moment,  did  it  not  influence  the 
success  of  the  same  piece  in  the  closet.  Nay,  I 
think  it  would  be  more  for  the  interests  of  virtue, 
if  stage  performances  were  read,  not  acted ;  made 
rather  our  companions  in  the  cabinet  than  on  the 
theatre.  While  we  are  readers,  every  moral  senti- 
ment strikes  us  in  all  its  beauty,  but  the  love  scenes 
are  frigid,  tawdry,  and  disgusting.  When  we  are 
spectators,  all  the  persuasives  to  vice  receive  ai?  ad- 
ditional lustre.  The  love  scene  is  aggravated,  the 
obscenity  heightened,  the  best  actors  figure  in  the 
most  debauched  characters,  while  the  parts  of  mo- 
rality, as  they  are  called,  are  thrown  to  some  mouth- 
ing machine,  who  puts  even  virtue  out  of  counte 
nance  by  his  wretched  imitation. 

But  whatever  be  the  incentives  to  vice  which  are 
found  at  the  theatre,  public  pleasures  are  generally 
less  guilty  than  solitary  ones.  To  make  our  soli- 
tary satisfactions  truly  innocent,  the  actor  is  useful, 
as  by  his  means  the  poet's  work  makes  its  way 
from  the  stage  to  the  closet;  for  all  must  allow,  that 
the  reader  receives  more  benefit  by  perusing  a  well- 
written  play,  than  by  seeing  it  acted. 

But  how  is  this  rule  inverted  on  our  theatres  at 
presenf?  Old  pieces  are  revived,  and  scarcely  any 
new  ones  admitted.  The  actor  is  ever  in  our  eye, 
and  the  poet  seldom  permitted  to  appear;  the  pub- 
lic are  again  obliged  to  ruminate  over  those  hashes 
of  absurdity,  which  were  disgusting  to  our  ances- 
tors even  in  an  age  of  ignorance;  and  the  stage,  in- 
stead of  serving  the  people,  is  made  subservient  to 
the  interests  of  avarice. 

We  seem  to  be  pretty  much  in  the  situation  of 
travellers  at  a  Scotch  inn; — ^vile  entertainment  is 
served  up,  complained  of,  and  sent  down;  up  comes 
worse,  and  that  also  is  changed;  and  every  change 
makes  our  wretched  cheer  more  unsavoury.  What 
must  be  done  ?  only  sit  down  contented,  cry  up  all 
that  comes  before  us,  and  admire  even  the  absurdi- 
■ties  of  Shakspeare. 

Let  the  reader  suspend  his  censure.  I  admire 
the  beauties  of  this  great  father  of  our  stage  as 


much  as  they  deserve,  but  could  wish,  for  the  hon- 
our of  our  country,  and  for  his  honour  too,  that 
many  of  his  scenes  were  forgotten.  A  man  blind 
of  one  eye  should  always  be  painted  in  profile.  Let 
the  spectator,  who  assists  at  any  of  these  newly-re- 
vived pieces,  only  ask  himself  whether  he  would 
approve  such  a  performance  if  written  by  a  modern 
poet?  I  fear  he  will  find  that  much  of  his  applause 
proceeds  merely  from  the  sound  of  a  name,  and  an 
empty  veneration  for  antiquity.  In  fact,  the  revi- 
val of  those  pieces  of  forced  humour,  far-fetched 
conceit,  and  unnatural  hyperbole,  which  have  been 
ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  is  rather  gibbeting  than 
raising  a  statue  to  his  memory ;  it  is  rather  a  trick 
to  the  actor,  who  thinks  it  safest  acting  in  exagge- 
rated characters,  and  who,  by  outstepping  nature, 
chooses  to  exhibit  the  ridiculous  outre  of  a  harle- 
quin under  the  sanction  of  that  venerable  name. 

What  strange  vamped  comedies,  farcical  trage- 
dies, or  what  shall  I  call  them,  speaking  panto- 
mimes, have  we  not  of  late  seen?  No  matter  what 
the  play  may  be,  it  is  the  actor  who  draws  an  audi- 
ence. He  throws  hfe  into  all ;  all  are  in  spirits  and 
merry,  in  at  one  door  and  out  at  another;  the 
spectator,  in  a  fool's  paradise,  knows  not  what  all 
this  means,  till  the  last  act  concludes  in  matrimo- 
ny. The  piece  pleases  our  critics,  because  it  talks 
old  English;  and  it  pleases  the  galleries,  because  it 
has  ribaldry.  True  taste  or  even  common  sense 
are  out  of  the  question. 

But  great  art  must  be  sometimes  used  before  they 
can  thus  impose  upon  the  public.  To  this  purpose, 
a  prologue  written  with  some  spirit  generally  pre- 
cedes the  piece,  to  inform  us  that  it  was  composed 
by  Shakspeare,  or  old  Ben,  or  somebody  else  who 
took  them  for  his  model.  A  face  of  iron  could  not 
have  the  assurance  to  avow  dislike;  the  theatre  has 
its  partisans  who  understand  the  force  of  combina- 
tions, trained  up  to  vociferation,  clapping  of  hands 
and  clattering  of  sticks :  and  though  a  man  might 
have  strength  sufficient  to  overcome  a  lion  in  sin- 
gle combat,  he  may  run  the  risk  of  being  devoured 
by  an  army  of  ants. 

I  am  not  insensible,  that  third  nights  are  disa- 
greeable drawbacks  upon  the  annual  profits  of 
the  stage.  I  am  confident  it  is  much  more  to  the 
manager's  advantage  to  furbish  up  all  the  lumber 
which  the  good  sense  of  our  ancestors,  but  for  his 
care,  had  consigned  to  oblivion.  It  is  not  with  him, 
therefore,  but  with  the  public  I  would  expostulate; 
they  have  a  right  to  demand  respect,  and  surely 
those  newly-revived  plays  are  no  instances  of  the 
manager's  deference. 

I  have  been  informed  that  no  new  play  can  ho 
admitted  upon  our  theatres  unless  the  author 
chooses  to  wait  some  years,  or,  to  use  the  phrase  in 
fashion,  till  it  comes  to  be  played  in  turn.  A  poet 
thus  can  never  expect  to  contract  a  familiarity  with 
the  stage,  by  which  alone  he  can  hope  \p  succeed; 


140 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


nor  can  the  most  signal  success  relieve  immediate 
want.  Our  Saxon  ancestors  had  but  one  name  for 
wit  and  witch.  I  will  not  dispute  the  propriety  of 
uniting  those  characters  then,  but  the  man  who, 
under  the  present  discouragements,  ventures  to 
write  for  the  stage,  whatever  claim  he  may  have  to 
the  appellation  of  a  wit,  at  least  he  has  no  right  to 
be  called  a  conjuror. 

From  all  that  has  been  said  upon  the  state  of  our 
theatre,  we  may  easily  foresee  whether  it  is  likely 
to  improve  or  decline;  and  whether  the  free-born 
muse  can  bear  to  submit  to  those  restrictions  which 
avarice  or  power  would  impose.  For  the  future, 
it  is  somewhat  unlikely,  that  he  whose  labours  are 
valuable,  or  who  knows  their  value,  will  turn  to  the 
stage  for  either  fame  or  subsistence,  when  he  must 
at  once  flatter  an  actor  and  please  an  audience. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

On  Universities. 

Instead  of  losing  myself  in  a  subject  of  such 
extent,  I  shall  only  offer  a  few  thoughts  as  they 
occur,  and  leave  their  connexion  to  the  reader. 

We  seem  divided,  whether  an  education  formed 
by  travelling  or  by  a  sedentary  life  be  preferable. 
We  see  more  of  the  world  by  travel,  but  more  of 
human  nature  by  remaining  at  home;  as  in  an  in- 
firmary, the  student  who  only  attends  to  the  disor- 
ders of  a  few  patients,  is  more  likely  to  understand 
his  profession  than  he  who  indiscriminately  exam- 
ines them  all. 

A  youth  just  landed  at  the  Brille  resembles  a 
clown  at  a  puppet-show;  carries  his  amazement 
from  one  miracle  to  another;  from  this  cabinet  of 
curiosities  to  that  collection  of  pictures :  but  won- 
dering is  not  the  way  to  grow  wise. 

Whatever  resolutions  we  set  ourselves,  not  to 
keep  company  with  our  countrymen  abroad,  we 
shall  find  them  broken  when  once  we  leave  home. 
Among  strangers  we  consider  ourselves  as  in  a 
solitude,  and  it  is  but  natural  to  desire  society. 

In  all  the  great  towns  of  Europe  there  are  to  be 
found  Englishmen  residing  either  from  interest  or 
choice.  These  generally  lead  a  life  of  continued 
debauchery.  Such  are  the  countrymen  a  traveller 
is  likely  to  meet  with. 

This  may  be  the  reason  why  Englishmen  are  all 
thought  to  be  mad  or  melancholy  by  the  vulgar 
abroad.  Their  money  is  giddily  and  merrily  spent 
among  sharpers  of  their  own  country ;  and  when 
that  is  gone,  of  all  nations  the  English  bear  worst 
that  disorder  called  the  maladie  de  poche. 

Countries  wear  very  different  appearances  to 
travellers  of  different  circumstances.  A  man  who 
is  whhrlei  through  Europe  in  a  post-chaise,  and  the 


pilgrim,  who  walks  the  grand  tour  on  foot,  will 
form  very  different  conclusions.* 

To  see  Europe  with  advantage,  a  man  should 
appear  in  various  circumstances  of  fortune,  but  the 
experiment  would  be  too  dangerous  for  young  men. 

There  are  many  things  relative  to  other  coun- 
tries which  can  he  learned  to  more  advantage  at 
home;  their  laws  and  policies  are  among  the 
number. 

The  greatest  advantages  which  result  to  youth 
from  travel,  are  an  easy  address,  the  shaking  off 
national  prejudices,  and  the  finding  nothing  ridicu- 
lous in  national  peculiarities. 

The  time  spent  in  these  acquisitions  could  have 
been  more  usefully  employed  at  home.  An  edu- 
cation in  a  college  seems  therefore  preferable. 

We  attribute  to  universities  either  too  much  or 
too  little.  Some  assert  that  they  are  the  only 
proper  places  to  advance  learning;  wliile  others 
deny  even  their  utility  in  forming  an  education. 
Both  are  erroneous. 

Learning  is  most  advanced  in  populous  cities, 
where  chance  often  conspires  with  industry  to  pro- 
mote it :  where  the  members  of  this  large  univer 
sity,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  catch  manners  as  they  rise, 
study  life  not  logic,  and  have  th6  world  for  corres- 
pondents. 

The  greatest  number  of  universities  have  ever 
been  founded  in  times  of  the  greatest  ignorance. 

New  improvements  in  learning  are  seldom 
adopted  in  colleges  until  admitted  every  where 
else.  And  this  is  right;  we  should  always  be 
cautious  of  teaching  the  rising  generation  uncer- 
tainties for  truth.  Thus,  though  the  professors  in 
universities  have  been  too  frequently  found  to  op- 
pose the  advancement  of  learning ;  yet  when  onco 
established,  they  are  the  properest  persons  to  dif- 
fuse it. 

There  is  more  knowledge  to  be  acquired  from 
one  page  of  the  volume  of  mankind,  if  the  scholar 
only  knows  how  to  read,  than  in  volumes  of  anti- 
quity. We  grow  learned,  not  wise,  by  too  long  a 
continuance  at  college. 

This  points  out  the  time  at  which  we  should 
leave  the  university.  Perhaps  the  age  of  twenty- 
one,  when  at  our  universities  the  first  degree  is 
generally  taken,  is  the  proper  period. 

The  universities  of  Europe  may  be  divided  into 
three  classes.  Those  upon  the  old  scholastic  es- 
tablishment, where  the  pupils  are  immured,  talk 
nothing  but  Latin,  and  support  every  day  syllo- 
gistical  disputations  in  school  philosophy.  Would 
not  one  be  apt  to  imagine  this  was  the  proper  edu- 
cation to  make  a  man  a  fool?  Such  are  the  uni- 
versities of  Prague,  Louvain,  and  Padua.  The 
second  is,  where  the  pupils  are  under  few  rcstric- 


*  In  the  first  edition  our  author  added,  Hand  inexpertus 
loquor;  far  he  travelled  through  France  etc.  on  fbot. 


THE  PRESENT  STATE  OP  POLITE  LEARNING. 


141 


tions,  where  all  scholastic  jargon  is  banished,  where 
they  take  a  degree  when  they  think  proper,  and 
live  not  m  the  college  but  the  city.  Such  are  Ed 
inburgh,  Leyden,  Gottingen,  Geneva.  The  third 
is  a  mixture  of  the  two  former,  where  the  pupils  are 
restrained  but  not  confined ;  where  many,  though 
not  all  of  the  absurdities  of  scholastic  philosophy 
are  suppressed,  and  where  the  first  degree  is  taken 
after  four  years'  matriculation.  Such  are  Oxford, 
Cambridge,  and  Dublin. 

As  for  the  first  class,  their  absurdities  are  too  ap- 
parent to  admit  of  a  parallel.  It  is  disputed  which 
of  the  two  last  are  more  conducive  U>  national  im- 
provement. 

Skill  in  the  professions  is  acquired  more  by  prac- 
tice than  study;  two  or  three  years  may  be  suffi- 
cient for  learning  their  rudiments.  The  universi- 
ties of  Edinburgh,  etc.  grant  a  license  for  practising 
them  when  the  student  thinks  proper,  which  our 
universities  refuse  till  after  a  residence  of  several 
years. 

The  dignity  of  the  professions  may  be  supported 
by  this  dilatory  proceeding ;  but  many  men  of  learn- 
ing are  thus  too  long  excluded  from  the  lucrative 
advantages  wliich  superior  skill  has  a  right  to  ex- 
pect. 

Those  universities  must  certainly  be  most  fre- 
quented wliich  promise  to  give  in  two  years  the 
advantages  which  others  will  not  under  twelve. 

The  man  who  has  studied  a  profession  for  three 
years,  and  practised  it  for  nine  more,  will  certainly 
know  more  of  liis  business  than  he  who  has  only 
studied  it  for  twelve. 

The  universities  of  Edinburgh,  etc.  must  certain- 
ly be  most  proper  for  the  study  of  those  professions 
in  which  men  choose  to  turn  their  learning  to  pro- 
fit as  soon  as  possible. 

The  universities  of  Oxford,  etc.  are  improper  for 
this,  ^mce  they  keep  the  student  from  the  world, 
which,  after  a  certain  time,  is  the  only  true  school 
of  improvement. 

When  a  degree  in  the  professions  can  be  taken 
only  by  men  of  independent  fortunes,  the  number 
of  candidates  in  learning  is  lessened,  and  conse- 
quently the  advancement  of  learning  retarded. 

This  slowness  of  conferring  degrees  is  a  rem- 
nant of  scholastic  barbarity.  Paris,  Louvain,  and 
those  universities  which  still  retain  their  ancient 
institutions,  confer  the  doctor's  degree  slower  even 
than  we. 

The  statues  of  every  university  should  be  consi- 
dered as  adapted  to  the  laws  of  its  respective  gov- 
ernment. Those  should  alter  as  these  happen  to 
fluctuate. 

Four  years  spent  in  the  arts  (as  they  are  called 
in  colleges)  is  perhaps  laying  too  laborious  a  foun- 
dation. Entering  a  profession  without  any  previ- 
ous acquisitions  of  this  kind,  is  building  too  bold  a 
Buperstructure. 


Teaching  by  lecture,  as  at  Edinburgh,  may  rnako 
men  scholars,  if  they  think  proper;  but  instructing 
by  examination,  as  at  Oxford,  will  make  them  so 
often  against  their  inclination. 

Edinburgh  only  disposes  the  student  to  receive 
learning;  Oxford  often  makes  him  actually  learn- 
ed. 

In  a  word,  were  I  poor,  I  should  send  my  son  to 
Leyderi  or  Edinburgh,  though  the  annual  expense 
in  each,  particularly  in  the  first,  is  very  great 
Were  1  rich,  I  would  send  him  to  one  of  our  own 
universities.  By  an  education  received  in  the  firs^ 
he  has  the  best  likeUhood  of  living;  by  that  receiv- 
ed in  the  latter,  he  has  the  best  chance  of  becoming 
great. 

We  have  of  late  heard  much  of  the  necessity  of 
studying  oratory.  Vespasian  was  the  first  who 
paid  professors  of  rhetoric  for  pubhcly  instructing 
youth  at  Rome.  However,  those  pedants  never 
made  an  orator. 

The  best  orations  that  ever  were  spoken  were 
pronounced  in  the  parliaments  of  King  Charles  the 
First.  These  men  never  studied  the  rules  of  ora- 
tory. 

Mathematics  are,  perhaps,  too  much  studied  at 
our  universities.  This  seems  a  science  to  which 
the  meanest  intellects  are  equal.  I  forget  who  it 
is  that  says,  "All  men  might  understand  mathe- 
matics if  they  would.'' 

The  most  methodical  manner  of  lecturing,  whe- 
ther on  morals  or  nature,  is  first  rationally  to  ex- 
plain, and  then  produce  the  experiment.  The 
most  instructive  method  is  to  show  the  experiment 
first;  curiosity  is  then  excited,  and  attention  awa- 
kened to  every  subsequent  deduction.  Hence  it  is 
^evident,  that  in  a  well  formed  education  a  course 
of  history  should  ever  precede  a  course  of  ethics. 

The  sons  of  our  nobility  are  permitted  to  enjoy 
greater  liberties  in  our  ujaiversities  than  those  of 
private  men.  I  should  blush  to  ask  the  men  of 
learning  and  virtue  who  preside  in  our  seminaries 
the  reason  of  such  a  prejudicial  distinction.  OuJ 
youth  should  there  be  inspired  with  a  love  of  phi- 
losophy; and  the  first  maxim  among  philosophers 
is,  That  merit  only  makes  distinction. 

Whence  has  proceeded  the  vain  magnificence  of 
expensive  architecture  in  our  collegesi  Is  it  that 
men  study  to  more  advantage  in  a  palace  than  in  a 
cell?  One  single  performance  of  taste  or  genius 
confers  more  real  honours  on  its  parent  university 
than  all  the  labours  of  the  chisel. 

Surely  pride  itself  has  dictated  to  the  fellows  of 
our  colleges  the  absurd  passion  of  being  attended  at 
meals,  and  on  other  pubUc  occasions,  by  those  poor 
men,  who,  willing  to  be  scholars,  come  in  upon 
some  charitable  foundation.  It  impUes  a  contra- 
diction, for  men  to  be  at  once  learning  the  liberal 
arts,  and  at  the  same  time  treated  as  slaves  j  at  once 
studying  freedom,  and  practising  servitude. 


142 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  Conclusion. 

Every  subject  acquires  an  adventitious  import- 
ance to  him  who  considers  it  with  application.  He 
finds  it  more  closely  connected  with  human  happi- 
ness than  the  rest  of  mankind  are  apt  to  allow;  he 
sees  consequences  resulting  from  it  which  do  not 
strike  others  with  equal  conviction ;  and  still  pursuing 
speculation  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason,  too  fre- 
quently becomes  ridiculously  earnest  in  trifles  or 
absurdity. 

It  will  perhaps  be  incurring  this  imputation,  to 
deduce  a  universal  degeneracy  of  manners  from  so 
slight  an  origin  as  the  depravation  of  taste ;  to  as- 
sert that,  as  a  nation  grows  dull,  it  sinks  into  de- 
bauchery. Yet  such  probably  may  be  the  conse- 
quence of  literary  decay;  or,  not  to  stretch  the 
thought  beyond  what  it  will  bear,  vice  and  stupidity 
are  always  mutually  productive  of  each  other. 

Life,  at  the  greatest  and  best,  has  been  compared 
to  a  froward  child,  that  must  be  humoured  and 
played  with  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  care 
is  over.  Our  few  years  are  laboured  away  in  va- 
rying its  pleasures;  new  amusements  are  pursued 
with  studious  attention;  the  most  childish  vanities 
are  dignified  with  titles  of  importance;  and  the 
proudest  boast  of  the  most  aspiring  philosopher  is 
no  more,  than  that  he  provides  his  httle  play-fellows 
the  greatest  pastime  with  the  greatest  innocence. 

Thus  the  mind,  ever  wandering  after  amuse- 
ment, when  abridged  of  happiness  on  one  part, 
endeavours  to  find  it  on  another;  when  intellectual 
pleasures  are  disagreeable,  those  of  sense  will  take 
the  kad.  The  man  who  in  this  age  is  enamoured 
of  the  tranquil  joys  of  study  and  retirement,  may 
in  the  next,  should  learning  be  fashionable  no  long- 
er, feel  an  ambition  of  being  foremost  at  a  horse- 
course;  or,  if  such  could  be  the  absurdity  of  the 
times,  of  being  himself  a  jockey.  Reason  and  ap- 
petite are  therefore  masters  of  our  revels  in  turn; 
and  as  we  incline  to  the  one,  or  pursue  the  other, 
we  rival  angels,  or  imitate  the  brutes.  In  the  pur- 
suit of  intellectual  pleasure  lies  every  virtue;  of 
sensual,  every  vice. 


It  is  this  difference  of  pursuit  which  marks  the 
morals  and  characters  of  mankind;  which  lays  the 
line  between  the  enUghtened  philosopher  and  the 
half-taught  citizen;  between  the  civil  citizen  and 
illiterate  peasant;  between  the  law-obeying  peasant 
and  the  wandering  savage  of  Africa,  an  animal  less 
mischievous  indeed  than  the  tiger,  because  endued 
with  fewer  powers  of  doing  mischief.  The  man, 
the  nation,  must  therefore  be  good,  whose  chiefest 
luxuries  consist  in  the  refinement  of  reason;  and 
reason  can  never  be  universally  cultivated,  unless 
guided  by  taste,  which  may  be  considered  as  the 
Imk  between  science  and  common  sense,  the  medi- 
um through  which  learning  should  ever  be  seen  by 
society. 

Taste  will  therefore  often  be  a  proper  standard, 
when  others  fail,  to  judge  of  a  nation's  improve- 
ment or  degeneracy  in  morals.  We  have  often  no 
permanent  characteristics,  by  which  to  compare 
the  virtues  or  the  vices  of  oin*  ancestors  with  our 
own.  A  generation  may  rise  and  pass  away  with- 
out leaving  any  traces  of  what  it  really  was;  and 
all  complaints  of  our  deterioration  may  be  only 
topics  of  declamation  or  the  cavillings  of  disappoint- 
ment: but  in  taste  we  have  standing  evidence;  we 
can  with  precision  compare  the  literary  performanr 
ces  of  our  fathers  with  our  own,  and  from  their  ex- 
cellence or  defects  determine  the  moral,  as  well  as 
the  literary,  merits  of  either. 

If,  then,  there  ever  comes  a  time  when  taste  is 
so  far  depraved  among  us  that  critics  shall  load 
every  work  of  genius  with  unnecessary  comment, 
and  quarter  their  empty  performances  with  the 
substantial  merits  of  an  author,  both  for  subsistence 
and  applause ;  if  there  comes  a  time  when  censure 
shall  speak  in  storms,  but  praise  be  whispered  in 
the  breeze,  while  real  excellence  often  finds  ship- 
wreck in  either;  if  there  be  a  time  when  the  Muse 
shall  seldom  be  heard,  except  in  plaintive  elegy,  as- 
if  she  wept  her  own  decUne,  while  lazy  compilations 
supply  the  place  of  original  thinking;  should  there 
ever  be  such  a  time,  may  succeeding  critics,  both 
for  the  honour  of  our  morals,  as  well  as  our  learn- 
ing, say,  that  such  a  period  bears  no  resemblance 
to  the  present  age  I 


POEMS. 


A  PROLOGUE, 

Written  and  spoken  by  the  Poet  Laberius,  a  Ro- 
man Knight,  whom  Ccesar  forced  upon  the 
stage.    Preserved  by  Macrobius* 

What  !  no  way  left  to  shun  th'  inglorious  stage, 
And  save  from  infamy  my  sinking  age ! 
Scarce  half  alive,  opprest  with  many  a  year, 
What  in  the  name  of  dotage  drives  me  here? 
A  time  there  was,  when  glory  was  my  guide. 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  could  turn  my  steps  aside; 
Una  wed  by  power,  and  unappall'd  by  fear, 
With  honest  thrift  I  held  my  honour  dear: 
But  this  vile  hour  disperses  all  my  store, 
And  all  my  hoard  of  honour  is  no  more; 
For  ah!  too  partial  to  my  life's  decUne, 
Cajsar  persuades,  submission  must  be  mine; 
Him  I  obey,  whom  heaven  itself  obeys, 
Hopeless  of  pleasing,  yet  inclined  to  please. 
Here  then  at  once  I  welcome  every  shame, 
And  cancel  at  threescore  a  life  of  fame ; 
No  more  my  titles  shall  my  children  tell, 
The  old  buffoon  will  fit  my  name  as  well; 
This  day  beyond  its  term  my  fate  extends, 
For  life  is  ended  when  our  honour  ends. 


THE  DOUBLE  TRANSFORMATION; 

A  TALE.t 

Secluded  from  domestic  strife 

Jack  Book- worm  led  a  college  Ufe; 

A  fellowship  at  twenty-five 

Made  him  the  happiest  man  ahve; 

He  drank  his  glass,  and  crack'd  his  joke. 

And  freshmen  wonder' d  as  he  spoke. 

Such  pleasures,  unallay'd  with  care, 
Could  any  accident  impair? 
Could  Cupid's  shaft  at  length  transfix 
Our  swain,  arrived  at  thirty-six? 
O  had  the  archer  ne'er  come  down 
To  ravage  in  a  country  tovm! 


*  This  translation  was  first  printed  in  one  of  our  author's 
-earliest  works.  '•  The  Present  State  of  Learning  in  Europe," 
l2mo.  1759 ;  but  was  omitted  in  the  second  edition,  which  ap- 
peared in  1774. 

t  This  and  the  following  poem  were  published  by  Dr.  Gold- 
fimiih  in  his  volume  of  Ele^ye,  which  appeared  in  1765. 


Or  Flavia  been  content  to  stop 
At  triumphs  in  a  Fleet-street  shop. 
O  had  her  eyes  forgot  to  blaze! 
Or  Jack  had  wanted  eyes  to  gaze ! 

O ! but  let  exclamations  cease, 

Her  presence  banish'd  all  his  peace. 
So  with  decorum  all  things  carried; 
Miss  frown' d,  and  blush' d,  and  then  was — mamcA 

Need  we  expose  to  vulgar  sight 
The  raptures  of  the  bridal  night? 
Need  we  intrude  on  hallow'd  ground, 
Or  draw  the  curtains  closed  around  7 
Let  it  suffice,  that  each  had  charms; 
He  clasp'd  a  goddess  in  Ms  arms; 
And  though  she  felt  his  usage  rough. 
Yet  in  a  man  'twas  well  enough. 

The  honey-moon  like  lightning  flew, 
The  second  brought  its  transports  too; 
A  third,  a  fourth,  were  not  amiss. 
The  fifth  was  friendship  mix'd  with  bliss: 
But,  when  a  twelvemonth  pass'd  away, 
Jack  found  his  goddess  made  of  clay; 
Found  half  the  charms  that  deck'd  her  face 
Arose  from  powder,  shreds,  or  lace; 
But  still  the  worse  remain'd  behind, 
That  very  face  had  robb'd  her  mind. 

Skill'd  in  no  other  arts  was  she, 
But  dressing,  patching,  repartee; 
And,  just  as  humour  rose  or  fell, 
By  turns  a  slattern  or  a  belle. 
'Tis  true  she  dress'd  with  modem  grace, 
Half  naked  at  a  ball  or  race; 
But  when  at  home,  at  board  or  bed. 
Five  greasy  night -caps  wrapp'd  her  head. 
Could  so  much  beauty  condescend 
To  be  a  dull  domestic  friend  7 
Could  any  curtain  lectures  bring 
To  decency  so  fine  a  thing  7 
In  short,  by  night,  'twas  fits  or  fretting; 
By  day,  'twas  gadding  or  coquetting. 
Fond  to  be  seen,  she  kept  a  bevy 
Of  powdered  coxcombs  at  her  levee ; 
The  'squire  and  captain  took  their  stations, 
And  twenty  other  near  relations : 
Jack  suck'd  his  pipe,  and  often  broke 
A  sigh  in  suftbcating  smoke ; 
While  all  their  hours  were  past  between 
Insulting  repartee  or  spleen. 


144 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Thus  as  her  faults  each  day  were  known, 
He  thinks  her  features  coarser  grown ; 
He  fancies  every  vice  she  shows, 
Or  thins  her  Up,  or  points  her  nose : 
Whenever  age  or  envy  rise, 
How  wide  her  mouth,  how  wild  her  eyes ! 
He  knows  not  how,  but  so  it  is. 
Her  face  is  grown  a  knowing  phiz ; 
And  though  her  fops  are  wondrous  civil, 
He  thinks  her  ugly  as  the  devil. 

Now,  to  perplex  the  ravell'd  noose, 
As  each  a  different  way  pursues, 
While  sullen  or  loquacious  strife 
Promised  to  hold  them  on  for  life, 
That  dire  disease,  whose  ruthless  power 
Withers  the  beauty's  transient  flower : — 
Lo !  the  small-pox,  whose  horrid  glare 
Levell'd  its  terrors  at  the  fair ; 
And,  rifling  every  youthful  grace. 
Left  but  the  remnant  of  a  face. 

The  glass,  grown  hateful  to  her  sight, 
Reflected  now  a  perfect  fright : 
Each  former  art  she  vainly  tries 
To  bring  back  lustre  to  her  eyes; 
In  vain  she  tries  her  paste  and  creams. 
To  smooth  her  skin,  or  hide  its  seams: 
Her  country  beaux  and  city  cousins, 
Lovers  no  more,  flew  off  by  dozens; 
The  'squire  himself  was  seen  to  yield, 
And  even  the  captain  quit  the  field. 

Poor  madam  now  condemn' d  to  hack 
The  rest  of  life  with  anxious  Jack, 
Perceiving  others  fairly  flown, 
Attempted  pleasing  him  alone. 
Jack  soon  was  dazzled  to  behold 
Her  present  face  surpass  the  old: 
With  modesty  her  cheeks  are  dyed, 
Humility  displaces  pride; 
For  tawdry  finery  is  seen 
A  person  ever  neatly  clean; 
No  more  presuming  on  her  sway, 
She  learns  good  nature  every  day : 
Serenely  gay,  and  strict  in  duty. 
Jack  finds  his  wife  a  perfect  beauty. 


A  NEW  SIMILE 

IN  THE  MANNER  OF  SWIFT. 

Long  had  I  sought  in  vain  to  find 
A  likeness  for  the  scribbling  kind: 
The  modern  scribbUng  kind,  who  write, 
In  wit,  and  sense,  and  nature's  spite: 
Till  reading,  I  forget  what  day  on, 
A  chapter  out  of  Tooke's  Pantheon, 
I  think  I  met  with  something  there 
To  suit  mv  purpose  to  a  hair. 


But  let  us  not  proceed  too  furious, 
First  please  to  turn  to  god  Mercurius 
You'll  find  him  pictured  at  full  length, 
In  book  the  second,  page  the  tenth : 
The  stress  of  all  my  proofs  on  him  I  lay, 
And  now  proceed  we  to  our  simile. 

Imprimis,  Pray  observe  his  hat. 
Wings  upon  either  side — mark  that. 
Well !  what  is  it  from  thence  we  gather? 
Why  these  denote^a  brain  of  feather. 
A  brain  of  feather!  very  right. 
With  wit  that's  flighty,  learning  light; 
Such  as  to  modern  bards  decreed; 
A  just  comparison, — proceed. 

In  the  next  place,  his  feet  peruse. 
Wings  grow  again  from  both  his  shoes; 
Design'd,  no  doubt,  their  part  to  bear, 
And  waft  his  godship  through  the  air : 
And  here  my  simile  unites. 
For  in  the  modern  poet's  flights, 
I'm  sure  it  may  be  justly  said. 
His  feet  are  useful  as  his  head. 

Lastly,  vouchsafe  t'  observe  his  hand, 
Fill'd  with  a  snake -encircled  wand; 
By  classic  authors  term'd  caduceus, 
And  highly  famed  for  several  uses. 
To  wit — most  wondrously  endued, 
No  poppy  water  half  so  good ; 
For  let  folks  only  get  a  touch, 
Its  soporific  virtue's  such. 
Though  ne'er  so  much  awake  before, 
That  quickly  they  begin  to  snore. 
Add  too,  what  certain  writers  tell, 
With  this  he  drives  men's  souls  to  heli. 

Now  to  apply,  begin  we  then ; — 
His  wand's  a  modern  author's  pen; 
The  serpents  round  about  it  twined, 
Denote  him  of  the  reptile  kind; 
Denote  the  rage  with  which  he  writes, 
His  frothy  slaver,  venom'd  bites; 
An  equal  semblance  still  to  keep, 
AHke  too  both  conduce  to  sleep. 
This  difference  only,  as  the  god 
Drove  souls  to  Tart'rus  with  his  rod. 
With  his  goose-quill  the  scribbling  elf, 
Instead  of  others,  damns  himself. 

And  here  my  simile  almost  tript. 
Yet  grant  a  word  by  way  of  postcript. 
Moreover  Merc'ry  had  a  failing ; 
Well!  what  of  that?  out  with  it— stealing, 
In  which  all  modern  bards  agree, 
Being  each  as  great  a  thief  as  he 
But  even  this  deity's  existence 
Shall  lend  my  simile  assistance. 
Our  modern  bards !  why  what  a  pox 
Are  they  but  senseless  stones  and  blocks'? 


POEMS. 


145 


DESCRIPTION 

OP  AN 

AUTHOR'S  BEDCHAMBER. 

Where  the  Red  Lion  staring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay; 
Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  cham- 
pagne, 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane ; 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug. 
The  Muse  found  Scroggen  stretch'd  beneath  a  rug; 
A  window^,  patch'd  with  paper,  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay; 
The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread; 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread; 
The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view, 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew; 
The  seasons,  framed  vdth  listing,  found  a  place, 
And  brave  Prince  William  show'd  his  lamp-black 

face. 
The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire  : 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored. 
And  five  crack' d  tea-cups  dress' d  the  chimney- 
board  ; 
A  night-cap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day! 


THE  HERMIT. 

A  BALLAD. 


Thefollowing  letter,  addressed  to  the  Printer  of 
he  St.  James's  Chronicle,  appeared  in  that  par 
per  in  June,  1767. 

Sir, 

As  there  is  nothing  I  dislike  so  much  as  news- 
paper controversy,  particularly  upon  trifles,  permit 
toe  to  be  as  concise  as  possible  in  informing  a  cor- 
respondent of  yours,  that  I  recommended  Blainville's 
Travels  because  I  thought  the  book  was  a  good 
one,  and  I  think  so  still.  I  said,  I  was  told  by  the 
bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  published;  but  in 
that,  it  seems,  I  was  misinformed,  and  my  reading 
was  not  extensive  enough  to  set  me  right. 

Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of 
having  taken  a  ballad  I  pubHshed  some  time  ago, 
from  one*  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Percy.  I  do  not 
think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  between  the 
two  pieces  in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad 
is  taken  from  mine.  I  read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some 
years  ago;  and  he  (as  we  both  considered  these 


*  The  Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 
L  book  2.  No.  18. 

10 


"Reliq.  of  Anc.  Poetry,"  vol. 


things  as  trifles  at  best)  told  me  with  his  usual  good- 
humour,  the  next  time  I  saw  him,  that  he  had 
taken  my  plan  to  form  the  fragments  of  Shakspeare 
into  a  ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his  lit- 
tle Cento,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  and  I  highly  approv- 
ed it.  Such  petty  anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely 
worth  printing ;  and,  were  it  not  for  the  busy  dis- 
position of  some  of  your  correspondents,  the  pub- 
lic should  never  have  known  that  he  owes  me  the 
hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I  am  obliged  to  his  friend- 
ship and  learning  for  communications  of  a  much 
more  important  nature, 
lam,  Sir, 

Yours,  etc. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

Note. — On  the  subject  of  the  preceding  letter, 
the  reader  is  desired  to  consult  "  The  Life  of  Dr. 
Goldsmith,"  under  the  year  1765. 

THE  HERMIT; 

A   BALLAD 

"  Turn,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  wa}'. 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray. 

"  For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I  tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow; 
Where  wilds  immeasurably  spread, 

Seem  length'ning  as  I  go." 

"  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  Hermit  cries, 
To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 

Whate'er  my  cell  bestows, 
My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free, 

To  slaughter  I  condemn; 
Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them: 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring; 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego; 

All  earth-bom  cares  are  wrong; 
Man  wants  but^little  here  below,   *" 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 


146 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 

His  gentle  accents  fell : 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends. 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighb'ring  poor 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 

Required  a  master's  care; 
The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch, 

Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest. 
The  Hermit  trimm'd  his  little  fire, 

And  cheer' d  his  pensive  guest : 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store. 
And  gaily  press' d,  and  smiled; 

And,  skill' d  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around  in  sympathetic  mirth 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries. 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth, 

The  crackling  faggot  flies. 

Bat  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe ; 

For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 
"With  answering  care  opprest; 

"  And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  7 

"From  better  habitations  spurn' d. 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  7 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretum'd, 

Or  unregarded  love? 

"  Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings, 

Are  trifling  and  decay; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep; 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 

But  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep 7 

"  And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth,  thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said; 

But  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 
His  love-lorn  guest  betray'd. 


Surprised  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view : 
Like  colours  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confest 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah!  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried; 

"  Whose  feet  unhallow'd  thus  intruder 
Where  Heaven  and  you  reside. 

"  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

"  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  mark'd  as  mine 

He  had  but  only  me. 

"  To  win  me  from  his  tender  anus, 

Unnumber'd  suitors  came; 
Who  praised  me  for  imparted  charms. 

And  felt,  or  feign' d  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove; 

Amongst  the  rest  young  Edwin  bow'd, 
But  never  talk'd  of  love. 

"  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad. 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had. 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale. 

He  Carroll' d  lays  of  love. 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  thp  gale, 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

"The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  Heaven  refined. 

Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

"The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 
With  charms  inconstant  shine; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me  I 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art. 

Importunate  and  vain; 
And  while  his  passion  touch' d  my  heatf^ 

I  triumph' d  in  his  pain: 

"  Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride; 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 


POEMS. 


U1 


"  But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"  And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"Forbid  it,  Heaven!"  the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasp' d  her  to  his  breast: 

I'he  wondering  fair  one  turn'd  to  chide-^ 
'Twas  fedwin's  self  that  press'd. 

"  Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear. 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"  Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign : 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life — my  all  that's  mine? 

"  No,  never  from  this  hour  to  part. 

We'll  Uve  and  love  so  true; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart, 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  toow" 


AN  ELEGY 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG.* 

Good  people  all  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song. 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short. 

It  can  not  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man. 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say, 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran, 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 
To  comfort  friends  and  foes; 

The  naked  every  day  he  clad,  i 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends; 

But  when  a  pique  began. 
The  dog,  to  gain  some  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the -man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighb'ring  streets 
The  wond'ring  neighbours  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits. 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 


*  This,  and  the  following  poem,  appeared  in  "The  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,"  which  was  published  in  the  year  1765. 


The  wound  it  seem'd  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad^ 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 
But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  show'd  the  rogues  they  lied: 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite, 

The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


STANZAS  ON  WOMAN. 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly. 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray. 

What  charms  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  his  bosom — is  to  die. 


THE  TRAVELLER: 


A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 


to  tllE  REV.  HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  AM  sensible  that  the  friendship  between  us  carf 
acquire  no  new  force  from  the  ceremonies  of  a  dedi- 
cation ;  and  perhaps  it  demands  an  excuse  thus  to' 
prefix  your  name  to  my  attempts,  which  you  de- 
cline giving  with  your  own.  But  as  a  part  of  this 
poem  was  formerly  written  to  you  from  Switzer- 
land, the  whole  can  now,  with  propriety,  be  only 
inscribed  to  you.  It  will  also  throw  a  light  upon 
many  parts  of  it,  when  the  reader  understands,  that 
it  is  addressed  to  a  man,  who,  despising  fame  and 
fortune,  has  retired  early  to  happiness  and  obscuri- 
ty, with  an  income  of  forty  pounds  a-year. 

I  now  perceive,  my  dear  brother,  the  wisdom  of 
your  humble  choice.  You  have  entered  upon  a 
sacred  office,  where  the  harvest  is  great,  and  the 
labourers  are  but  few;  while  you  have  left  the  field 
of  ambition,  where  the  labourers  are  many,  and  the 
harvest  not  worth  carrying  away.  But  of  all  kinds 
of  ambition,  what  from  the  refinement  of  the  times, 
from  different  systems  of  criticism,  and  from  the 
divisions  of  party,  that  which  pursues  poetical  fame 
is  the  wildest. 

Poetry  makes  a  principal  amtsement  among  tin* 
polished  nations ;  but  in  a  country  -verging  to  the 
extremes  of  refinement,  painting  arid  music  come 
in  for  a  share.  As  these  offer  the  feeble  mind  a 
less  laborious  entertainment,  they  at  first  rival 


148 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


i 


poetry,  and  at  length  supplant  her ;  they  engross  all 
that  favour  once  shown  to  her,  and  though  but 
younger  sisters,  seize  upon  the  elder's  birth-right. 

Yet,  however  this  art  may  be  neglected  by  the 
powerful,  it  is  still  in  great  danger  from  the  mis- 
taken efforts  of  the  learned  to  improve  it.  What 
criticisms  have  we  not  heard  of  late  in  favour  of 
blank  verse,  and  Pindaric  odes,  chorusses,  anapests 
and  iambics,  alliterative  care  and  happy  negligence ! 
Every  absurdity  has  now  a  champion  to  defend  it ; 
and  as  he  is  generally  much  in  the  wrong,  so  he 
has  always  much  to  say;  for  error  is  ever  talkative. 

But  there  is  an  enemy  to  this  art  still  more  dan- 
gerous,— I  mean  party.  Party  entirely  distorts 
the  judgment,  and  destroys  the  taste.  When  the 
mind  is  once  infected  with  this  disease,  it  can  only 
find  pleasure  in  what  contributes  to  increase  the 
distemper.  Like  the  tiger,  that  seldom  desists  from 
pursuing  man,  after  having  once  preyed  upon  hu- 
man flesh,  the  reader,  who  has  once  gratified  his 
appetite  with  calumny,  makes,  ever  after,  the  most 
agreeable  feast  upon  murdered  reputation.  Such 
readers  generally  adnure  some  half-witted  thing, 
who  wants  to  be  thought  a  bold  man,  having  lost 
the  character  of  a  wise  one.  Him  they  dignify 
with  the  name  of  poet :  his  tawdry  lampoons  are 
called  satires ;  his  turbulence  is  said  to  be  force,  and 
his  phrensy  fire. 

What  reception  a  poem  may  find,  which  has 
neither  abuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it, 
I  can  not  tell,  nor  am  I  solicitous  to  know.  My 
aims  are  right.  Without  espousing  the  cause  of 
any  party,  I  have  attempted  to  moderate  the  rage 
of  all.  I  have  endeavoured  to  show,  that  there  may 
be  equal  happiness  in  states  that  are  differently 
governed  from  our  own ;  that  every  state  has  a  par- 
ticular principle  of  happiness,  and  that  this  princi- 
ple in  each  may  be  carried  to  a  mischievous  excess. 
There  are  few  can  judge  better  than  yourself  how 
far  these  positions  are  illustrated  in  this  poem.  I 
am,  dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  brother, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  TRAVELLER; 


A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY.* 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Carinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies; 


*  In  this  poem,  as  it  passed  through  different  editions,  seve- 
ral alterations  were  made,  and  some  additional  verses  intro- 
daced.  We  have  followed  the  ninth  edition,  which  was  the 
mt  that  appeared  in  the  lifetime  of  the  author. 


Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee ; 
Still  to  my  brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend. 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend; 
Blest  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 
Blest  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair; 
Blest  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care ; 
Impell'd,  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies. 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone. 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

E'en  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career. 
Look  downward  where  an  hundred  realms  appear ; 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide. 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

When  thus  Creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store  should  thankless  pride  repine? 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vaini 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he,  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour 

crown'd ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round; 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine  I 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store. 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er; 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still: 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  sup- 
plies ; 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small ; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  oonsign'd, 


POEMS. 


149 


Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wand'ring  hope  at  rest, 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know? 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own ; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas. 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease : 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line. 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave, 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare. 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share, 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind ; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all, 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliffs  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown. 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent — 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  to  the  rest. 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment  fails. 
And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state  to  one  loved  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 
Each  to  the  favourite  happiness  attends. 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other  ends ; 
Till,  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain. 
This  favourite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes. 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies; 
Here  for  a  while  my  proper  cares  resign'd. 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast, 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right  where  Appenine  ascends, 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side. 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mouldering  tops  between 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  different  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  ot  humbly  court  the  ground ; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear, 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year ; 


Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  fives,  that  blossom  but  to  die; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil ; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiUng  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows, 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 
In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 
Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 
Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign ; 
Though  poor,  luxurious;  though  submissive,  vain; 
Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue ; 
And  e'en  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 
All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind. 
That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind ; 
For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed  the  date, 
When  commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the 

state ; 
At  her  command  the  palace  leam'd  to  rise, 
Again  the  long-fall' n  column  sought  the  skies; 
The  canvass  glow'd  beyond  e'en  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form: 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display 'd  her  sail; 
While  nought  remain'd  of  all  that  riches  gave. 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave . 
And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fall'n  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade; 
Processions  form'd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child ; 
Each  nobler  aim,  repress' d  by  long  control, 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind : 
As  in  those  domes,  where  Csesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tottering  in  decay. 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead. 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile, 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them ;  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display. 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss  their  stormy  mansion  tread, 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  afford, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword. 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array. 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May; 


f&O 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast, 
Put  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  e'en  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  its  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though 

small, 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loathe  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  jn  ignorance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  fits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes; 
With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep. 
Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep; 
,Or  seeks  the  den  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way. 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped. 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze: 
While  his  loved  partner,  boastful  of  her  hoard, 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board; 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim  thither  led, 
With  naany  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart, 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  e'en  those  ills  that  round  his  mansion  rise 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  funds  supplies. 
r)ear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms, 
And  dear  that  hill  which  lifts  him  to  the  storms ; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest, 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent  and  the  whirlwind's  roar, 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd ; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few ; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast. 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest ; 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science  flies, 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  sujjplies ;  , 

Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy. 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy ; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame, 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame. 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  smouldering  fire, 
Unquench'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  ra{)tures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a-year, 
In  wild  excess  the  yulgar  breast  takes  fire, 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  riot  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow; 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low; 


For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter'd,  unimproved  the  manners  run; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely  pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart. 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm  the 

way, 
These,  far  dispersed,  on  timorous  pinions  fly 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners. reign, 
I  turn ;  and  I^rancc  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease. 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir. 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire ! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshen'd  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch  faU'ring  still, 
But  mock'd  all  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill' d  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear; 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here. 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand. 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traflRc  round  the  land ; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays. 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise ; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought ; 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a-year ; 
Tlie  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draw*. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies. 
Embosom' d  in  the  deep  whefe  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand, 
I  Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land 


THE  TRAVELLER. 


151 


And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  wat'ry  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow-blossom' d  vale. 
The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cuhivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil. 
Industrious  habits  1^  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  good  from  opulence  that  springs, 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  display'd.  Their  much  loved  wealth  imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts : 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 
E'en  liberty  itself  is  barter' d  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
T  he  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves. 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves. 
And,  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform. 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 

Heavens!  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old'! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow — 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now  ! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride. 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide; 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray. 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined. 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind! 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  human  kind  pass  by ; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band. 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's  hand. 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right,  above  control, 
While  e'en  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan. 
And  Learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man. 

Thine,  Freedom,  thine  theblessings  pictured  here. 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ;      i 
Too  blest  indeed  were  such  without  alloy. 
But  foster'd  e'en  by  freedom  ills  annoy; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high, 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie; 


The  self-dependent  lordUngs  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown ; 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd. 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore, 
Till,  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Ijs  motion  stop,  or  phrensy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.    As  nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law. 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  thee  alone, 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown : 
Till  time  may  come,  when,  stript  of  all  her  charms, 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms, 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame. 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie, 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die. 

Yet  .think  not,  thus  when  freedom's  ills  I  state, 
I  mean  to  flatier  kings,  or  court  the  great : 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ; 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  aUke  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or-favour's  fostering  sun, 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure, 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure : 
For  just  experience  tells,  in  every  soil, 
That  those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil; 
And  all  that  freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion' d  grow. 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires. 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires ! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms : 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own ; 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw. 
Laws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam, 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start. 
Tear  oft"  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  me  with  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power ; 
And  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source, 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 


152 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Have  we  not  seen,  round  Britain's  peopled  shore, 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  orel 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste. 
Like  flaring  tapers  brightening  as  they  waste? 
Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain. 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train, 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose? 
Have  we  not  seen  at  pleasure's  lordly  call, 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall? 
Beheld  the  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid, 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train. 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main; 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  tlmnd' ring  sound? 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  as  there  some  pilgrim  strays 
Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous 

ways; 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim. 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with  murd'rous  aim; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise. 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe. 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go, 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine. 
And  bids  liis  bosom  sympathize  with  mine. 

Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind: 
Why  have  I  stray 'd  from  pleasure  and  repose, 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows? 
In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain. 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure. 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure. 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd, 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy, 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel, 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known, 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE; 

A  POEM. 

TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH, 

AUTHOR  OP  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE,  BYMISS  AIKIN, 
AFTERWARDS  MRS.  BARBAULD. 

In  vain  fair  Auburn  weeps  her  desert  plains  • 
She  moves  our  envy  who  so  well  complains : 
In  vain  hath  proud  oppression  laid  her  low ; 
Sht  wears  a  garland  on  her  ffuied  brow. 


Now  Auburn,  now,  absolve  impartial  Pate, 
Which,  if  it  makes  thee  wretched,  makes  thee  great 
So  unobserved,  some  humble  plant  may.  bloom. 
Till  crush' d  it  fills  the  air  with  sweet  perfume : 
So  had  thy  swains  in  ease  and  plenty  slept, 
The  poet  had  not  sung,  nor  Britain  wept. 
Nor  let  Britannia  mourn  her  drooping  bay, 
Unhonour'd  genius,  and  her  swift  decay : 
O,  patron  of  the  poor!  it  can  not  be, 
While  one — one  poet  yet  remains  like  thee. 
Nor  can  the  Muse  desert  our  favour' d  isle, 
Till  thou  desert  the  Muse,  and  scorn  her  smile. 


TO  SIR  JOSHUA  pEYNOLDS. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  CAN  have  no  expectations,  in  an  address  of  this 
kind,  either  to  add  to  your  reputation,  or  to  establish 
my  own.  You  can  gain  nothing  from  my  admira- 
tion, as  I  am  ignorant  of  that  art  in  which  you  are 
said  to  excel ;  and  I  may  lose  much  by  the  severity 
of  your  judgment,  as  few  have  a  juster  taste  in 
poetry  than  you.  Setting  interest  therefore  aside, 
to  which  I  never  paid  much  attention,  I  must  be 
indulged  at  present  in  following  my  affections. 
The  only  dedication  1  ever  made  was  to  my  bro- 
ther, because  I  loved  him  better  than  most  other 
men.  He  is  since  dead.  Permit  me  to  inscribe 
this  Poem  to  you. 

How  far  you  may  be  pleased  with  the  versifica- 
tion and  mere  mechanical  parts  of  this  attempt,  I 
do  not  pretend  to  inquire ;  but  I  know  you  will  ob- 
ject (and  indeed  several  of  our  best  and  wisest 
friends  concur  in  the  opinion,)  that  the  depopu- 
lation it  deplores  is  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  the  dis- 
orders it  laments  are  only  to  be  found  in  the  poet's 
own  imagination.  To  this  I  can  scarcely  make  any 
other  answer  than  that  I  sincerely  believe  what  I 
have  written ;  that  I  have  taken  all  possible  pains, 
in  my  country  excursions,  for  these  four  or  five 
years  past,  to  be  certain  of  what  I  alledge;  and  that 
all  my  views  and  inquiries  have  led  me  to  believe 
those  miseries  real,  which  I  here  attempt  to  dis- 
play. But  this  is  not  the  place  to  enter  into  an  in- 
quiry, whether  the  country  be  depopulating  or  not ; 
the  discussion  would  take  up  much  room,  and  I 
should  prove  myself,  at  best,  an  indifferent  politi- 
cian, to  tire  the  reader  with  a  long  preface,  when  I 
want  his  unfatigued  attention  to  a  long  poem. 

In  regretting  the  depopulation  of  the  country,  1 
inveigh  against  the  increase  of  our  luxuries;  and 
here  also  I  expect  the  shout  of  modem  politicians 
against  me.  For  twenty  or  thirty  years  past,  it 
has  been  the  fashion  to  consider  luxury  as  one  of 
the  greatest  national  advantages;  and  all  the  wis- 
dom of  antiquity  in  that  particular,  as  erroneous. 
Still,  however,  I  must  remain  a  professed  ancient 
on  that  head,  and  continue  to  think  those  luxuries 


POEMS. 


l&S 


prejudicial  to  states  by  which  so  many  vices  are  in- 
troduced, and  so  many  kingdoms  have  been  undone 
indeed,  so  much  has  been  poured  out  of  late  on  the 
other  side  of  the  question,  that,  merely  for  the  sake 
of  novelty  and  variety,  one  would  sometimes  wish 
to  be  in  the  right.  I  am,  dear  Sir,  your  sincere 
friend,  and  ardent  admirer, 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn!  loveliest  village  of  the  plain. 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring 

swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delay'd: 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  1  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear' d  each  scene! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill. 
The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighb'ring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 
How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day. 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train  from  labour  free. 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ; 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground. 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 

round ; 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown. 
By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  titter' d  round  the  place; 
The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like 

these. 
With  sweet  succession,  tau^t  e'en  toil  to  please ; 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed. 
These  were  thy  charms — ^but  all  these  charms  are 

fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen. 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ; 


No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  wayj 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould'ring  wall ; 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay : 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade  : 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was.  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health. 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth,  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose ; 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 
Ajid  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom. 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  bul  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 

scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  daparting,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn!  parent  of  the  blissful  hour. 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  1  take  my  solitary  rounds, 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew. 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 


154 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly? 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Ex[)lore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dang'rous  deep; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  : 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
A  ngels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  j'onder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose; 
There  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow. 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften' d  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung; 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young; 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool ; 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whispering 

wind, 
Arwl  the  loud  lau^h  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass -grown  foot- way  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled : 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy   pring; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn. 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plai  i'.. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the    arden  smil'  d, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a-year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  t  change  his  place; 
UnskilfiU  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn' d  to  prize. 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain ; 
The  long  remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 


The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder' d  his  crutch  and  show'd  how  fields  were 

won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 

glow. 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits,  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  oflfspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid,  \y 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay' d, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  falt'ring  accents  whisper'd  praiso 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaflTected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoflf,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E'en  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  express'd, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distress'd; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliflT  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  brea#t  the  rolling  clouds  are 


Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay. 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school: 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  fac;e; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round, 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd* 


POEMS. 


155 


Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  gevere  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 
*Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran — that  he  could  gauge: 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring 

sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around, — 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
"Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. — 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired. 
Where  gray-beard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil  retired. 
Where  village  statesmen  talk' d  with  looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place; 
The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill' d  the  day, 
With  aspin  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  learn  to  he^r; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train. 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art : 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,  and  own  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array'd, 


In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  : 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy. 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  t 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage  and  hounds: 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 
Has  robb'd  the  neighb'ring  fields  of  half  their 

growth ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 
While  thus  the  land  adorn'd  for  pleasure,  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow' d  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes ; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd; 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah !  where  shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  stray'd. 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know. 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 


156 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  dis- 
play, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowns  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare, 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 
And  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 
When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 


And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe; 
But  for  himself  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose ; 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear  j 
While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 


Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread! 

Ah,  no!    To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altaraa  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those   poisonous    fields    with    rank    luxuriance 

crown' d 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around ; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattUng  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
W  here  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey. 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they ; 
Wnile  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies. 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies, 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green. 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  part- 
ing day 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 


O  luxury!  thou  curst  by  Heaven's  decree. 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own ; 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land, 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessels  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band. 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 
And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest ,maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade ; 
Unfit  in  those  degenerate  times  ofshame. 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride. 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well! 
Farewell,  and  oh!  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime; 
Aid,  slighted  truth,  with  thy  persuasive  strain. 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 


POEMS. 


IS*: 


That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  aWay ; 
■"^VTiile  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


THE  GIFT. 

TO   IRIS,    IN  BOW-STREET,    COVENT-GARDEN. 

Say,  cruel  Iris,  pretty  rake. 

Dear  mercenary  beauty, 
What  annual  offering  shall  1  make 

Expressive  of  my  duty  1 

My  heart,  a  victim  to  thine  eyes. 

Should  I  at  once  deliver. 
Say,  would  the  angry  fair  one  prize 

The  gift,  who  slights  the  giver  1 

A  bill,  a  jewel,  watch  or  toy, 

My  rivals  give — and  let  'em ; 
If  gems,  or  gold,  impart  a  joy, 

I'll  give  them — when  I  get  'em. 

I'll  give — but  not  the  full-blown  rose. 

Or  rose-bud  more  in  fashion : 
Such  short-lived  ofterings  but  disclose 

A  transitory  passion. 

I'll  give  thee  something  yet  unpaid, 

Not  less  sincere,  than  civil : 
I'll  give  thee — ah!  too  charming  maid, 

I'll  give  thee — to  the  devil. 


EPITAPH  ON  DR.  PARNELL. 

This  tomb,  inscribed  to  gentle  Parnell's  name. 
May  speak  our  gratitude,  but  not  his  fame, 
What  heart  but  feels  his  sweetly  moral  lay, 
That  leads  to  truth  through  pleasure's  flow'ry 

way! 
Celestial  themes  confess'd  his  tuneful  aid ; 
And  Heaven,  that  lent  him  genius,  was  repaid. 
Needless  to  him  the  tribute  we  bestow, 
The  transitory  breath  of  fame  below . 
More  lasting  rapture  from  his  works  shall  rise. 
While  converts  thank  their  poet  in  the  skies. 


EPILOGUE 

TO  THE  COMEDY  OF  THE  SISTERS. 

What?  five  long  acts — and  all  to  make  us  wiser? 
Our  authoress  sure  has  wanted  an  adviser. 
Had  she  consulted  me,  she  should  have  made 
Her  moral  play  a  speaking  masquerade; 
Warm'd  up  each  bustling  scene,  and  in  her  rage 
Have  emptied  all  the  green-room  on  the  stage. 


My  life  on't,  this  had  kept  her  play  from  sinking 
Have  pleased  our  eyes,  and  saved  the  pain  ol 

thinking: 
Well,  since  she  thus  has  shown  her  want  of  skill, 
What  if  I  give  a  masquerade  7 — I  will. 
But  how?  ay,  there's  the  rub!  [pa^ising] — I've  got 

my  cue; 
The  world's  a  masquerade!  the  masquers,  you, 

you,  you. 

[To  Boxes,  Pit,  and  Gallery. 

Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses 
False  wits,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false 

spouses ! 
Statesmen  with  bridles  on ;  and  close  beside  'em, 
Patriots  in  party -colour' d  suits  that  ride  'em. 
There  Hebes,  turn'd  of  fifty,  try  once  more 
To  raise  a  flame  in  Cupids  of  threescore : 
These  in  their  turn,  with  appetites  as  keen, 
Deserting  fifty,  fasten  on  fifteen. 
Miss,  not  yet  full  fifteen,  with  fire  uncommon. 
Flings  down  her  sampler,  and  takes  up  the  woman  j 
The  little  urchin  smiles,  and  spreads  her  lure. 
And  tries  to  kill,  ere  she's  got  power  to  cure : 
Thus  'tis  with  all — their  chief  and  constant  care 
Is  to  seem  every  thing — but  what  they  are. 
Yon  broad,  bold,  angry  spark,  I  fix  my  eye  on. 
Who  seems  t'have  robb'd  his  vizor  from  the  lion; 
Who  frowns,  and  talks,  and  swears,  with  round 

parade. 
Looking,  as  who  should  say,  dam'me !  who's  afraidl 

[Mimicking. 

Strip  but  this  vizor  off,  and  sure  I  am 

You'll  find  his  lionship  a  very  lamb. 

Yon  politician,  famous  in  debate. 

Perhaps,  to  vulgar  eyes,  bestrides  the  state; 

Yet,  when  he  deigns  his  real  shape  t'assume, 

He  turns  old  woman,  and  bestrides  a  broom. 

Yon  patriot,  too,  who  presses  on  your  sight, 

And  seems,  to  every  gazer,  all  in  white, 

If  with  a  bribe  his  candour  you  attack. 

He  bows,  turns  round,  and  whip — ^the  man  in 

black! 
Yon  critic,  to© — ^but  whither  do  I  run? 
If  I  proceed,  our  bard  will  be  undone ! 
Well  then  a  truce,  since  she  requests  it  too : 
Do  you  spare  her,  and  I'll  for  once  spare  you. 


EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY  AND  MISS  CATLEY. 

Enter  Mrs.  Bulhley,  who  courtesies  very  low  as  beginning 
to  spealc  Then  enter  Miss  Catleij,  who  stands  full  before 
her,  and  courtesies  to  the  AucUence. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Hold,  ma'am,  your  pardon.    What's  your  buM- 
ness  here  ? 


->s 


OLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Miss  catley. 
Thfe  Epilogue. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

The  Epilogue? 

MISS  CATLEi'. 

Yes,  the  Epilogue,  my  dear. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Sure  you  mistake,  ma'am.  The  Epilogue,  /bring  it. 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Excuse  me,  ma'am.     The  author  bid  me  sing  it. 

Recitative. 
Ye  beaux  and  belles,  that  form  this  splendid  ring, 
Suspend  your  conversation  while  I  sing. 

MRS.  BULKLEY, 

Why,  sure  the  girl's  beside  herself!  an  Epilogue 

of  singing, 
A  hopeful  end  indeed  to  such  a  blest  beginning 
Besides,  a  singer  in  a  comic  set — 
Excuse  me,  ma'am,  I  know  the  etiquette. 

MISS  CATLEY. 

What  if  we  leave  it  to  the  house  7 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

The  house ! — Agreed. 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

And  she  whose  party's  largest  shall  proceed. 
And  first,  I  hope  you'll  readily  agree 
I've  all  the  critics  and  the  wits  for  me; 
They,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  my  commands  : 
Ye  candid  judging  few,  hold  up  your  hands. 
What !  no  return  1  1  find  too  late,  1  fear, 
That  modern  judges  seldom  enter  here. 

MrSS  CATLEY. 

I'm  for  a  diflferent  set. — Old  men  whose  trade  is 
Still  to  gallant  and  dangle  with  the  ladies. 

Recitative. 
Who  mump  their  passion,  and  who,  grimly  smihng, 
Still  thus  address  the  fair  with  voice  beguiling. 
Air— Cotillon. 
Turn  my  fairest,  turn,  if  ever 
Strephon  caught  thy  ravish'd  eye, 
Pity  take  on  your  swain  so  clever, 
Who  without  your  aid  must  die. 

Yes,  I  shall  die,  hu,  hu,  hu,  hu, 
Yes,  1  shall  die,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho. 

Da  capo. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Let  all  the  old  pay  homage  to  your  merit ; 

Give  me  the  young,  the  gay,  the  men  of  spirit. 

Ye  traveird  tribe,  ye  macaroni  train. 

Of  French  friseurs  and  nosegays  justly  vain, 

W^ho  take  a  trip  to  Paris  once  a-year 

To  dress,  and  look  like  awkward  Frenchmen  here; 

Lend  me  your  hands. — O  fatal  news  to  tell, 

Their  heoids  are  only  lent  to  the  Heinelle. 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Ay,  take  your  travellers — ^travellers  indeed ! 
Give  me  my  bonny  Scot,  that  travels  from  the 
Tweed. 


Where  are  the  chielsl  Ah!  Ah,  I  well  discern 
The  smiUng  looks  of  each  bewitching  bairn. 

Air— A  bonny  young  lad  is  my  Jockey. 
I'll  sing  to  amuse  you  by  night  and  by  day. 
And  be  unco  merry  when  you  are  but  gay ; 
When  you  with  your  bagpij-jcs  are  ready  to  play,- 
My  voice  shall  be  ready  to  carol  away 

With  Sandy,  and  Sawney,  and  Jockey, 
With  Sawney,  and  Jarvie,  and  Jockey. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Ye  gamesters,  who,  so  eager  in  pursuit. 
Make  but  of  all  your  fortune  one  va  toute : 
Ye  jockey  tribe,  whose  stock  of  words  are  few, 
"  1  hold  the  odds. — Done,  done,  with  you,  with  you.** 
Ye  barristers,  so  fluent  with  grimace, 
"  My  lord, — Your  lordship  misconceives  the  case." 
Doctors,  who  cough  and  answer  every  misfortuner, 
"  I  wish  I'd  been  call'd  in  a  little  sooner :" 
Assist  my  cause  with  hands  and  voices  hearty, 
Come  end  the  contest  here,  and  aid  my  party. 

Miss  CATLEY. 
Air— Ballinamony. 
Ye  brave  Irish  lads,  hark  away  to  the  crack, 
Assist  me,  I  pray,  in  this  woful  attack ; 
For  sure  I  don't  wrong  you,  you  seldom  are  slack, 
When  the  ladies  are  calling,  to  blush  and  hang  back* 
For  you're  always  polite  and  attentive, 
Still  to  amuse  us  inventive, 
And  death  is  your  only  preventive : 
Your  hands  and  your  voices  for  m6. 

MRS.  BULKLEY. 

Well,  madam,  what  if,  after  all  this  sparring, 
We  both  agree,  like  friends,  to  end  our  jarring? 

MISS  CATLEY. 

And  that  our  friendship  may  remain  unbroken, 
What  if  we  leave  the  Epilogue  unspoken? 

MRS.  BULKLEY, 

Agreed. 

MISS  CATLEY. 

Agreed. 

MRS.   BULKLEY. 

And  now  with  late  repentance, 
Un-epilogued  the  poet  waits  his  sentence. 
Condemn  the  stubborn  fool  who  can't  submit 
To  thrive  by  flattery,  though  he  starves  by  wit. 

[Exeunt 


AN  EPILOGUE, 

INTENDED  FOR  MRS.  BULKLEY. 

There  is  a  place,  so  Ariosto  sings, 
A  treasury  for  lost  and  missing  things : 
Lost  human  wits  have  places  there  assign'd  them, 
And  they  who  lose  their  senses,  there  may  find  them. 
But  Where's  this  place,  this  storehouse  of  the  agef 
The  Moon,  says  he ;— but  I  affirm,  the  Stage : 
At  least  in  many  things,  I  think,  1  see 
His  lunar,  and  our  mimic  world  agree. 


POEMS. 


159 


Both  shine  at  night,  for,  but  at  Foote's  alonej 
We  scarce  exhibit  till  the  sun  goes  down. 
Both  prone  to  change,  no  settled  limits  fix, 
And  sure  the  folks  of  both  are  lunatics. 
But  in  this  parallel  my  best  pretence  is, 
That  mortals  visit  both  to  find  their  senses  * 
To  this  strange  spot,  rakes,  macaronies,  citSj 
Come  thronging  to  collect  their  scatter' d  witSi 
The  gay  coquette,  who  ogles  all  the  day, 
Comes  here  at  night,  and  goes  a  prude  awsty. 
Hither  the  affected  city  dame  advancing. 
Who  sighs  for  operas,  and  doats  on  dancing, 
Taught  by  our  art  her  ridicule  to  pause  on, 
Cluits  the  ballet^  and  calls  for  Nancy  Dawson. 
The  gamester  too,  whose  wit's  all  high  or  low, 
Oft  risks  his  fortune  on  one  desperate  throw, 
Comes  here  to  saunter,  having  made  his  bets, 
Finds  his  lost  senses  out,  and  pays  his  debts. 
The  Mohawk  too — with  angry  phrases  stored, 
As  "  Dam'me,  sir,"  and  "  Sir,  I  wear  a  sword ;" 
Here  lesson'd  for  a  while,  and  hence  retreating. 
Goes  out,  affronts  his  man,  and  takes  a  beating. 
Here  comes  the  sons  of  scandal  and  of  news. 
But  find  no  sense — for  they  had  none  to  lose. 
Of  all  the  tribe  here  wanting  an  adviser, 
Our  author's  the  least  likely  to  grow  wiser ; 
Has  he  not  seen  how  you  your  favour  place 
On  sentimental  queens  and  lords  in  lace7 
Without  a  star,  a  coronet,  or  garter, 
Flow  can  the  piece  expect  or  hope  for  quarter'? 
No  high-life  scenes,  no  sentiment : — the  creature 
Still  stoops  among  the  low  to  copy  nature. 
Yes,  he's  far  gone : — and  yet  some  pity  fix, 
The  English  laws  forbid  to  punish  lunatics.* 


HAUNCH  OF  VENISON; 

A  POETICAL  EPISTLE  TO  LORD  CLARE. 

Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter. 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study, 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy; 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,   I  could  scarce 

help  regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating: 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view, 
To  be  shown  to  ray  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu; 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so  so. 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show ; 
But  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in. 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 


*  This  Epilogue  was  given  in  MS.  by  Dr.  Goldsmith  to  Dr. 
Percy  (late  Bishop  of  Dromore);  but  for  what  comedy  it  was 
intended  ie  not  remembered. 


But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pro- 
nounce, 
This  tale  of  the  bacon's  a  damnable  bounce? 
Well,  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 

But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce :  I  protest  in  my  turn, 
It's  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Burn.* 
To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 
I  thought  of  a  friend  that  was  trusty  and  staunch, 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest. 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  best. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose; 
Twas  a  neck  and  a  breast  that  might  rival  Mon- 
roe's : 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again, 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and 

the  when. 
There's  H— d,  and  C— y,  and  H— rth,  and  H— ff, 
I  think  they  love  venison — 1  know  they  love  beef. 
There's  my  countryman,  Higgins — Oh !  let  him 

alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poets  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton  is  a  very  good  treat; 
Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  v/anting  a  shirt. 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  centred. 
An  acquaintance,  a  friend  as  he  call'd  himself,  en- 
ter'd; 
An  under-bred,  fine  spoken  fellow  was  he. 
And  he  smil'd  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me. 
"  What  have  we  got  here? — Why  this  is  good 

eating ! 
Your  own,  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting  ?" 
"  Why  whose  should  it  be?"  cried  I  with  a  flounce; 
"I  get  these  things  often  " — but  that  was  a  bounce : 
"  Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the  na- 
tion, 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind — ^but  I  hate  ostentation." 

"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he,  very  gay, 
"I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  house  in  my  way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me; 
No  words — 1  insist  on't — precisely  at  three; 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke,  all  the  wits  wHl 

be  there; 
My  acquaintance  is  slight,  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner ! 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner. 
What  say  you — a  pasty?  it  shall,  and  it  must. 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end : 
No  stirring— I  beg — my  dear  friend — my  dear 

friend!" 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  hebrush'd  off  like  the  wind, 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  followed  behind. 


Lord  Clare's  nephew 


160 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  "nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself;"* 
Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet  Johnson  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  my  life. 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife, 
So  next  day  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  approach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 
When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to  dine, 
(A  chair-lumlKjr'd  closet,  just  twelve  feet  by  nine,) 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite 

dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not 

come; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried;  "  both  eternally  lail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'  other  with 

Thrale; 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the  party 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you : 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge; 
Some  think  he  writes  Cinna — he  ownstoPanurge." 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by 

name, 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  v/as  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen, 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 
At  the  sides  there  was  spinage,  and  pudding  made 

hot; 
In  the  middle  a  place  were  the  pasty — ^was  not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe,  it's  my  utter  aversion. 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck  like  a  horse  in  a  pound, 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round : 
But  what  vex'd  me  most  was  that  d — — d  Scottish 

rogue. 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles  and  his 

brogue. 
And  •'  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my 

poison, 
A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on : 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst." 
"  The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate 

cheek, 
"  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week  : 
I  like  these  here  dinners,  so  pretty  and  small; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing  at  all." 
"O— ho!"  quoth  my  friend,  "he'll  come  on  in  a 

trice. 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice; 
There's  a  pasty" — "  A  pasty!"  repeated  the  Jew, 
"  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too." 

•  See  the  letters  that  passed  between  his  Royal  Highness, 
Henry  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  Lady  Grosvenor.— 12m(^ 


"  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty!"  re-echoed  the  Scot, 
"  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that." 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out; 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echoed  about. 
While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay 'd, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified,  enter'd  the  maid: 
A  visage  so  sad,  and  so  pale  with  affright, 
Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 
But  we  quickly  found  out,  for  who  could  mistake 

her? 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the 

baker : 
And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 
To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  it's  but  labour  misplaced 
To  send  such^ood  verses  to  one  of  your  taste; 
You'  ve  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discerning, 
A  relish — a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning; 
At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known. 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your  own: 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of  this. 


FROM  THE  ORATORIO  OF  THE  CAPTTVITY. 


SONG. 

The  wretch  condemn'd  with  life  to  part, 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies ; 
And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart, 

Bids  expectation  rise. 

Hoj)e,  like  the  glimmering  taper's  light, 
Adorns  and  cheers  the  way; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night. 
Emits  a  brighter  ray. 


SONG. 

O  Memory!  thou  fond  deceivqi-^ 

Still  importunate  and  vain, 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever, 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain: 

Thou,  like  the  world,  th'  opprest  oppressing 
Thy  smiles  increase  the  wretch's  woe; 

And  he  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 
In  thee  must  ever  find  a  foe. 


THE  CLOWN'S  REPLY. 

John  Trott  was  desired  by  two  witty  peers, 
To  tell  them  the  reason  why  asses  had  ears; 


poeMs. 


161 


'  An't  please  you,"  quoth  John,  "  I'm  riot  given  to 

letters, 
Kor  dare  I  pretend  to  know  more  than  my  betters; 
Howe'er  from  this  time  I  shall  ne'er  see  your  graces, 
As  I  hope  to  be  saved !  without  thinking  on  asses." 
Edinburgh,  1753. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  PUHDON.* 

Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed, 
Who  long  was  a  bookseller's  hack; 

He  led  such  a  damnable  life  in  this  world, 
I  don't  think  he'll  v/ish  to  come  back. 


AN  ELEGY 

O.V  THE  GLORY  OP  HER  SEX,  MRS.  MARY  BLAIZE. 

Good  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize,       , 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word, — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  pass'd  her  door, 

And  always  found  her  kind ; 
She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor, — 

Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please 
With  manners  wondrous  winning; 

And  never  follow' d  wicked  ways, — 
Unless  when  she  was  sinning 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 

With  hoop  of  monstrous  size; 
She  never  slumber' d  in  her  pew, — 

But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 

By  twenty  beaux  and  more; 
The  king  himself  has  follow'd  her, — 

When  she  has  walk'd  before. 

But  now  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 

Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all ; 
The  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead, — 

Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore,  • 

For  Kent-street  well  may  say, 
That  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more, — 

She  had  not  died  to-day. 


This  gentleman  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin; 
but  having  wasted  hia  patrimony,  he  enlisted  as  a  foot-soldier. 
Growing  tired  of  that  employment,  he  obtained  his  discharge, 
and  became  a  scribbler  in  the  newspapers  He  translated 
'V^oltaire's  Henriade. 
11 


RETALIATION; 

A  POEM. 

[Dt.  Goldsmith  and  some  of  his  friends  occasionally  dinei  I 
at  the  SL  James's  Coffee-house. — One  day  it  was  proposed  to 
write  6pitaphs  on  him.  His  country,  dialect,  and  person, 
furnished  subjects  of  witticism.  He  was  called  on  for  Re- 
taliation, and  at  their  next  meeting  produced  the  following 
poem) 

Of  old,  when  Scarroh  his  companions  invited. 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was 

united ; 
If  our  landlord*  supplies  us  with  beef,  and  with  fish, 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself,  and  he  brings  the 

best  dish ; 
Our  Deant  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the 

plains; 
Our  Burket  shall  be  tongue,  with  the  garnish  of 

brains ; 
Our  Will§  shall  be  wild-fowl,  of  excellent  flavour, 
And  Dickll  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  the  sa- 
vour; 
Our  Cumberland' sTT  sweet-bread  its  place  shall 

obtain. 
And  Douglas**  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  j 
Our  Garrick'stt  a  sallad ;  for  in  him  we  see 
Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree  : 
To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am, 
That  Ridgett  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds§§  is  lamb; 
That  Hickey'sllll  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule. 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool. 
At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast. 
Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last? 
Here,  waiter,  more  wine,  let  me  sit  while  Pm  able, 
Till  all  my  companions  sink  under  the  table ; 
Then,  with  chaos  and  blunders  encircling  my  head, 
Let  me  ponder,  and  tell  what  I  think  of  the  dead.. 


The  master  of  the  St.  James's  Coffee-house,  where  th« 
doctor,  and  the  friends  he  has  characterized  in  this  poem,  oc- 
casionally dined. 

t  Doctor  Bernard,  dean  of  Derry,  in  Ireland. 

+  The  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke, 

§  Mr.  William  Burke,  late  secretary  to  General  Conway, 
and  member  for  Bedwin. 

II  Mr.  Richard  Burke,  coMector  of  Granada.         • 

ITMr.  Richard  Cumberland,  author  of  "  The  West  Indian." 
"Fashionable  Lover,"  "The  Brothers,"  and  various  other 
productions. 

'  Dr.  Douglas,  canon  of  Windsor,  (afterwards  bishop  of 
Salisbury),  an  Ingenious  Scotch  gentleman,  who  no  less  dis- 
tinguished himself  as  a  citizen  of  the  world,  than  a  sound 
critic,  in  detecting  several  literary  mistakes  (or  rather  forge- 
ries) of  his  countrymen ;  particularly  Lauder  on  Milton,  and 
Bower's  History  of  the  Popes. 

1t  David  Garrick.  Esq. 

tf  Counsellor  John  Ridge,  a  gentleman  belonging  to  Om 
Irish  bar. 

|§  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 

in  An  eminent  attomey. 


163 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Here  lies  the  good  dean,*  re-united  to  earth, 
Who  mix'd  reason  with  pleasure,  and  wisdom  with 

mirth : 
If  he  had  any  faults,  he  has  left  us  in  doubt, 
At  least  in  six  weeks  I  could  not  find  'em  out ; 
Vet  some  have  declared,  and  it  can't  be  denied  'em, 
.  That  sly-boots  was  cursedly  cunning  to  hide  'em. 
Here  lies  our  good  Edmund, t  whose  genius  was 
such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it,  or  blame  it  too  much; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrow'd  his  mind. 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his 

throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshendt  to  lend  him  a 

vote: 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refin- 
ing, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of 

dining : 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit. 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot,  too  cool;  for  a  drudge,  disobedient; 
And  too  fond  of  the  rig}^  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
in  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemploy'd  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  William,  §  whose  heart  was  a 

mint, 
While  the  owner  ne'er  knew  half  the  good  that 

was  in' t; 
The  pupil  of  impulse,  it  forced  him  along, 
His  conduct  still  right,  with  his  argument  wrong; 
Still  aiming  at  honour,  yet  fearing  to  roam, 
The  coachman  was  tipsy,  the  chariot  drove  home: 
Would  you  ask  for  his  merits?  alas!  he  had  none; 
What  was  good  was  spontaneous,  his  faults  were 

his  own. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  II  whose  fate  I  must 
sigh  at; 
Alas,  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet? 
What  spirits  were  his !  what  wit  and  what  whim ! 
Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  Umb! 
Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball! 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  was  Dick, 
That  we  wish'd  him  full  ten  times  a-day  at  old 

Nick; 
But  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein, 
As  often  we  wish'd  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 
The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts; 


*  Doctor  Bernard. 

tThe  Right  Hon.  Edmund  Burke. 

J  Mr.  T.  Townshend,  member  for  Whitchurch. 

§  Mr.  William  Burke. 

I  Mr.  Richard  Burlce ;  (vide  page  161.)  This  gentleman 
having  slightly  fractured  one  of  his  arms  and  legs  at  different 
tlmee,  the  doctor  had  rallied  him  on  those  accidents,  as  a  kind 
erf  retriWtivfe  justice  ftw  breaking  his  Jests  upon  other  people. 


A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 

To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are. 

His  gallants  are  all  faultless,  his  women  divine, 

And  comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine; 

liike  a  tragedy  queen  he  has  dizen'd  her  out, 

Or  rather  like  tragedy  giving  a  rout. 

His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 

Of  virtues  and  feeling,  that  folly  grows  proud; 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 

Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own;- 

Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught. 

Or,  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 

Say,  was  it  that  vainly  directing  his  view 

To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few, 

Ctuite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf, 

He  grew  lazy  at  last,  and  drew  from  himself? 

Here  Douglas  retires  from  his  toils  to  relax, 
The  scourge  of  impostors,  the  terror  of  quacks; 
Come,  all  ye  quack  bards,  and  ye  quacking  di\ineig, 
Come,  and  dance  on  the  spot  where  your  tyrant 

reclines : 
When  satire  and  censure  encircled  his  throne, 
I  fear'd  for  your  safety,  I  fear'd  for  my  own ; 
But  now  he  is  gone,  and  we  want  a  detector, 
Our  Dodds*  shall  be  pious,  our  Kenrickst  shall 

lecture; 
Macphersont  write  bombast,  and  call  it  a  style, 
Our  Townshend  make  speeches,  and  I  shall  com- 
pile: 
New  Lauders  and  Bowers  the  Tweed  shall  cross 

over. 
No  countryman  living  their  tricks  to  discover 
Detection  her  taper  shall  quench  to  a  spark, 
And  Scotchman  meet  Scotchman,  and  cheat  in  the 
dark. 

Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confest  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplaster'd  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,' simple,  affecting; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off,  he  was  actiiig 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a-day : 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not*his  own  by  finessing  and  trick : 
He  cast  off  his  friends,  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle 
them  back. 


*  The  Rev,  Dr.  Dodd. 

t  Dr.  Kenrick,  who  read  lectures  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  School  of  Shakspeare." 

I  James  Macpherson,  Esq.  who  lafely,  from  the  mere  forot 
of  his  style,  wrote  down  the  first  poet  of  all  antiquity. 


POEMS. 


169 


Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallow'd  what  came, 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 
Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  pepper' d  the  highest,  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind, 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kelly s,*  and  Woodfallst  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and 

you  gave ! 
How  did  Grub-street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  y'ou 

raised, 
While  he  was  be-Roscius'd,  and  you  were  be- 

praised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit  wherever  it  flies, 
To  act  as  an  an^el  and  mix  with  the  skies : 
Those  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill,- 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will, 
Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with 

love, 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens.be  his  Kellys  a;bove.$ 

Here  Hickey  reclines,  a  most  blunt  pleasant 
creature. 
And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good  nature ; 
He  cherish'd  his  friend,  and  he  relish'd  a  bumper, 
Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a  thumper. 
Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a  miser? 
I  answer  no,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser. 


*  Mr.  Hugh  Kelly,  author  of  False  Delicacy,  Word  to  the 

Wise,  Clementina,  School  for  Wives,  etc.  etc. 
t  Mr.  William  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
t  The  following  poems  by  Mr.  Garrick,  may  in  some  mea 

sure  account  for  the  severity  exercised  by  Dr.  Goldsmith  in 

respect  to  that  gentleman. 

JUPITER  AND  MERCURY,  A  FABLE. 

Here  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 
Go  fetch  me  some  clay — I  will  make  an  oddfellow ! 
Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled, — much  gold  and  some 

dross; 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross; 
Be  siire,  as  I  work,  to  throw  in  contradictions, 
A  great  love  of  truth,  yet  a  mind  turn'd  to  fictions; 
Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm'd  in  the  baking, 
Turn'd  to  learning  and  gaming,  religion  and  raking. 
With  the  love  of  a  wench  let  his  writings  be  chaste ; 
Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  pen  with  fine  taste; 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o'er  all  may  prevail, 
Set  fire  to  the  head,  and  set  fire  to  the  tail : 
For  the  joy  of  each  sex,  on  the  world  I'll  bestow  it, 
This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  arApoet; 
Though  a  mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame, 
And  among  brother  mortals — be  Goldsmith  his  name ; 
When  on  6arth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear, 
You,  Hermes,  shall  fetch  him— to  make  us  sport  here. 

ON  DR.  GOLDSMITH'S  CHARACTERISTICAL 
COOKERY. 

A  JEU  D'ESPRIT. 

Are  these  the  choice  dishes  the  doctor  has  sent  usl' 
la  this  the  great  poet  whose  works  so  content  usl 
This  Goldsmith's  fine  feast,  who  has  written  fine  booksl 
Heaven  sends  us  gu)d  meat,  but  the  Devil  sends  cooks. 


Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flaf? 

His  very  worst  foe  can't  accuse  him  of  that. 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go. 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest?  ah,  no! 

T  hen  what  was  his  failing?  come  tell  it,  and  bum  ye  f 

He  was,  could  he  help  it?  a  special  attorney. 

Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
He  has  not  left  a  wiser  or  better  behind ; 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand ; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland : 
Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part, 
His  pencil  otif  faces,  his  manners  our  heart : 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
When  they  judged  without  skill,  he  was  still  hard 

of  hearing  : 
When  they  talk'd  of  their  Raphaels,  Corregiosy 

and  stuff. 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,"'  and  only  took  snuff 


POSTSCRIPT. 

After  the  fourth  edition  of  tliis  poem  was  printed,  the  pub- 
lisher received  the  following  Epitaph  on  Mr.  Whitcfoord,f 
from  a  friend  of  the  late  Doctor  Goldsmith. 

Here  Whitefoord  reclines,  and  deny  it  who  can, 
Though  he  merrily  lived,  he  is  now  a  grave  man  :i 
Rare  compound  of  oddity,  frolic,  and  fun ! 
Who  relish'd  a  joke,  and  rejoiced  in  a  pun ; 
Whose  temper  was  generous,  open,  sincere ; 
A  stranger  to  flatt'ry,  a  stranger  to  fear ; 
Who  scatter' d  around  wit  and  humour  at  will; 
Whose  daily  bons  mots  half  a  column  might  fill : 
A  Scotchman,  from  pride  and  from  prejudice  free ; 
A  scholar,  yet  surely  no  pedant  was  he. 

What  pity,  alas !  that  so  liberal  a  mind 
Should  so  long  be  to  newspaper  essays  confined ! 
Who  perhaps  to  the  summit  of  science  could  soar^ 
Yet  content  "  if  the  table  he  set  in  a  roar;" 
Whose  talents  to  fill  any  station  were  fit, 
Yet  happy  if  Woodfall§  confess' d  him  a  wit. 

Ye  newspaper  witlings !  ye  pert  scribbling  folks ! 
Who  copied  his  squibs,  and  re-echoed  his  jokes; 
Ye  tame  imitators,  ye  servile  herd,  come, 
Stdl  follow  your  master,  and  visit  his  tomb. 
To  deck  it,  bring  with  you  festoons  of  the  vine, 
And  copious  libations  bestow  on  his  shrine; 
Then  strew  all  around  it  (you  can  do  no  lees) 
Cross-readings,  ship-news,  and  mistakes  of  the 
press.lt 


*  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  so  remarkably  deaf,  as  to  be  un« 
der  the  necessity  of  using  an  ear-trumpet  in  company. 

t  Mr.  Caleb  Whitefoord,  author  of  many  humorous  essays. 

+  Mr.  W.  was  so  notorious  a  punster,  that  Dr.  Goldsmith 
used  to  say  it  was  impossible  to  keep  him  company,  without, 
being  infected  with  the  hch  of  punning. 

§  Mr.  H.  S.  Woodfall,  printer  of  the  Public  Advertiser. 

B  Mr.  Whitefoord  has  frequently  indulged  the  town  withh*- 
moroua  pieces  under  those  titles  in  the  Public  Advertiser, 


164 


GOLDSMITH'S  WQRKS. 


Merry  Whitefoord,  farewell !  for  thy  sake  I  ad- 
mit 
That  a  Scot  may  have  humour,  I  had  almost  said 

wit. 
This  debt  to  thy  mem'ry  I  can  not  refuse, 
"Thou  best  humour' d  man  with  the  worst  hu- 
mour'd  Muse." 


SONG: 

INTENDED  TO  HAVE  BEEN  SUNG  IN  THE  COMEDY  OF 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER.* 
Ah  me!  when  shall  I  marry  me? 

Lovers  are  plenty ;  but  fail  to  relieve  me. 
He,  fond  youth,  that  could  carry  me, 

Offers  to  love,  but  means  to  deceive  me. 

But  I  will  rally,  and  combat  the  miner; 

Not  a  look,  nor  a  smile  shall  my  passion  discover. 
She  that  gives  all  to  the  false  one  pursuing  her. 

Makes  but  a  penitent,  and  loses  a  lover. 


PROLOGUE  TO  ZOBEIDE; 

A  TRAGEDY: 

WRITTEN  BY  JOSEPH  CRADDOCK,  ESa.  ACTED  AT  THE 
THEATRE-ROyAL,  COVENT  GARDEN,  MDCCLXXII. 
SPOKEN  BY   MR.    auICK. 

In  these  bold  times,  when  Learning's  sons  explore. 
The  distant  climates,  and  the  savage  shore; 
When  wise  astronomers  to  India  steer, 
And  quit  for  Venus  many  a  brighter  here; 
While  botanists,  all  cold  to  smiles  and  dimpling, 
Forsake  the  fair,  and  patiently — go  simpUng; 
Our  bard  into  the  general  spirit  enters, 
And  fits  his  little  frigate  for  adventures. 
With  Scythian  stores,  and  trinkets  deeply  laden. 
He  this  way  steers  his  course,  in  hopes  of  trading — 
Yet  ere  he  lands  he's  order'd  me  before, 
To  make  an  observation  on  the  shore. 
Where  are  we  driven?  our  reckoning  sure  is  lost! 
This  seems  a  rocky  and  a  dangerous  coast. 
Lord,  what  a  sultry  climate  am  I  under! 
Yon  ill  foreboding  cloud  seems  big  with  thunder: 

[Upper  Gallery, 


There  mangroves  spread,  and  larger  than  I've  seen 
'em — 

[Pit. 
Here  trees  of  stately  size — and  billing  turtles  in  'em, 

[Balconies 
Here  ill-condition'd  oranges  abound — 

[Stage. 
And  apples,  bitter  apples  strew  the  ground : 

[Tasting  thera. 
The  inhabitants  are  cannibals,  I  fear : 
I  heard  a  hissing — there  are  serpents  here ! 
O,  there  the  people  are — best  keep  my  distance: 
Our  captain,  gentle  natives!  craves  assistance ; 
Our  ship's  well  stored — in  yonder  creek  we've  laid 

her, 
His  honour  is  no  mercenary  trader. 
This  is  his  first  adventure,  lend  liim  aid, 
And  we  may  chance  to  drive  a  thriving  trade. 
His  goods,  he  hopes,  are  prime,  and  brought  from 

far, 
Equally  fit  for  gallantry  and  war. 
What,  no  reply  to  promises  so  ample? 
I'd  best  step  back — and  order  up  a  sample. 


*  SIR— I  send  you  a  small  production  of  the  late  Dr.  Gold 
smith,  which  has  never  been  published,  and  which  might  per- 
haps have  been  totally  lost,  had  I  not  secured  it.  He  intended 
it  as  a  song  in  the  character  of  Miss  Hardcastle,  in  his  admi- 
rable comedy  of  "  She  Sioops  to  Conquer,"  but  it  was  left  out, 
as  Mrs.  Bulkley,  who  played  the  part,  did  not  sing.  He  sung 
it  himself  in  private  companies  very  agreeably.  The  tune  is  a 
pretty  Irish  air,  called  "  The  Humours  of  Balamagairy,"  to 
which,  he  told  mej  he  found  it  very  difficult  to  adapt  words ; 
but  he  has  succeeded  very  happily  in  these  few  lines.  As  I 
could  sing  the  tune,  and  was  fond  of  them,  he  was  so  good  as  to 
give  me  them,  about  a  year  ago,  just  as  I  was  leaving  London, 
and  bidding  him  adieu  for  that  season,  little  apprehending 
that  it  was  a  last  farewell.  I  preserve  this  little  relic,  in  his 
own  hajvd-writing,  with  an  affectionate  care. 

I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 
James  Boswell. 


EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN  BY  MR.  LEE  LEWES,  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF 
HARLEaUIN,  AT  HIS  BENEFIT 

Hold  !  Prompter,  hold !  a  word  before  your  non- 
sense : 

I'd  speak  a  word  or  two,  to  ease  my  conscience. 

My  pride  forbids  it  ever  should  be  said, 

My  heels  eclipsed  the  honours  of  my  head ; 

That  I  found  humour  in  a  piebald  vest. 

Or  ever  thought  that  jumping  was  a  jest. 

[Takes  off  his  mask. 

Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  visionary  birth  ? 

Nature  disowns,  and  reason  scorns  thy  mirth ; 

In  thy  black  aspect  every  passion  sleeps, 

The  joy  that  dimples,  and  the  woe  that  weeps. 

How  hast  thou  fiU'd  the  scene  w'ih  all  thy  brood 

.Of  fools  pursuing,  and  of  fools  pursued ! 

Whose  ins  and  outs  no  ray  of  sense  discloses. 

Whose  only  plot  it  is  to  break  our  noses ; 

Whilst  from  below  the  trap-door  demons  rise, 

And  from  above  the  dangling  deities ; 

And  shall  I  mix  in  this  unhallow'd  crew  1 

May  rosin'd  lightning  blast  me  if  I  do ! 

No — I  will  act,  I'll  vindicate  the  stage : 

Shakspeare  himself  shall  feel  my  tragic  rage. 

Off!  off!  vile  trappings !  a  new  passion  reigns ! 

The  madd'ning  monarch  revels  in  my  veins. 

Oh !  for  a  Richard's  voice  to  catch  the  theme: 

Give  me  another  horse !  bind  up  my  wounds !— • 
soft — 'twas  but  a  dream. 

Ay,  'twas  but  a  dream,  for  now  there's  no  retreat- 
ing, 

If  I  cease  Harlequin,  I  cease  from  eating. 

'Twas  thus  that  JEsop's  stag,  a  creature  blameless, 

Yet  something  vain,  like  one  that  shall  be  nameless^ 


POEMS. 


165 


Once  on  the  margin  of  a  fountain  stood, 

And  cavill'd  at  his  image  in  the  flood. 

"  The  deuce  confound,"  he  cries,  "  these  drumstick 
shanks, 

They  never  have  my  gratitude  nor  thanks ; 

They're  perfectly  disgraceful !  strike  me  dead ! 

But  for  a  head,  yes,  yes,  I  have  a  head. 

How  piercing  is  that  eye,  how  sleek  that  brow! 

My  horns ! — I'm  told  horns  are  the  fashion  now." 

Whilst  thus  he  spoke,  astonish'd,  to  his  view, 

Near,  and  more  near,  the  hounds  and  huntsmen 
drew ; 

Hoicks !  hark  forward !  came  thund'ring  from  be- 
hind, 

He  bounds  aloft,  outstrips  the  fleeting  wind : 

He  quits  the  woods,  and  tries  the  beaten  ways ; 

He  starts,  he  pants,  he  takes  the  circling  maze. 

At  length,  his  silly  head,  so  prized  before, 

Is  taught  his  former  folly  to  deplore ; 

Whilst  his  strong  limbs  conspire  to  set  him  free. 

And  at  one  bound  he  saves  himself,  like  me. 

[Takiug  a  jump  through  the  stage  door. 


THE  LOGICIANS  REFUTED, 

IN    IMITATION   OF   DEAN   SWIFT. 

Logicians  have  but  ill  defined 

As  rational  the  human  mind ; 

Reason,  they  say,  belongs  to  man, 

But  let  them  prove  it  if  they  can. 

Wise  Aristotle  and  Smiglesius, 

By  ratiocinations  specious. 

Have  strove  to  prove  with  great  precision, 

With  definition  and  division. 

Homo  est  ratione  prcEditum  ; 

But  for  ray  soul  I  can  not  credit  'em ; 

And  must  in  spite  of  them  maintain, 

That  man  and  all  his  ways  are  vain ; 

And  that  this  boasted  lord  of  nature 

Is  both  a  weak  and  erring  creature. 

That  instinct  is  a  surer  guide, 

Than  reason,  boasting  mortals'  pride ; 

And  that  brute  beasts  are  far  before  '.em, 

Deus  est  anima  hrutorum. 

Who  ever  knew  an  honest  brute 

At  law  his  neighbour  prosecute. 

Bring  action  for  assault  and  battery, 

Or  friend  beguile  with  lies  and  flattery  1 

O'er  plains  they  ramble  unconfin'd, 

No  politics  disturb  their  jmind ; 

They  eat  their  meals,  and  take  their  sport, 

Nor  know  who's  in  or  out  at  court ; 

They  never  to  the  levee  go, 

To  treat  as  dearest  friend,  a  foe ; 

They  never  importune  his  grace, 

Nor  ever  cringe  to  men  in  place 

Nor  undertake  a  dirty  job. 

Nor  draw  the  quill  to  write  for  Bob : 

Fraught  with  invective  they  ne'er  go 

To  folks  at  Pater-Noster  Row; 


No  judges,  fiddlers,  dancing-masters, 
No  pickpockets  or  poetasters, 
Are  known  to  honest  quadrupeds, 
No  single  brute  his  fellow  leads. 
Brutes  never  meet  in  bloody  fray 
Nor  cut  each  other's  throats  for  pay. 
Of  beasts,  it  is  confest,  the  ape 
Comes  nearest  us  in  human  shape : 
Like  man  he  imitates  each  fashion, 
And  malice  is  his  ruling  passion; 
But  both  in  malice  and  grimaces,  • 
A  courtier  any  ape  surpasses. 
Behold  him  humbly  cringing  wait 
Upon  the  minister  of  state ; 
View  him  soon  after  to  inferiors 
Aping  the  conduct  of  superiors : 
He  promises  with  equal  air, 
And  to  perform  takes  equal  care. 
He  in  his  turn  finds  imitators : 
At  court,  the  porters,  lacqueys,  waiters, 
Their  masters'  manners  still  contract. 
And  footmen,  lords,  and  dukes  can  act. 
Thus  at  the  court,  both  great  and  small 
Behave  aUke,  for  all  ape  all. 


STANZAS 

ON   THE    TAKING   OF   aUEBEC. 

Amidst  the  clamour  of  exulting  joys, 
Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 

Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice. 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure 
start. 

O  Wolfe !  to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe. 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear; 

Ctuebec  in  vain  shall  teach  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart- wrung  tear. 

AUve,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigour  fled. 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes : 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead ! 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUTH 

STRUCK  BLIND   BY   LIGHTNING. 

Sure  'twas  by  Providence  design'd, 
Rather  in  pity,  than  in  hate, 

That  he  should  be,  like  Cupid,  blind, 
To  save  him  from  Narcissus'  fate. 

A  SONNET 
Weeping,  murmuring,  complaining, 

Lost  to  every  gay  delight ; 
Myra,  too  sincere  for  feigning. 

Fears  th'  approaching  bridal  night. 

Yet  why  impair  thy  bright  perfection  7 
Or  dim  thy  beauty  with  a  tear  1 

Had  Myra  follow'd  my  direction. 
She  long  had  wanted  cause  of  fear. 


^mm  ©®®iS)=srii^wiBai2)  m^^\ 


^  eomeirg; 


AS  PERFORMED  AT  THE  THEATRE-ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN. 


PREFACE. 

When  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,  I  confess 
1  was  strongly  prepossessed  in  favour  of  the  poets 
of  tne  last  age,  and  strove  to  imitate  them.  The 
term,  genteel  comedy,  was  then  unknown  amongst 
us,  and  little  more  was  desired  by  an  audience, 
than  nature  and  humour,  in  whatever  walks  of  life 
they  were  most  conspicuous.  The  author  of  the 
following  scenes  never  imagined  that  more  would  be 
expected  of  him,  and  therefore  to  delineate  charac- 
ter has  been  his  principal  aim.  Those  who  know 
any  thing  of  composition,  are  sensible  that,  in  pur- 
suing humour,  it  will  sometimes  lead  us  into  the 
recesses  of  the  mean;  I  was  even  tempted  to  Ipok 
for  it  in  the  master  of  a  spunging-house ;  but  in 
deference  to  the  public  taste,  grown  of  late,  per- 
haps, too  delicate,  the  scene  of  the  bailiffs  was  re- 
trenched in  the  representation.  In  deference  also 
to  the  judgment  of  a  few  friends,  who  think  in  a 
particular  way,  the  scene  is  here  restored.  The 
author  submits  it  to  the  reader  in  his  closet ;  and 
hopes  that  too  much  refinement  will  not  banish  hu- 
mour and  character  from  ours,  as  it  has  already 
done  from  the  French  theatre.  Indeedj  the  French 
comedy  is  now  become  so  very  elevated  and  senti- 
mental, that  it  has  not  only  banished  humoyr  and 
Moliere  from  the  stage,  but  it  has  banished  all 
spectators  too. 

Upon  the  whole,  the  author  returns  his  thanks 
to  the  public  for  the  favourable  reception  which 
*  The  Good-Natured  Man^'  has  met  with ;  and  to 
Mr.  Colman  in  particular,  for  his  kindness  to  it. 
It  may  not  also  be  improper  to  assure  any,  who 
shall  hereafter  write  for  the  theatre,  that  merit,  or 
supposed  merit,  will  ever  be  a  sufficient  passport  to 
his  protection. 


PROLOGUE 
WRITTEN  BY  DR.  JOHNSON, 

AND 
SPOKEN  BY  MR.  BENSLEY. 

PREST  by  the  load  of  life,  the  weary  mind 
Surveys  the  general  toil  of  human  kind ; 
With  cool  submission  joins  the  lab' ring  train, 
And  social  sorrow  loses  half  its  pain ; 
Our  anxious  bard  without  complaint,  may  share 
This  bustling  season's  epidemic  care. 
Like  Csesar's  pilot,  dignified  by  fate, 
Tost  in  one  common  storm  with  all  the  great ; 
Distrest  alike,  the  statesman  and  the  wit. 
When  one  a  borough  courts,  and  one  the  pit. 
The  busy  candidates  for  power  and  fame 
Have  hopes  and  fears,  and  wishes,  just  the  same: 
Disabled  both  to  combat  or  to  fly. 
Must  bear  all  taunts,  and  hear  without  reply. 
Uncheck'd,  on  both  loud  rabbles  vent  their  rage, 
As  mongrels  bay  the  lion  in  a  cage. 
Th'  offended  burgess  holds  his  angry  tale, 
For  that  blest  year  when  all  that  vote  may  rail ; 
Their  schemes  of  spite  the  poet's  foes  dismiss. 
Till  that  glad  night,  when  all  that  hate  may  hiss. 
"  This  day  the  powder'd  curls  and  golden  coat," 
Says  swelling  Crispin,  "  begg'd  a  cobbler's  vote." 
"  This  night  our  wit,"  the  pert  apprentice  cries, 
"  Lies  at  my  feet — I  hiss  him,  and  he  dies."^ 
The  great,  'tis  true,  can  charm  th'  electing  tribe  ; 
The  bard  may  supplicate,  but  can  not  bribe. 
Yet  judged  by  those,  whose  voices  ne'er  were  sold, 
He  feels  no  want  of  ill-persuading  gold  ; 
But  confident  of  praise,  if  praise  be  due, 
Trusts,  without  fear,  to  merit,  and  to  you, 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


1C7 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

MEN. 

Mr.  HoNEywooD    ....  Mr.  Powell. 

Croaker Mr.  Sirtter. 

Lofty Mr.  Woodward. 

Sir  William  HoNEYwooD  .  Mr.  Clarke. 

Leontine Mr.  Bensley. 

Jarvis Mr.  Dunstall. 

Butler Mr.  Gushing. 

Bailiff Mr.  R.  Smith. 

Dubardieu Mr.  Holtam. 

Postboy     .    .         ....  Mr.  CIuick. 

WOMEN. 

M'ss  Richland       ....  Mrs.  Bulklet. 

Olivia Mrs.  Mattocks. 

Mrs.  Croaker Mrs.  Pitt. 

GrARNET Mrs,  Green. 

Landlady Mrs.  White. 

Scene — London. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 
ACT  I. 

scene — an  apartment  in  young  honeywood' 

HOUSfi. 


Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  HONEYWOOD,  JARVIS. 

Sir  William.  Good  Jarvis,  make  no  apologies 
for  this  honest  bluntness.  Fidelity,  like  yours,  is 
the  best  excuse  for  every  freedom. 

Jarvis.  I  can't  help  being  blunt,  and  being  very 
angry  too,  when  I  hear  you  talk  of  disinheriting  so 
good,  so  worthy  a  young  gentleman  as  your  ne- 
chew,  my  master.     All  the  world  loves  him. 

Sir  William.  Say  rather,  that  he  loves  all  the 
world ;  that  is  his  fault. 

Jarvis.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  part  of  it  more 
dear  to  him  than  you  are,  though  he  has  not  seen 
you  since  he  was  a  child. 

Sir  William.  What  signifies  his  affection  to 
me ;  or  how  can  I  be  proud  of  a  place  in  a  hearty 
where  every  sharper  and  coxcomb  finds  an  easy 
entrance  1 

Jarvis.  I  grant  you  that  he  is  rather  too  good- 
natured  ;  that  he's  too  much  every  man's  man ;  that 
he  laughs  this  minute  with  one,  and  cries  the  next 
with  another ;  but  whose  instructions  may  he  thank 
for  all  this? 

Sir  William.  Not  mine,  sure  ?  My  letters  to 
him  during  my  employment  in  Italy,  taught  him 
only  that  philosophy  which  might  prevent,  not  de- 
fend his  errors. 

Jarvis.  Faith,  begging  your  honour's  pardon, 
Iim  sorry  they  taught  him  any  philosophy  at  all;  it  my  friends  this  morning' 


has  only  served  to  spoil  him.  This  same  philosophy 
is  a  good  horse  in  the  stable,  but  an  arrant  jade  on 
a  journey.  For  my  own  part,  whenever  I  hear 
him  mention  the  name  on't,  I'm  always  sure  he's 
going  to  play  the  fool. 

Sir  William.  Don't  let  us  ascribe  his  faults  to 
his  philosophy,  I  entreat  you.  No,  Jarvis,  his 
good-nature  arises  rather  from  his  fears  of  offending 
the  importunate,  than  his  desire  of  making  the  de- 
serving happy. 

Jarvis.  What  it  arises  from,  I  don't  know. 
But  to  be  sure,  every  body  has  it,  that  asks  it. 

Sir  William.  Ay,  or  that  does  not  ask  it.  I 
have  been  now  for  some  time  a  concealed  spectator 
of  his  follies,  and  find  them  as  boundless  as  his  dis- 
sipation. 

Jarvis.  And  yet,  faith,  he  has  some  fine  name 
or  other  for  them  all.  He  calls  his  extravagance, 
generosity;  and  his  trusting  every  body,  universal 
benevolence.  It  was  but  last  week  he  went  se- 
curity for  a  fellow  whose  face  he  scarce  knew,  and 
that  he  called  an  act  of  exalted  mu — mu — munifi- 
cence ;  ay,  that  was  the  name  he  gave  it. 

Sir  William.  And  upon  that  I  proceed,  as  my 
last  effort,  though  with  very  little  hopes  to  reclaim 
him.  That  very  fellow  has  just  absconded,  and  i 
have  taken  up  the  security.  Now,  my  intention  is 
to  involve  him  in  fictitious  distress,  before  he  has 
plunged  himself  into  real  calamity :  to  arrest  him  for 
that  very  debt,  to  clap  an  officer  upon  him,  and 
then  let  him  see  which  of  his  friends  will  come  to 
his  relief 

Jarvis.  Well,  if  I  could  but  any  way  see  hira 
thoroughly  vexed,  every  groan  of  his  would  be  mu- 
sic to  me;  yet  faith,  I  believe  it  impossible.  I  have 
tried  to  fret  him  myself  every  morning  these  three 
years;  but  instead  of  being  angry,  he  sits  as  calmly 
to  hear  me  scold,  as  he  does  to  his  hair-dreseer. 

Sir  William.  We  must  try  him  once  more, 
however,  and  I'll  go  this  instant  to  put  my  scheme 
into  execution :  and  I  don't  despair  of  succeeding, 
as,  by  your  means,  I  can  have  frequent  opportuni- 
ties of  being  about  him  without  being  known. 
What  a  pity  it  is,  Jarvis,  that  any  man's  good- will 
to  others  should  produce  so  much  neglect  of  him- 
self, as  to  require  correction !  Yet  we  must  touch 
his  weaknesses  with  a  delicate  hand.  There  are 
some  faults  so  nearly  allied  to  excellence,  that  we 
can  scarce  weed  out  the  vice  without  eradicating 
the  virtue.  [E.vit. 

Jarvis.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  Sir  William  Ho- 
neywood. It  is  not  without  reason,  that  the  world 
allows  thee  to  be  the  best  of  men.  But  here  comes 
his  hopeful  nephew;  the  strange,  good-natured, 
foolish,  open-hearted — And  yet,  all  his  faults  are 
such  that  one  loves  him  still  the  better  for  them. 
Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeywood.     Well,  Jarvis,  what  mes.<<a?e^  *^m 


168 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Jarvis.     You  have  no  friends. 

HoneyiDood.  Well ;  from  my  acquaintance  then  1 

Jarvis.  [•pulling  out  hills.l  A  few  of  our 
usual  cards  of  compliment,  that's  all.  This  bill 
from  your  tailor;  this  from  your  mercer;  and  this 
from  the  little  broker  in  Crooked-lane.  He  says  he 
has  been  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  to  get  back  the 
money  you  borrowed. 

Honeywood.  That  I  don't  know ;  but  I  am  sure 
wc  were  at  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  getting  him  to 
lend  it. 

Jarvis.     He  has  lost  all  patience. 

Honeywood.  Then  he  has  lost  a  very  good  thing. 

Jarvis.  There's  that  ten  guineas  you  were 
sending  to  the  poor  gentleman  and  his  children  in 
the  Fleet.  I  believe  that  would  stop  his  mouth  fol 
a  while  at  least 

Honeywood.  Ay,  Jarvis,  but  what  will  fill  their 
mouths  in  the  meantime  7  Must  I  be  cruel,  because 
he  happens  to  be  importunate ;  and,  to  reUeve  his 
iavarice,  leave  them  to  insupportable  distress? 

Jarvis.  'Sdeath!  sir,  the  question  now  is  how 
to  relieve  yourself;  yourself.-r-Haven't  I  reason  to 
be  out  of  my  senses,  when  I  see  things  going  at 
sixes  and  sevens  7 

Honeywood.  "Whatever  reason  you  may  have 
for  being  out  of  your  senses,  I  hope  you'll  allow 
that  I'm  not  quite  unreasonable  for  continuing  in 
mine. 

Jarvis.  You  are  the  only  man  alive  in  your  pre- 
sent situation  that  could  do  so. — Every  thing  upon 
the  waste.  There's  Miss  Richland  and  her  fine 
fortune  gone  already,  and  upon  the  point  of  being 
given  to  your  rival. 

Honeywood.     I'm  no  man's  rival. 

Jarvis.  Your  uncle  in  Italy  preparing  to  disin- 
herit you ;  your  own  fortune  almost  spent ;  and  no- 
thing but  pressing  creditors,  false  friends,  and  a 
pack  of  drunken  servants  that  your  kindness  has 
made  unfit  for  any  other  family. 

Honeywood.  Then  they  have  the  more  occasion 
for  being  in  mine. 

Jarvis.  Soh !  What  will  you  have  done  with 
him  that  I  caught  stealing  your  plate  in  the  pan- 
try?    In  the  fact;  I  caught  him  in  the  fact. 

Honeywood.  In  the  fact  7  If  so,  I  really  think 
that  we  should  pay  him  his  wages,  and  turn  him 
off. 

Jarvis.  He  shall  be  turned  off  at  Tyburn,  the 
dog ;  we'll  hang  him,  if  it  be  only  to  frighten  the 
rest  of  the  family. 

Honeywood.  No,  Jarvis;  it's  enough  that  we 
have  lost  what  he  has  stolen ;  let  us  not  add  to  it 
the  loss  of  a  fellow  creature ! 

Jarvis.  "Very  fine  !  w^ell,  here  was  the  footman 
just  now,  to  complain  of  the  butler :  he  says  he 
does  most  work,  and  ought  to  have  most  wages. 

Honeywood.  That's  but  just;  though  perhaps 
her*  comes  the  butler  to  complain  of  the  footmau. 


Jarvis.  Ay,  it's  the  way  with  them  all,  from  th| 
sculhon  to  the  privy-eounsellor.  If  they  have  a  bad 
master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  him ;  if  they 
have  a  good  master,  they  keep  quarrelling  with  one 
another. 

Enter  BUTLER,  drunk. 

Butler.  Sir,  I'll  not  stay  in  the  family  with  Jona- 
than; you  must  part  with  him,  or  part  with  me, 
that's  the  ex — ex — exposition  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Honeywood.  Full  and  explicit  enough.  But 
what's  his  fault,  good  Philip? 

Butler.  Sir,  he's  given  to  drinking,  sir,  and  I 
shall  have  my  morals  corrupted  by  keeping  such 
company. 

Honeywood.  Ha!  ha!  he  has  such  a  diverting 
way — 

Jarvis.     O,  quite  amusing. 

Butler.  I  find  my  wine's  a-going,  sir ;  and  li- 
quors don't  go  without  mouths,  sir;  I  hate  a  drunk- 
ard, sir. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  Philip,  I'll  hear  you 
upon  that  another  time ;  so  go  to  bed  now. 

Jarvis.  To  bed  !  let  him  go  to  the  devil. 

Butler.  Begging  your  honour's  pardon,  and  beg 
ging  your  pardon.  Master  Jarvis,  I'll  not  go  to  bed, 
nor  to  the  devil  neither.  I  have  enough  to  do  to 
mind  my  cellar.  I  forgot,  your  honour,  Mr. 
Croaker  is  below.    I  came  on  purpose  to  tell  you. 

Honeywood.  Why  didn't  you  show  him  up, 
blockhead  ? 

Butler.  Show  him  up,  sir!  With  s^\  my  heart, 
sir.     Up  or  down,  all's  one  to  me.  [Exit. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  we  have  one  or  other  of  that  family 
in  this  house  from  morning  till  night.  He  comes 
an  the  old  affair,  I  suppose.  The  match  between 
his  son  that's  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  Miss 
Richland,  the  young  lady  he's  guardian  to. 

Hor\^ywood.  Perhaps  so.  Mr.  Croaker  know- 
ing my  friendship  for  the  young  lady,  has  got  it 
into  liis  head  that  I  can  persuade  her  to  what  I 
please. 

Jarvis.  Ah  !  if  you  loved  yourself  but  half  as 
well  as  she  loves  you,  we  should  soon  see  a  mar- 
riage that  v^^ould  set  all  things  to  rights  again. 

Honeywood.  Love  me !  Sure,  Jarvis,  you  dream. 
No,  no ;  her  intimacy  with  me  never  amounted  to 
more  than  friendship — mere  friendship.  That  she 
is  the  most  lovely  woman  that  ever  warmed  tl^^ 
human  heart  with  desire,  I  own.  But  never  let 
me  harbour  a  thought  of  making  her  unhappy,  by 
a  connexion  with  one  so  unworthy  her  merits  as  I 
am.  No,  Jarvis,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  serve  her, 
even  in  spite  of  my  wishes ;  and  to  secure  her  hap- 
piness, though  it  destroys  my  own. 

Jarvis.  Was  ever  the  like?    I  want  patience. 

Honeywood.  Besides,  Jarvis,  though  I  could  ob- 
tain Miss  Richland's  consent,  do  you  think  I  could 
succeed  with  her  guardian,  or  Mrs.  Croaker,  his 
wife ;  who,  though  both  very  fine  in  their  way,  are 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


aro  yet  a  little  opposite  in  their  dispositions,  you 
know. 

Jarvis.  Opposite  enough,  Heaven  knows!  the 
very  reverse  of  each  other :  she,  all  laugh  and  no 
joke;  he  always  complaining  and  never  sorrowful ; 
a  fretful  poor  soul,  that  has  a  new  distress  for  every 
hour  in  the  four-and-twenty — 

Honeywood.  Hush,  hush,  he's  coming  up,  he'll 
hear  you. 
Jarvis.  One  whose  voice  is  a  passing-bell — 
Honeywood.  Well,  well ;  go,  do. 
Jarvis.  A  raven  that  bodes  nothing  but  mischief; 
a  coffin  and  cross  bones;  a  bundle  of  rue;  a  sprig  of 
deadly  night-shade ;  a —        [Honeywood  stopping 
his  mouth,  at  last  pushes  him  off. 
Exit  JARVIS. 
Honeywood.     I  must  own  my  old  monitor  is  not 
entirely  wrong.    There  is  something  in  my  friend 
Croaker's  conversation  that  quite  depresses  me. 
His  very  mirth  is  an  antidote  to  all  gaiety,  and 
his  appearance  has  a  stronger  effect  on  my  spirits 
than  an  undertaker's  shop. — Mr.  Croaker,  tliis  is 
such  a  satisfaction — 

Enter  CROAKER. 
Croaker.  A  pleasant  morning  to  Mr.  Honey- 
wood, and  many  of  them.  How  is  this !  you  look 
most  shockingly  to-day,  my  dear  friend.  I  hope 
this  weather  does  not  affect  your  spirits.  To  be 
sure,  if  this  weather  continues — I  say  nothing — 
But  God  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three  months. 
Honeywood.  I  heartily  concur  in  the  wish, 
though,  I  own,  not  in  your  apprehensions. 

Croaker.  May-be  not.  Indeed  what  signifies 
what  weather  we  have  in  a  country  going  to  ruin 
like  ours?  taxes  rising  and  trade  falling.  Money 
flying  out  of  the  kingdom,  and  Jesuits  swarming 
into  it.  I  know  at  this  time  no  less  than  a  hundred 
and  twenty-seven  Jesuits  between  Charing-cross 
and  Temple-bar. 

Honeywood.  The  Jesuits  will  scarce  pervert 
you  or  me,  I  should  hope. 

Croaker.  May-be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies 
whom  they  pervert  in  a  country  that  has  scarce  any 
religion  to  lose!  I'm  only  afraid  for  our  wives  and 
daughters. 

Honeywood.  I  have  no  apprehensions  for  the 
ladies,  I  assure  you. 

Croaker.  May-be  not.  Indeed,  what  signifies 
whether  they  be  perverted  or  no?  the  women  in  my 
time  were  good  for  something.  I  have  seen  a  lady 
drest  from  top  to  toe  in  her  own  manufactures  for- 
merly. But  now-a-days,  the  devil  a  thing  of  their 
own  manufacture's  about  them,  except  their  faces. 
Honeywood.  But,  however  these  faults  may  be 
practised  abroad,  you  don't  find  them  at  home, 
either  with  Mrs.  Croaker,  Olivia,  or  Miss  Richland? 
Croaker.  The  best  of  them  will  never  be  canon- 
ized for  a  saint  when  she's  dead.  By  the  by,  my 
Ucar  firiend,  I  don't  find  this  match  between  Miss 


Richland  and  my  son  much  relished,  either  by  one 
side  or  t'  other. 
Honeywood.  I  thought  otherwise. 
Croaker.  Ah,  Mr.  Honeywood,  a  little  of  your 
fine  serious  advice  to  the  young  lady  might  go  far : 
I  know  she  has  a  very  exalted  opinion  of  your  un- 
derstanding. 

Honeywood.  But  would  not  that  be  usurping  an 
authority  that  more  properly  belongs  to  yourself? 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  you  know  but  little  of 
my  authority  at  home.  People  think,  indeed,  be- 
cause they  see  me  come  out  in  a  morning  thus,  with 
a  pleasant  face,  and  to  make  my  friends  merry,  that 
all's  well  within.  But  I  have  cares  that  would 
break  a  heart  of  stone.  My  wife  has  so  encroach- 
ed upon  every  one  of  my  privileges,  that  I'm  now 
no  more  than  a  mere  lodger  in  my  own  house. 

Honeywood.  But  a  little  spirit  exerted  on  your 
side  might  perhaps  restore  your  authority. 

Croaker.  No,  though  I  had  the  spirit  of  a  lion ! 
I  do  rouse  sometimes.  But  what  then?  always 
haggling  and  haggling.  A  man  is  tired  of  getting 
the  better  before  his  wife  is  tired  of  losing  the 
victory. 

Honeywood.  It's  a  melancholy  consideration  in- 
deed, that  our  chief  comforts  often  produce  our 
greatest  anxieties,  and  that  an  increase  of  our  pos- 
sessions is  but  an  inlet  to  new  disquietudes. 

Croaker.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  these  were  the 
very  words  of  poor  Dick  Doleful  to  me  not  a  week 
before  he  made  away  with  himself.  Indeed,  Mr. 
Honeywood,  I  never  see  you  but  you  put  me  in 
mind  of  poor  Dick.  Ah,  there  was  merit  neglected 
for  you !  and  so  true  a  friend !  we  loved  each  other 
for  thirty  years,  and  yet  he  never  asked  me  to  lend 
him  a  single  farthing. 

Honeywood.  Pray  what  could  induce  him  to  com- 
mit so  rash  an  action  at  last  ? 

Croaker.  I  don't  know :  some  people  were  ma- 
licious enough  to  say  it  was  keeping  company  with 
me;  because  we  used  to  meet  now  and  then  and 
open  our  hearts  to  each  other.     To  be  sure  I  loved 
to  hear  him  talk,  and  he  loved  to  hear  me  talk ; 
poor  dear  Dick.  He  used  to  say  that  C  roaker  rhymed 
to  joker;  and  so  we  used  to  laugh — Poor  Dick. 
[Going  to  cry. 
Honeywood.  His  fate  affects  me. 
Croaker.  Ay,  he  grew  sick  of  this  miserable  life, 
where  we  do  nothing  but  eat  and  grow  hAigry. 
dress  and  undress,  get  up  and  lie  down ;  while  rea- 
son, that  should  watch  like  a  nurse  by  our  side, 
falls  as  fast  asleep  as  we  do. 

Honeywood.  To  say  truth,  if  we  compare  that 
part  of  life  which  is  to  come,  by  that  which  we  have 
past,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 

Croaker.  Life  at  the  greatest  and  best  is  but  a 
froward  child,  that  must  be  humoured  and  coaxed 
a  Uttle  till  it  falls  asleep,  and  then  all  the  caro  is 
is  over. 


rio 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Honeywood.  Very  true,  sir,  nothing  can  exceed 
the  vanity  of  our  existence,  but  the  folly  of  our  pur- 
Biuts.  We  wept  when  we  came  into  the  world, 
and  every  day  tells  us  why. 

Croaker.  Ah,  my  dear  friend,  it  is  a  perfect  satis- 
faction to  be  miserable  with  you.  My  son  Leon- 
tine  shan't  lose  the  benefit  of  such  fine  conversation. 
I'll  just  step  home  for  him.  I  am  willing  to  show 
him  so  much  seriousness  in  one  scarce  older  than 
himself — And  what  if  I  bring  my  last  letter  to  the 
Gazetteer  on  the  increase  and  progress  of  earth- 
quakes ?  It  will  amuse  us,  I  promise  you.  I  there 
prove  how  the  late  earthquake  is  coming  round  to 
pay  us  another  visit,  from  London  to  Lisbon,  from 
Lisbon  to  the  Canary  Islands,  from  the  Canary 
Islands  to  Palmyra,  from  Palmyra  to  Constantino- 
ple, and  so  from  Constantinople  back  to  London 
again.  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  Poor  Croaker !  his  situation  deserves 
the  utmost  pity.  I  shall  scarce  recover  my  spirits 
these  three  days.  Sure  to  live  upon  such  terms  is 
■worse  than  death  itself.  And  yet,  when  I  consider 
my  own  situation, — a  broken  fortune,  a  hopeless 
passion,  friends  in  distress,  the  wish  but  not  the 
power  to  serve  them — [pausing  and  sighing.] 
Enter  BUTLER. 

Butler.  More  company  below,  sir ;  Mrs.  Croaker 
and  Miss  Richland ;  shall  I  show  them  up?  but 
they're  showing  up  themselves.  [Exit. 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER  and  MISS  RICHLAND. 

Miss  Richland.  You're  always  in  such  spirits. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  We  have  just  come,  my  dear 
Honeywood,  from  the  auction.  There  was  the 
old  deaf  dowager,  as  usual,  bidding  like  a  fury 
against  herself.  And  then  so  curious  in  antiques ! 
herself  the  most  genuine  piece  of  antiquity  in  the 
whole  collection. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  some  uneasi- 
ness from  friendship  makes  me  unfit  to  share  in  this 
good-humour :  I  know  you'll  pardon  me. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  vow  he  seems  as  melancholy  as 
if  he  had  taken  a  dose  of  my  husband  this  morning. 
Well,  if  Richland  here  can  pardon  you  I  must. 

Miss  Richland.  You  would  seem  to  insinuate, 
madam,  that  I  have  particular  reasons  for  being  dis- 
posed to  refuse  it. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Whatever  I  insinuate,  my  dear, 
don't  be  so  ready  to  wdsh  an  explanation. 

Miss  Richland.  I  own  I  should  be  sorry  Mr. 
Honeywood' s  long  friendship  and  mine  should  be 
misunderstood. 

Honeywood.  There's  no  answering  for  others, 
madam.  But  I  hope  you'll  never  find  me  presum- 
ing to  offer  more  than  the  most  delicate  friendship 
may  readily  allow. 

Miss  Richland.  And  I  shall  be  prouder  of  such 
a  tribute  from  you,  than  the  most  passionate  pro- 
fessions from  others. 

Honeywood.  My  own  sentiments,  madam ;  friend- 
ihip  is  a  disinterested  commerce  between  equals ;  \ 


love,  an  abject  intercourse  between  tyrants  and 

slaves. 

Miss  Richland.  And,  without  a  compliment,  I 
know  none  more  disinterested,  or  more  capable  of 
friendship,  than  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And,  indeed,  I  know  nobody  that 
has  more  friends,  at  least  among  the  ladies.  Miss 
Fruzz,  Miss  Oddbody,  and  Miss  Winterbottom, 
praise  him  in  all  companies.  As  for  Miss  Biddy 
Bundle,  she's  his  professed  admirer. 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed !  an  admirer ! — I  did  not 
know,  sir,  you  were  such  a  favourite  there.  But 
is  she  seriously  so  handsome  1  Is  she  the  mighty 
thing  talked  of? 

Honeywood.  The  town,  madam,  seldom  begins 
to  praise  a  lady's  beauty,  till  she's  beginning  to 
lose  it.  [Smiling 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  she's  resolved  never  to  lose 
it,  it  seems.  For,  as  her  natural  face  decays,  her 
skill  improves  in  making  the  artificial  one.  Well, 
nothing  diverts  me  more  than  one  of  those  fine, 
old,  dressy  things,  who  thinks  to  conceal  her  age, 
by  every  where  exposing  her  person;  sticking  her- 
self up  in  the  front  of  a  side  box ;  trailing  through 
a  minuet  at  Almack's;  and  then  in  the  public  gar- 
dens, looking  for  all  the  world  like  one  of  the  paint- 
ed ruins  of  the  place. 

Honeywood.  Every  age  has  its  admirers,  ladies. 
While  you,  perhaps,  are  trading  among  the  warmer 
climates  of  youth,  there  ought  to  be  some  to  carry 
on  a  useful  commerce  in  the  frozen  latitudes  be- 
yond fifty. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  then,  the  mortifications 
they  must  suffer,  before  they  can  be  fitted  out  for 
traffic.  I  have  seen  one  of  them  fret  a  whole 
morning  at  her  hair-dresser,  when  all  the  fault  was 
her  face. 

Honeywood.  And  yet,  I'll  engage,  has  carried 
that  face  at  last  to  a  very  good  market.  This 
good-natured  town,  madam,  has  husbands,  like 
spectacles,  to  fit  every  age,  from  fifteen  to  fourscore 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  you're  a  dear  good-natured 
creature.  But  you  know  you're  engaged  with  us 
this  morning  upon  a  strolling  party.  I  want  to 
show  Olivia  the  town,  and  the  things ;  I  believe  I 
shall  have  business  for  you  for  the  whole  day. 

Honeywood.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  an  ap- 
pointment with  Mr.  Croaker,  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  put  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What !  with  my  husband  1  then 
I'm  resolved  to  take  no  refusal.  Nay,  I  protest 
you  must.  You  know  I  never  laugh  so  much  as 
with  you. 

Honeywood.  Why,  if  I  must,  I  must.  I'll  swear 
you  have  put  me  into  such  spirits.     Well,  do  you 
find  jest,  and  I'll  find  laugh  I  promise  you.    We'll 
wait  for  the  chariot  in  the  next  room.    [Exeunt. 
Enter  LEONTINE  and  OLIVIA. 

Leontinc.  There  they  go,  thoughtless  and  ha]r 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


171 


,py.  My  dearest  Olivia,  what  would  1  give  to  see 
you  capable  of  sharing  in  their  amusements,  and 
as  cheerful  as  they  are. 

Olivia.  How,  my  Leontine,  how  can  I  be  cheer- 
ful, when  I  have  so  many  terrors  to  oppress  me  1 
The  fear  of  being  detected  by  this  family,  and  the 
apprehensions  of  a  censuring  world,  when  I  must 
be  detected — 

Leontine.  The  world,  my  love !  what  can  it  sayl 
At  worst  it  can  only  say,  that,  being  compelled  by 
a  mercenary  guardian  to  embrace  a  life  you  dis- 
liked, you  formed  a  resolution  of  flying  with  the 
man  of  your  choice ;  that  you  confided  in  his  hon- 
our, and  took  refuge  in  my  father's  house ;  the  only 
one  where  yours  could  remain  without  censure. 

Olivia.  But  consider,  Leontine,  your  disobedi- 
ence and  my  indiscretion;  your  being  sent  to 
France  to  bring  home  a  sister,  and  instead  of  a 
sister,  bringing  home 

Leontine.  One  dearer  than  a  thousand  sisters. 
One  that  I  am  convinced  will  be  equally  dear  to 
the  rest  of  the  family,  when  she  comes  to  be  known. 

Olivia.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  shortly  be. 

Leontine.  Impossible,  till  we  ourselves  think 
proper  to  make  the  discovery.  My  sister,  you 
know,  has  been  with  her  aunt  at  Lyons,  since  she 
was  a  child,  and  you  find  every  creature  in  the 
family  takes  you  for  her. 

Olivia.  But  mayn't  she  write,  mayn't  her  aunt 
write? 

Leontine.  Her  aunt  scarce  ever  writes,  and  all 
my  sister's  letters  are  directed  to  me. 

Olivia.  But  won't  your  refusing  Miss  Richland, 
for  whom  you  know  the  old  gentleman  intends 
you,  create  a  suspicion  7 

Leontine.  There,  there's  my  master-stroke.  I 
nave  resolved  not  to  refuse  her;  nay,  an  hour 
hence  I  have  consented  to  go  with  my  father  to 
make  her  an  offer  of  my  heart  and  fortune. 

Olivia.  Your  heart  and  fortune ! 

Leontine.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  dearest.  Can 
Olivia  think  so  meanly  of  my  honour,  or  my  love, 
{LS  to  suppose  I  could  ever  hope  for  happiness  from 
any  but  her?  No,  my  Olivia,  neither  the  force, 
nor,  permit  me  to  add,  the  delicacy  of  m/passion, 
leave  any  room  to  suspect  me.  I  only  offer  Miss 
Richland  a  heart  I  am  convinced  she  will  refuse ; 
as  I  am  confident,  that  without  knowing  it.  her  af- 
fections are  fixed  upon  Mr.  Honeywood. 

Olivia.  Mr.  Honeywood  !  you'll  excuse  my  ap- 
prehensions ;  but  when  your  merits  come  to  be  put 
in  the  balance — 

Leontine.  You  view  them  with  too  much  par- 
tiality. However,  by  making  this  offer,  I  show  a 
seeming  compliance  with  my  father's  command ; 
and  perhaps,  upon  her  refusal,  I  may  have  his  con- 
sent to  choose  for  myself. 

Olivia.  Well,  1  submit.  And  yet,  my  Leon- 
Une,  I  own,  I  shall  envy  her  even  your  pretended 


addresses.  I  consider  every  look,  every  expiession 
of  your  esteem,  as  due  only  to  me.  This  is  folly 
perhaps:  I  allow  it;  but  it  is  natural  to  suppose, 
that  merit  which  has  made  an  impression  on  one's 
own  heart,  maybe  powerful  over  that  of  another. 

Leontine.  Don't,  my  hfe's  treasure,  don't  let  us 
make  imaginary  evils,  when  you  know  we  have 
so  many  real  ones  to  encounter.  At  worst,  you 
know,  if  Miss  Richland  should  consent,  or  my 
father  refuse  his  pardon,  it  can  but  end  in  a  trip  to 

Scotland :  and 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croaker.  Where  have  you  been  boy?  I  have 
been  seeking  you.  My  friend  Honeywood  here 
has  been  saying  such  comfortable  things.  Ahf 
he's  an  example  indeed.  Where  is  he?  I  left  him 
here. 

Leontine.  Sir,  I  believe  you  may  see  him,  and 
hear  him  too,  in  the  next  room ;  he's  preparing  to 
go  out  with  the  ladies. 

Croaker.  Good  gracious !  can  I  believe  my  eyes 
or  my  ears !  I'm  struck  dumb  with  his  vivacity, 
and  stunned  with  the  loudness  of  his  laugh.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  transformation !  [A  laugh  he- 
kind  the  scenes^  Croaker  mimics  tY.]  Ha !  ha !  ha ! 
there  it  goes :  a  plague  take  their  balderdash !  yet 
I  could  expect  nothing  less,  when  my  precious  wife 
was  of  the  party.  On  my  conscience,  I  believe  she 
could  spread  a  horse-laugh  tlirough  the  pews  of  a 
tabernacle. 

Leontine.  Since  you  find  so  many  objections  to 
a  wife,  sir,  how  can  you  be  so  earnest  in  recom- 
mending one  to  me? 

Croaker.  I  have  told  you,  and  tell  you  again, 
boy,  that  Miss  Richland's  fortune  must  not  go  out 
of  the  family ;  one  may  find  comfort  in  the  money, 
whatever  one  does  in  the  wife. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  though,  in  obedience  to  your 
desire,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her,  it  may  be  possible 
she  has  no  inclination  to  me. 

Croaker.  I'll  tell  you  once  for  all  how  it  stands. 
A  good  part  of  Miss  Richland's  large  fortune  con- 
sists in  a  claim  upon  government,  which  my  good 
friend,  Mr.  Lofty,  assures  me  the  treasury  will  al- 
low. One  half  of  this  she  is  to  forfeit,  by  her  fa- 
ther's will,  in  case  she  refuses  to  marry  you.  So, 
if  she  rejects  you,  we  seize  half  her  fortune ;  if 
she  accepts  you,  we  seize  the  whole,  and  a  fine  girl 
into  the  bargain. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  if  you  will  but  listen  to  reason— 

Croaker.  Come,  then,  produce  your  reasons.  I 
tell  you,  I'm  fixed,  determined;  so  now  produce 
your  reasons.  When  I'm  determined,  I  always 
listen  to  reason,  because  it  can  then  do  no  harm. 

Leontine.  You  have  alleged  that  a  mutual  choice 
was  the  first  requisite  in  matrimonial  happiness. 

Croaker.  Well,  and  you  have  both  of  you  a 
mutual  choice.  She  has  her  choice — to  marry  you, 
or  lose  half  her  fortune;  and  you  have  your  choice— 


173 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


to  marry  her,  or  pack  out  of  doors  without  any 
fortune  at  all. 

Leontine.  An  only  son,  sir,  might  expect  more 
indulgence. 

Croaker.  An  only  father,  sir,  might  expect  more 
obedience :  besides,  has  not  your  sister  here,  that 
never  disobliged  me  in  her  life,  as  good  a  right  as 
you?  He's  a  sad  dog,  Livy,  my  dear,  and  would 
take  all  from  you.  But  he  shan't,  1  tell  you  he 
shan't,  for  you  shall  have  your  share. 

Olivia.  Dear  ,sir,  I  wish  you'd  be  convinced, 
that  I  can  never  be  happy  in  any  addition  to  my 
fortune,  which  is  taken  from  his. 

Croaker.  ^e\],  well,  it's  a  good  child,  so  say  no 
more ;  but  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  see  some- 
thing that  will  give  us  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  I 
promise  you ;  old  Ruggins,  the  curry-comb  maker, 
lying  in  state :  I  am  told  he  makes  a  very  hand- 
some corpse,  and  becomes  his  coffin  prodigiously. 
He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  these  are 
friendly  things  we  ought  to  do  for  each  other. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 


SCENE — CROAKER'S  HOUSE. 
MISS  RICHLAND,  GARNET. 

Miss  Richland.  Olivia  not  his  sister?  Olivia  not 
Leontine' s  sister?    You  amaze  me! 

Garnet.  No  more  his  sister  than  I  am ;  I  had  it 
all  from  his  own  servant :  I  can  get  any  thing  from 
Ihat  quarter. 

Miss  Richland.  But  how?  Tell  me  again,  Gar- 
net. 

Garnet.  Why,  madam,  as  I  told  you  before,  in- 
stead of  going  to  Lyons  to  bring  home  his  sister, 
who  has  been  there  with  her  aunt  these  ten  years, 
he  never  went  farther  than  Paris :  there  he  saw 
and  fell  in  love  with  this  young  lady,  by  the  by,  of 
a  prodigious  family. 

Miss  Richland.  And  brought  her  home  to  my 
guardian  as  his  daughter  ? 

Garnet.  Yes,  and  his  daughter  she  will  be.  If 
he  don't  consent  to  their  marriage,  they  talk  of  try- 
ing what  a  Scotch  parson  can  do. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  I  own  they  have  deceiv- 
ed me — And  so  demurely  as  Olivia  carried  it  too! — 
Would  you  believe  it.  Garnet,  I  told  her  all  my  se- 
crets ;  and  yet  the  sly  cheat  concealed  all  this  from 
me? 

Garnet.  And,  upon  my  word,  madam,  I  don't 
much  blame  her :  she  was  loath  to  trust  one  with 
her  secrets  that  was  so  very  bad  at  keeping  her 
own. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  to  add  to  their  deceit,  the 
young  gentleman,  it  seems,  pretends  to  make  me 
serious  proposals.    My  guardian  and  he  are  to  be 


here  presently,  to  open  the  affair  in  form.    You 
know  I  am  to  lose  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  him. 

Garnet.  Yet,  what  can  you  do  ?  For  being,  ad 
you  arc,  in  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood,  madam — 

Miss  Richland.  How!  idiot,  what  do  you  mean? 
In  love  with  Mr.  Honeywood!  Is  this  to  provoke 
me? 

Garnet.  That  is,  madam,  in  friendship  with 
him ;  I  meant  nothing  more  than  friendship,  as  I 
hope  to  be  married ;  nothing  more. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  no  more  of  this  :  As  to 
my  guardian  and  his  son,  they  shall  find  me  pre- 
pared to  receive  them :  I'm  resolved  to  accept  their 
proposal  with  seeming  pleasure,  to  mortify  them  by 
compliance,  and  so  throw  the  refusal  at  last  upon 
them. 

Garnet.  Delicious!  and  that  will  secure  your 
whole  fortune  to  yourself  Well,  who  could  have 
thought  so  innocent  a  face  (Jbuld  cover  so  much 
'cuteness ! 

Miss  Richland.  Why,  girl,  I  only  oppose  my 
prudence  to  their  cunning,  and  practise  a  lesson 
they  have  taught  me  against  themselves. 

Garnet.  Then  you're  likely  not  long  to  want 
employment,  for  here  they  come,  and  in  close  con- 
ference. 

Enter  CROAKER,  LEONTINE. 

Leontine.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  seem  to  hesitate 
upon  the  point  of  putting  to  the  lady  so  important 
a  question. 

Croaker.  Lord !  good  sir,  moderate  your  fears ; 
you're  so  plaguy  shy,  that  one  would  think  you  had 
changed  sexes.  I  tell  you  we  must  have  the  half 
or  the  whole.  Come,  let  me  see  with  what  spirit 
you  begin:  Well,  why  don't  you?  Eh!  what? 
Well  then — I  must,  it  seems — Miss  Richland,  my 
dear,  I  believe  you  guess  at  our  business,  an  affai? 
which  my  son  here  comes  to  open,  that  nearly  con 
cerns  your  happiness. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I  should  be  ungrateful  not 
to  be  pleased  with  any  thing  that  comes  recom- 
mended by  you. 

Croaker.  How,  boy,  could  you  desire  a  finer 
opening  ?    Why  don't  you  begin,  I  say  ? 

'  [  To  Leontine. 

Leontine.  'Tis  true,  madam,  my  father,  madam, 
has  some  intentions — hem — of  explaining  an  affair 
— which — himself— can  best  explain,  madam. 

Croaker.  Yes,  my  dear ;  it  comes  entirely  from 
my  son ;  it's  all  a  request  of  his  own,  madam.  And 
I  will  permit  him  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Leontine.  The  whole  affair  is  only  this,  madam ; 
my  father  has  a  proposal  to  make,  which  he  insists 
none  but  himself  shall  deliver. 

Croaker.  My  mind  misgives  me,  the  fellow  will 
never  be  brought  on.  [Aside.]  In  short,  madam, 
you  see  before  you  one  that  loves  you ;  one  whose 
whole  happiness  is  all  in  you. 

Miss  Richland.  I  never  had  any  doubts  of  your 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


173 


regard,  sir ;  and  I  hope  you  can  have  none  of  my 
duty. 

Croaker.  That's  not  the  thing,  my  little  sweet- 
ing; my  love!  No,  no,  another  guess  lover  than 
I :  there  he  stands,  madam,  his  very  looks  declare 
the  force  of  his  passion — Call  up  a  look,  you  dog ! 
[Aside.] — But  then,  had  you  seen  him,  as  I  have, 
weeping,  speaking  soliloquies  and  blank  verse, 
sometimes  melancholy,  and  sometimes  absent — 

Miss  Richland.  I  fear,  sir,  he's  absent  now ;  or 
such  a  declaration  would  have  come  most  properly 
from  himself. 

Croaker.  Himself!  madam,  he  would  die  before 
he  could  make  such  a  confession ;  and  if  he  had 
not  a  channel  for  his  passion  through  me,  it  would 
ere  now  have  drowned  his  understanding. 

Miss  Richland.  I  must  grant,  sir,  there  are  at- 
tractions in  modest  diffidence  above  the  force  of 
words.  A  silent  address  is  the  genuine  eloquence 
of  sincerity. 

Croaker.  Madam,  he  has  forgot  to  speak  any 
other  language ;  silence  is  become  his  mother  tongue. 
Miss  Richland.  And  it  must  be  confessed,  sir, 
it  speaks  very  powerfully  in  his  favour.  And  yet 
I  shall  be  thought  too  forward  in  making  such  a 
confession ;  shan't  I,  Mr.  Leontine  1 

Leontine.  Confusion  !  my  reserve  will  undo  me. 
But,  if  modesty  attracts  her,  impudence  may  dis- 
gust her.  I'll  try.  [Aside.'\  Don't  imagine  from  my 
silence,  madam,  that  I  want  a  due  sense  of  the  hon- 
our and  happiness  intended  me.  My  father,  mad- 
am, tells  me,  your  humble  servant  is  not  totally  in- 
different to  you.  He  admires  you ;  I  adore  you ;  and 
when  we  come  together,  upon  my  soul  I  believe 
we  shall  be  the  happiest  couple  in  all  St.  James's. 
Miss  Richland.  If  I  could  flatter  myself  you 
thought  as  you  speak,  sir — 

Leontine.  Doubt  my  sincerity,  madam  1  By  your 
dear  self  I  swear.     Ask  the  brave  if  they  desire 

glory  7  ask  cowards  if  they  covet  safety 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  no  more  questions  about  it. 
Leontine.  Ask  the  sick  if  they  long  for  health? 

ask  misers  if  they  love  money?  ask 

Croaker.  Ask  a  fool  if  he  can  talk  nonsense? 
What's  come  over  the  boy  ?  What  signifies  asking, 
when  there's  not  a  soul  to  give  you  an  answer?  If 
you  would  ask  to  the  purpose,  ask  this  lady's  con- 
sent to  make  you  happy. 

Miss  Richland.  Why  indeed,  sir,  his  uncom- 
mon ardour  almost  compels  me — forces  me  to  com- 
ply. And  yet  I'm  afraid  he'll  despise  a  conquest 
gained  with  too  much  ease ;  won't  you,  Mr.  Leon- 
tine? 

Leontine.  Confusion !  [Aside.]  Oh,  by  no  means, 
madam,  by  no  means.  And  yet,  madam,  you  talk- 
ed of  force.  There  is  nothing  I  would  avoid  so 
much  as  compulsion  in  a  thing  of  this  kind.  No, 
madam,  I  will  still  be  generous,  and  leave  you  at 
liberty  to  refuse. 


Croaker.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  lady  is  ndt  at 
Uberty.  It's  a  match.  You  see  she  says  nothing. 
Silence  gives  consent. 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  she  talked  of  force.     Consi- 
der, sir,  the  cruelty  of  constraining  her  inclinations. 
Croaker.  But  I  say  there's  no  cruelty.     Don't 
you  know,  blockhead,  that  girls  have  always  a 
roundabout  way  of  saying  yes  before  company  1 
So  get  you  both  gone  together  into  the  next  room, 
and  hang  him  that  interrupts  the  tender  explana- 
tion.    Get  you  gone,  I  say :  I'll  not  hear  a  word. 
Leontine.  But,  sir.  I  must  beg  leave  to  insist — 
Croaker.  Get  off,  you  puppy,  or  I'll  beg  leave  to 
insist  upon  knocking  you  down.     Stupid^  whelp  J 
But  I  don't  wonder :  the  boy  takes  entirely  after  his 
mother. 

[Exeunt  MISS  RICHLAND  and  LEONTINE. 
Enter  MRS.  CROAKER. 
Mrs.  Croaker.  Mr.  Croaker,  I  bring  you  some- 
thing, my  dear,  that  I  believe  will  make  you  smile. 
Croaker.  I'll  hold  you  a  guinea  of  that,  my  dear. 
Mrs.  Croaker.  A  letter;  and  as  I  knew  the 
hand,  I  ventured  to  open  it. 

Croaker.  And  how  can  you  expect  your  break- 
ing open  my  letters  should  give  me  pleasure  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poo!  it's  from  your  sister  at 
Lyons,  and  contains  good  news  ;  read  it. 

Croaker.  What  a  Frenchified  cover  is  here! 
That  sister  of  mine  has  some  good  qualities,  but  I 
could  never  teach  her  to  fold  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Fold  a  fiddlestick.  Read  what 
it  contains. 

CROAKER  [reading.] 
"  Dear  Nick, 

"An  English  gentleman,  of  large  fortune,  has 
for  some  time  made  private,  though  honourable  pro- 
posals to  your  daughter  OUvia.  They  love  each 
other  tenderly,  and  I  find  she  has  consented,  with- 
out letting  any  of  the  family  know,  to  crown  his 
addresses.  As  such  good  offers  don't  come  every 
day,  your  own  good  sense,  his  large  fortune  and 
family  considerations,  will  induce  you  to  forgive 
her.  "  Yours  ever, 

"  Rachael  Croaker. 
My  daughter  Olivia  privately  contracted  to  a 
man  of  large  fortune !  This  is  good  news  indeed. 
My  heart  never  foretold  me  of  this.  And  yet,  how 
slily  the  little  baggage  has  carried  it  since  she  came 
home ;  not  a  word  on't  to  the  old  ones  for  the  world. 
Yet  I  thought  I  saw  something  she  wanted  to  con- 
ceal. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Well,  if  they  have  concealed 
their  amour,  they  shan't  conceal  their  wedding; 
that  shall  be  public,  I'm  resolved. 

Croaker.     I  tell  thee,  woman,  the  wedding  is  the 

most  foolish  part  of  the  ceremony,    I  can  never  get 

this  woman  to  think  of  the  most  serious  part  of  the 

nuptial  engagement. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What,  would  you  have  me  think 


174 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


of  their  funeral  7  But  come,  tell  me,  my  dear,  don't 
you  owe  more  to  me  than  you  care  to  confess? 
Would  you  have  ever  been  known  to  Mr.  Lofty, 
who  has  undertaken  Miss  Richland's  claim  at  the 
Treasury,  but  for  me  ?  Who  was  it  first  made  him 
an  acquaintance  at  Lady  Shabbaroon's  rout  ?  Who 
got  him  to  promise  us  his  interest  1  Is  not  he  a 
back-stairs  favourite,  one  that  can  do  what  he 
pleases  with  those  that  do  what  they  please  1  Is 
not  he  an  acquaintance  that  all  your  groaning  and 
lamentation  could  never  have  got  us  ? 

Croaker.  He  is  a  man  of  importance,  I  grant 
you.  And  yet  what  amazes  me  is,  that,  while  he 
is  giving  away  places  to  all  the  world,  he  can't  get 
one  for  himself. 

Mrs.  Croaker.    That  perhaps  may  be  owing  to 
his  nicety.     Great  men  are  not  easily  satisfied. 
Enter  French  SERVANT. 

Servant.  An  expresse  from  Monsieur  Lofty. 
He  vil  be  vait  upon  your  honours  instrammant. 
He  be  only  giving  four  five  instruction,  read  two 
tree  memorial,  call  upon  von  ambassadeur.  He 
vil  be  vid  you  in  one  tree  minutes. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  You  see  now,  my  dear.  What 
an  extensive  department!  Well,  friend,  let  your 
master  know,  that  we  are  extremely  honoured  by 
this  honour.  Was  there  anything  ever. in  a  higher 
style  of  breeding?  All  messages  among  the  great 
are  now  done  by  express. 

Croaker.  To  be  sure,  no  man  does  Uttle  things 
with  more  solemnity,  or  claims  more  respect,  than 
he.  But  he's  in  the  right  on't.  In  our  bad  world, 
respect  is  given  where  respect  is  claimed. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Never  mind  the  world,  my  dear; 
you  were  never  in  a  pleasanter  place  in  your  life. 
Let  us  now  think  of  receiving  him  with  proper  re- 
spect— [a  loud  rapping  at  the  door,] — and  there 
he  is,  by  the  thundering  rap. 

Croaker.  Ay,  verily,  there  he  is !  as  close  upon 
the  heels  of  his  own  express  as  an  endorsement 
upon  the  back  of  a  bill.  Well,  I'll  leave  you  to  re- 
ceive him,  whilst  I  go  to  chide  my  little  Olivia  for 
intending  to  steal  a  marriage  without  mine  or  her 
aunt's  consent.  I  must  seem  to  be  angry,  or  she 
too  may  begin  to  despise  my  authority.  [Exit. 
Enter  LOFTY,  speaking  to  his  Servant. 

Lofty.  "  And  if  the  Venetian  ambassador,  or 
that  teasing  creature  the  marquis,  should  call,  Pm 
not  at  home.  Dam' me,  I'll  be  a  pack-horse  to 
none  of  them."  My  dear  madam,  I  have  just 
snatched  a  moment — "  And  if  the  expresses  to  his 
grace  be  ready,  let  them  be  sent  off;  they're  of  im- 
portance."— Madam,  I  ask  a  thousand  pardons. 

Mrs.  Croaker.     Sir,  this  honour. 

Lofty.  "  And,  Dubardieu !  if  the  person  calls 
about  the  commission,  let  him  know  that  it  is  made 
out.  As  for  Lord  Cumbercourt's  stale  request,  it 
can  keep  cold :  you  understand  me." — Madam,  1 
iML  ten  Uicfusand  pardon^. 


Mrs.  Croaker.     Sir,  this  honour 

Lofty.  "And,  Dubardieu!  if  the  man  comes' 
from  the  Cornish  borough,  you  must  do  him ;  you 
must  do  him,  I  say." — Madam,  1  ask  ten  thousand 
pardons. — "  And  if  the  Russian  ambassador  calls; 
but  he  will  scarce  call  to-day,  I  believe." — And 
now,  madam,  I  have  just  got  time  to  express  my 
happiness  in  having  the  honour  of  being  permitted 
to  profess  myself  your  most  obedient  humble  ser- 
vant. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Sir,  the  happiness  and  honour 
are  all  mine ;  and  yet,  I'm  only  robbing  the  public 
while  I  detain  you. 

Lofty.  Sink  the  pulilic,  madam,  when  the  fair 
are  to  be  attended.  Ah,  could  all  my  hours  be  so 
charmingly  devoted !  Sincerely,  don't  you  pity  us 
poor  creatures  in  affairs?  Thus  it  is  eternally;  so- 
licited for  places  here,  teased  for  pensions  there,  and 
courted  every  where.  I  know  you  pity  me.  Yea. 
I  see  you  do. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Excuse  me,  sir,  "  Toils  of  em- 
pires pleasures  are,"  as  Waller  says. 

Lofty.  Waller,  Waller,  is  he  of  the  house  ? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  modern  poet  of  that  name, 
sir. 

Lofty.  Oh,  a  modern !  we  men  of  business  de- 
spise the  moderns ;  and.as  for  the  ancients,  we  have 
no  time  to  read  them.  Poetry  is  a  pretty  thing 
enough  for  our  wives  and  daughters ;  but  not  for 
us.  Why  now,  here  I  stand  that  know  nothing 
of  books.  I  say,  madam,  I  know  nothing  of 
books ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  upon  a  land-carriage 
fishery,  a  stamp  act,  or  a  jag-hire,  I  can  talk  my 
two  hours  without  feeling  the  want  of  them. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  The  world  is  no  stranger  to  Mr 
Lofty's  eminence  in  every  capacity. 

Lofty.  I  vow  to  gad,  madam,  you  make  me  blush. 
I'm  nothing,  nothing,  nothing  in  the  world ;  a  mere 
obscure  gentleman.  To  be  sure,  indeed,  one  or  two 
of  the  present  ministers  are  pleased  to  represent  me 
as  a  formidable  man.  I  know  they  are  pleased  to 
bespatter  me  at  all  their  httle  dirty  levees.  Yet, 
upon  my  soul,  I  wonder  what  they  see  in  me  to 
treat  me  so !  Measures,  not  men,  have  always  been 
my  mark;  and  I  vow,  by  all  that's  honourable,  my 
resentment  has  never  done  the  men,  as  mere  men, 
any  manner  of  harm  — that  is  as  mere  men. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  What  importance,  and  yet  what 
modesty ! 

Lofty.  Oh,  if  you  talk  of  modesty,  madam,  there, 
I  own,  I'm  accessible  to  praise :  modesty  is  my  foi 
ble  :  it  was  so  the  Duke  of  Brentford  used  to  say 
of  me.  "  I  love  Jack  Lofty,"  he  used  to  say :  '  no 
man  has  a  finer  knowledge  of  things ;  quite  a  man 
of  information;  and,  when  he  speaks  upon  his  legs, 
by  the  Lord  he's  prodigious,  he  scouts  them ;  and 
yet  all  men  have  their  faults;  too  much  modesty  is 
his,"  says  his  grace. 

Mrs.  Croaker.   And  yet,  I  dare  say,  you  don't 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


175 


Want  assurance  when  you  come  to  solicit  for  your 
friends. 

Lofty.  O,  there  indeed  I'm  in  bronze.  Apro- 
pos! I  have  just  been  mentioning  Miss  Richland's 
case  to  a  certain  personage;  we  must  name  no 
names.  When  I  ask,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off,  madam. 
No,  no,  I  take  my  friend  by  the  button.  A  fine 
girl,  sir;  great  justice  in  her  case.  A  friend  of 
mine.  Borough  interest.  Business  must  be  done, 
Mr.  Secretary,  I  say,  Mr.  Secretary,  her  busi- 
ness must  be  done,  sir.     That's  my  way,  madam. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Bless  me !  you  said  all  this  to  the 
secretary  of  state,  did  you? 

Lofty.  I  did  not  say  the  secretary,  did  1 1  Well, 
curse  it,  since  you  have  found  me  out,  I  will  not 
deny  it.     It  was  to  the  secretary. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  This  was  going  to  the  fountain- 
head  at  once,  not  applying  to  the  understrappers, 
as  Mr.  Honeywood  would  have  had  us. 

Lofty.  Honeywood  !  he !  he !  He  was,  indeed,  a 
fine  solicitor.  I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has 
just  happened  to  him? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Poor  dear  man;  no  accident,  I 
hope  ? 

Lofty.  Undone,  madam,  that's  all.  His  credi- 
tors have  taken  him  into  custody.  A  prisoner  in 
his  own  house. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  A  prisoner  in  his  own  house! 
How?  At  this  very  time?  I'm  quite  unhappy  for 
him. 

Lofty.  Why,  so  am  I.  The  man,  to  be  sure, 
was  immensely  good-natured.  But  then  I  could 
never  find  that  he  had  any  thing  in  him, 

Mrs.  Croaker.  His  manner,  to  be  sure,  was  ex- 
cessive harmless;  some,  indeed,  thought  it  a  little 
dull.  For  my  part,  I  always  concealed  my  opinion. 

Lofty,  It  can't  be  concealed,  madam;  the  man 
was  dull,  dull  as  the  last  new  comedy !  a  poor  im- 
practicable creature !  I  tried  once  or  twice  to  know 
if  he  was  fit  for  business;  but  he  had  scarce  talents 
to  be  groom-porter  to  an  orange-barrow. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  How  differently  does  Miss  Rich- 
land think  of  him!  For,  1  believe,  with  all  his 
faults,  she  loves  him. 

Lofty.  Loves  him !  does  she  1  You  should  cure 
her  of  that  by  all  means.  Let  me  see;  what  if  she 
were  sent  to  him  this  instant,  in  his  present  doleful 
situation?  My  life  for  it,  that  works  her  cure. 
Distress  is  a  perfect  antidote  to  love.  Suppose  we 
join  her  in  the  next  room  ?  Miss  Richland  is  a  fine 
J  girl,  has  a  fine  fortune,  and  must  not  be  thrown 
away.  Upon  my  honour,  madam.  I  have  a  regard 
iat  Miss  Richland ;  and  rather  than  she  should  be 
'  thrown  away,  I  should  think  it  no  indignity  to 
marry  her  myself.  {Exeunt. 


Enter  OLIVIA  and  LEONTINE. 

Leontine  And  yet,  trust  me,  Olivia,  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect  Mies  Richland's  refusal,  as  1  did 


every  thing  in  my  power  to  deserve  it.    Her  in- 
delicacy surprises  me. 

Olivia.  Sure,  Leontine,  there's  nothing  so  in- 
delicate in  being  sensible  of  your  merit.  If  so,  1 
fear  I  shall  be  the  most  guilty  thing  alive. 

Leontine.  But  you  mistake,  my  dear.  The 
same  attention  I  Hsed  to  advance  my  merit  with 
you,  I  practised  to  lessen  it  with  her  What  more 
could  I  do? 

Olivia.  Let  us  now  rather  consider  what  is  to 
be  done.  We  have  both  dissembled  too  long. — I 
have  always  been  ashamed — I  am  now  quite  weary 
of  it.  Sure  I  could  never  have  undergone  so  much 
for  any  other  but  you. 

Leontine.  And  you  shall  find  my  gratitude  equal 
to  your  kindest  compliance.  Though  our  friends 
should  totally  forsake  us,  Olivia,  we  can  draw  upon 
content  for  the  deficiencies  of  fortune. 

Olivia.  Then  why  should  we  defer  our  scheme 
of  humble  happiness,  when  it  is  now  in  our  pow- 
er ?  I  may  be  the  favourite  of  your  father,  it  is  true  j 
but  can  it  ever  be  thought,  that  his  present  kind- 
ness to  a  supposed  child  will  continue  to  a  known 
deceiver? 

Leontine.  I  have  many  reasons  to  believe  it  will. 
As  his  attachments  are  but  few  they  are  lasting. 
His  own  marriage  was  a  private  one,  as  ours  may 
be.  Besides,  I  have  sounded  him  already  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  find  all  his  answers  exactly  to  our  wish. 
Nay,  by  an  expression  or  two  that  dropped  from 
him,  I  am  induced  to  think  he  knows  of  this  affair. 
Olivia.  Indeed !  But  that  would  be  a  happiness 
too  great  to  be  expected. 

Leontine.  However  it  be,  I'm  certain  you  have 
power  over  him ;  and  I  am  persuaded,  if  you  in- 
formed him  of  our  situation,  that  he  would  be  dis- 
posed to  pardon  it. 

Olivia.  You  had  equal  expectations,  Leontine, 
from  your  last  scheme  with  Miss  Richland,  which 
you  find  has  succeeded  most  wretchedly. 

Leontine.  And  that's  the  best  reason  for  trying 
another. 

Olivia.  If  it  must  be  so,  I  submit. 
Leontine.  As  we  could  wish,  he  comes  this  way. 
Now  my  dearest  Olivia,  be  resolute.  I'll  just  re- 
tire within  hearing,  to  come  in  at  a  proper  time, 
either  to  share  your  danger,  or  confirm  your  vic- 
tory. [Exit. 

Enter  CROAKER, 

Croaker.  Yes,  I  must  forgive  her ;  and  yet  not 
too  easily  neither.  It  will  be  proper  to  keep  up  the 
decorums  of  resentment  a  little,  if  it  be  only  to  im- 
press her  with  an  idea  of  my  authority. 

Olivia.  How  I  tremble  to  approach  him! — 
Might  I  presume,  sir, — ^if  I  interrupt  you — 

Croaker.  No,  child,  where  I  have  an  airectioi\ 
it  is  not  a  little  thing  that  can  interrupt  me»  Af- 
fection gets  over  little  things. 


176 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Olivia.  Sir,  you're  too  kind.  I'm  sensible  how 
ill  I  deserve  this  partiality ;  yet,  Heaven  knows, 
there  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  gain  it. 

Croaker.  And  you  have  but  too  well  succeeded, 
you  little  hussy,  you.  With  those  endearing  ways 
of  yours,  on  my  conscience,  I  could  be  brought  to 
forgive  any  thing,  unless  it  were  a  very  great  of- 
fence indeed. 

Olivia.  But  mine  is  such  an  offence — When 
you  know  my  guilt — Yes,  you  shall  know  it, 
though  I  feel  the  greatest  pain  in  the  confession. 

Croaker.  Why,  then,  if  it  be  so  very  great  a 
pain,  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble;  for  I 
know  every  syllable  of  the  matter  before  you  begin. 
Olivia.  Indeed !  then  I'm  undone. 
Croaker.  Ay,  miss,  you  wanted  to  steal  a  match, 
without  letting  me  know  it,  did  you  1  But  I'm 
not  worth  being  consulted,  I  suppose,  when  there's 
to  be  a  marriage  in  my  own  family.  No,  I'm  to 
have  no  hand  in  the  disposal  of  my  own  children. 
No,  I'm  nobody.  I'm  to  be  a  mere  article  of  fami- 
ly lumber ;  a  piece  of  cracked  chma  to  be  stuck  up 
in  a  corner. 

Olivia.  Dear  sir,  nothing  but  the  dread  of  your 
authority  could  induce  us  to  conceal  it  from  you. 

Croaker.  No,  no,  my  consequence  is  no  rhore ; 
I'm  as  little  minded  as  a  dead  Russian  in  winter, 
just  stuck  up  with  a  pipe  in  its  mouth  till  there 
comes  a  thaw — It  goes  to  my  heart  to  vex  her. 

[Aside. 
Olivia.  I  was  prepared,  sir,  for  your  anger,  and 
despaired  of  pardon,  even  while  I  presumed  to  ask 
it.     But  your  severity  shall  never  abate  my  affec- 
tion, as  my  punishment  is  but  justice. 

Croaker.  And  yet  you  should  not  despair  nei- 
ther, Livy.     We  ought  to  hope  all  for  the  best. 

Olivia.  And  do  you  permit  me  to  hope,  sir? 
Can  I  ever  expect  to  be  forgiven  7  But  hope  has 
too  long  deceived  me. 

Croaker.  Why  then,  child,  it  shan't  deceive  you 
now,  for  I  forgive  you  this  very  moment ;  I  forgive 
you  all!  and  now  you  are  indeed  my  daughter. 

Olivia.  O  transport!  this  kindness  overpowers 
me. 

Croaker.  I  was  always  against  severity  to  our 
children.  We  have  been  young  and  giddy  our- 
selves, and  we  can't  expect  boys  and  girls  to  be  old 
before  their  time. 

Olivia.  What  generosity!    But  can  you  forget 

the  many  falsehoods,  the  dissimulation 

Croaker.  You  did  indeed  dissemble,  you  urchin 
you ;  but  Where's  the  girl  that  won't  (hssemble  for 
a  husband?  My  wife  and  1  had  never  been  mar- 
ried, if  we  had  not  dissembled  a  Uttle  beforehand. 

Olivia.  It  shall  be  my  future  care  never  to  put 
such  generosity  to  a  second  trial.    And  as  for  the 


self     [Kneeling.]     Thus, 

gratitude  for  this  unmerited  forgiveness. 


partner  of  my  offence  and  folly,  from  his  native 
honour,  and  the  just  sense  he  has  of  his  duty,  I  can 
answer  for  him  that 


Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leontine.  Permit  him  thus  to  answer  for  him- 

sir,  let  me  speak  my 

Yes,  sir. 

this  even  exceeds  all  your  former  tenderneai.    I 

now  can  boast  the  most  indulgent  of  fathers.  The 

life  he  gave,  compared  to  this,  was  but  a  trifling 

blessing. 

Croaker.  And,  good  sir,  who  sent  for  you,  with 
that  fine  tragedy  face,  and  flourishing  manner? 
I  don't  know  what  we  have  to  do  with  your  grati- 
tude upon  this  occasion. 

Leontine.  How,  sir !  Is  it  possible  to  be  silent, 
when  so  much  obliged  ?  Would  you  refuse  me 
the  pleasure  of  being  grateful?  of  adding  my  thanks 
to  my  Ohvia's?  of  sharing  in  the  transports  that 
you  have  thus  occasioned  ? 

Croaker.  Lord,  sir,  we  can  be  happy  enough 
without  your  coming  in  to  make  up  the  party.  I 
don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  the  boy  all  this 
day;  he  has  got  into  such  a  rhodomontade  manner 
all  this  morning ! 

Leontine.  But,  sir,  I  that  have  so  large  a  part 
in  the  benefit,  is  it  not  my  duty  to  show  my  joy? 
is  the  being  admitted  to  your  favour  so  slight  an 
obUgation?  is  the  happiness  of  marrying  my  Oli- 
via so  small  a  blessing? 

Croaker.    Marrying  Olivia!  marrying  Olivia! 
marrying  his  own  sister !     Sure  the  boy  is  out  of 
his  senses.     His  own  sister. 
Leontine.  My  sister ! 
Olivia.  Sister !    How  have  I  been  mistaken! 

[Aside. 
Leontine.  Some  cursed  mistake  in  all  this,  I  find. 

[Aside. 
Croaker.  What  does  the  booby  mean?  or  has 
he  any  meaning?    Eh,  what  do  you  mean,  you 
blockhead,  you? 

Leontine.  Mean,  sir,— why,  sir— only  when  my 
sister  is  to  be  married,  that  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
marrying  her,  sir,  that  is,  of  giving  her  away,  sir, 
— I  have  made  a  point  of  it. 

Croaker.  O,  is  that  all?  Give  her  away.  You 
have  made  a  point  of  it.  Then  you  had  as  good 
make  a  point  of  first  giving  away  yourself,  as  I'm 
going  to  prepare  the  writings  between  you  and 
Miss  Richland  this  very  minute.  What  a  fuss  is 
here  about  nothing !  Why,  what's  the  matter  nowl 
I  thought  I  had  made  you  at  least  as  happy  as  you 
could  wish. 

Olivia.  O !  yes,  sir ;  very  happy. 

Croaker.  Do  you  foresee  any  thing,  child  ?  You 

look  as  if  you  did.    I  think  if  any  thing  was  to  b» 

foreseen,  I  have  as  sharp  a  look-out  as  another; 

and  yet  I  foresee  nothing.  [Exit, 

leontine;,  OLIVIA. 
Olivia.  What  can  it  mean? 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


177 


Leontine.  He  knows  something,  and  yet  for  my 
life  I  can't  tell  what. 

Olivia.  It  can't  be  the  connexion  between  us, 
I'm  pretty  certain. 

Leontine.  Whatever  it  be,  my  dearest,  I'm  re- 
solved to  put  it  out  of  fortune's  power  to  repeat  our 
mortification.  I'll  haste  and  prepare  for  our  jour- 
ney to  Scotland  thib  very  evening.  My  friend 
Honeywood  has  promised  me  his  advice  and  assist- 
ance. I'll  go  to  him  and  repose  our  distresses  on 
his  friendly  bosom ;  and  I  know  so  much  of  his 
honest  heart,  that  if  he  can't  relieve  our  uneasi- 
nesses, he  will  at  least  share  them.  [Exeunt 


ACT  III. 

SCENE — YOUNG  HONEYWOOD's  HOUSE. 
BAILIFF,  HONEYWOOD,  FOLLOWER, 

Bailiff.  Lookye,  sir,  I  have  arrested  as  good  men 
Qs  you  in  my  time  :  no  disparagement  of  you  nei- 
ther :  men  that  would  go  forty  guineas  on  a  game 
of  cribbage.  I  challenge  the  town  to  show  a  man 
in  more  genteeler  practice  than  myself. 

Honeywood.  Without  all  question,  Mr. .  I 

forget  your  name,  sir. 

Bailiff.  How  can  you  forget  what  you  never 
knew?  he!  he!  he! 

Honeywood.  May  I  beg  leave  to  ask  your  name  1 

Bailiff.  Yes,  you  may. 

Honeywood.  Then,  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  name? 

Bailiff.  That  I  didn't  promise  to  tell  you.  He! 
he !  he !  A  joke  breaks  no  bones,  as  we  say  among 
us  that  practise  the  law. 

Honeywood.  You  may  have  reason  for  keeping 
it  a  secret,  perhaps? 

Bailif.  The  law  does  nothing  without  reason. 
I'm  ashamed  to  tell  my  name  to  no  man,  sir.  If 
you  can  show  cause,  as  why,  upon  a  special  capus, 
that  I  should  prove  my  name — But,  come,  Timo- 
thy Twitch  is  my  name.  And,  now  you  know 
my  name,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that? 

Honeywood.  Nothing  in  the  world,  good  Mr. 
Twitch,  but  that  I  have  a  favour  to  ask,  that's  all. 

Bailiff.  Ay,  favours  are  more  easily  asked  than 
granted,  as  we  say  among  us  that  practise  the  law. 
I  have  taken  an  oath  against  granting  favours. 
Would  you  have  me  perjure  myself? 

Honeywood.  But  my  request  will  come  recom- 
mended in  so  strong  a  manner  as,  I  believe,  you'll 
have  no  scruple.  [Pulling  out  his  purse.]  The 
thing  is  only  this :  I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  dis- 
charge this  trifle  in  two  or  three  days  at  farthest; 
but  as  I  would  not  have  the  aflfair  known  for  the 
world,  I  have  thoughts  of  keeping  you,  and  your 
good  friend  here,  about  me,  till  the  debt  is  discharg- 
td ;  for  which  I  shall  be  properly  grateful. 

Bailiff.  Oh!  that's  another  maxum,  and  alto- 
12 


gether  within  my  oath.  For  certain,  if  an  honest 
man  is  to  get  any  thing  by  a  thing,  there's  no  rea- 
son why  all  things  should  not  be  done  in  civility, 

Honeywood.  Doubtless,  all  trades  must  live,  Mr, 
Twitch ;  and  yours  is  a  necessary  one. 

[Crives  him  money. 

Bailiff'.  Oh!  your  honour :  1  hope  your  honour 
takes  nothing  amiss  as  I  does,  as  I  does  nothing 
but  my  duty  in  so  doing.  I'm  sure  no  man  can 
say  I  ever  give  a  gentleman,  that  was  a  gentleman, 
ill  usage,  if  I  saw  that  a  gentleman  was  a  gentle- 
man, I  have  taken  money  not  to  see  him  for  ten 
weeks  together. 

Honeywood.  Tenderness  is  a  virtue,  Mr.  Twitch. 

Bailiff'.  Ay,  sir,  it's  a  perfect  treasure,  I  love  to 
see  a  gentleman  with  a  tender  heart.  I  don't  know, 
but  I  think  I  have  a  tender  heart  myself.  If  all 
that  I  have  lost  by  m)"^  heart  was  put  together,  it 
would  make  a — but  no  matter  for  that. 

Honeywood.  Don't  account  it  lost,  Mr.  Twitch. 
The  ingratitude  of  the  world  can  never  deprive  us 
of  the  conscious  happiness  of  having  acted  with 
humanity  ourselves. 

Bailiff.  Humanity,  sir,  is  a  jewel.  It's  better 
than  gold.  I  love  humanity.  People  may  say, 
that  we  in  our  way  have  no  humanity ;  but  I'll  show 
you  my  humanity  this  moment.  There's  my  fol- 
lower here.  Little  Flanigan,  with  a  wife  and  four 
children,  a  guinea  or  two  would  be  more  to  him 
than  twice  as  much  to  another.  Now,  as  I  can't 
show  him  any  humanity  myself,  I  must  beg  leave 
you'll  do  it  for  me. 

Honeywood.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Twitch,  yours 
is  a  most  powerful  recommendation. 

[Giving  money  to  the  follower. 

Bailiff.  Sir,  you're  a  gentleman,  I  see  you  know 
what  to  do  with  your  money.  But,  to  business  : 
we  are  to  be  with  you  here  as  your  friends,  I  sup- 
pose. But  set  in  case  company  comes. — Little 
Flanigan  here,  to  be  sure,  has  a  good  face ;  a  very 
good  face ;  but  then,  he  is  a  little  seedy,  as  we  say 
among  us  that  practise  the  law.  Not  well  in 
clothes.     Smoke  the  pocket-holes. 

Honeywood.  Well,  that  shall  be  remedied  with- 
out delay. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Sir,  Miss  Richland  is  below. 

Honeywood.  How  unlucky  i  Detain  her  a  mo- 
ment. We  must  improve  my  good  friend  little 
Mr,  Flanigan' s  appearance  first.  Here,  let  Mr. 
Flanigan  have  a  suit  of  my  clothes — quick — the 
brown  and  silver — Do  you  hear? 

Servant.  That  your  honour  gave  away  to  the 
begging  gentleman  that  makes  verses,  because  it 
was  as  good  as  new. 

Honeywood.  The  white  and  gold  then. 

Servant.  That,  your  honour,  I  made  bold  to 
sell,  because  it  was  good  for  nothing. 

Honeywood.  Well,  the  first  that  come*  to  hand 


178 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


then.  The  blue  and  gold  then.  I  believe  Mr. 
Flanigan  will  look  best  in  bine.     [Exit  Flanigan. 

Bailiff.  Rabbit  me,  but  little  Flanigan  will  look 
well  in  any  thing.  Ah,  if  your  honour  knew  that 
bit  of  flesh  as  well  as  I  do,  you'd  be  perfectly  in  love 
with  him.  There's  not  a  prettier  scout  in  the  four 
counties  after  a  shy -cock  than  he ;  scents  like  a 
hound :  sticks  like  a  weasel.  He  was  master  of 
the  ceremonies  to  the  black  queen  of  Morocco, 
when  I  took  him  to  follow  me.  [Re-enter  Flani- 
gan.^ Heh,  ecod,  I  think  he  looks  so  well,  that  I 
don't  care  if  I  have  a  suit  from  the  same  place  for 
myself. 

Honeywood.  Well,  well,  I  hear  the  lady  coming. 
Dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  beg  you'll  give  your  friend  di- 
rections not  to  speak.  As  for  yourself,  I  know  you 
will  say  nothing  without  being  directed. 

Bailiff.  Never  you  fear  me;  I'll  show  the  lady 
that  I  have  something  to  say  for  myself  as  well  as 
another.  One  man  has  one  way  of  talking,  and 
another  man  has  another,  that's  all  the  difference 
between  them. 

Enter  MISS  RICHLAND  and  her  Maid. 

Miss  Richland.  You'll  be  surprised,  sir,  with 
this  visit.  But  you  know  I'm  yet  to  thank  you  for 
choosing  my  little  library. 

Honeywood.  Thanks,  madam,  are  unnecessary ; 
as  it  was  I  that  was  obliged  by  your  commands. 
Chairs  here.  Two  of  my  very  good  friends,  Mr. 
Twitch  and  Mr.  Flanigan.  Pray,  gentlemen,  sit 
without  ceremony. 

Miss  Richland.  Who  can  these  odd-looking 
men  be;  I  fear  it  is  as  I  was  informed.  It  must  be 
80.  [Aside. 

Bailiff  [after  a  'pause.']  Pretty  weather ;  very 
pretty  weather  for  the  time  of  the  year,  madam. 

Follower.  Very  good  circuit  weather  in  the 
country. 

Honeywood.  You  officers  are  generally  favourites 
among  the  ladies.  My  friends,  madam,  have  been 
upon  very  disagreeable  duty,  I  assure  you.  The 
fair  should  in  some  measure  recompense  the  toils 
of  the  brave! 

Miss  Richland.  Our  officers  do  indeed  deserve 
every  favour.  The  gentlemen  are  in  the  marine 
service,  I  presume  sir? 

Honeywood.  Why,  madam,  they  do — occasional- 
ly serve  in  the  fleet,  madam.  A  dangerous  ser- 
vice! 

Miss  Richland.  I'm  told  so.  And  I  own  it  has 
often  surprised  me,  that  while  we  have  had  so  ma- 
ny instances  of  bravery  there,  we  have  had  so  few 
of  wit  at  home  to  praise  it. 

Honeywood.  1  grant,  madam,  that  our  poets  have 
not  written  as  our  soldiers  have  fought ;  but  they 
have  done  all  they  could,  and  Hawke  or  Amherst 
could  do  no  more. 


Miss  Richland.  I'm  quite  displeased  when  I  see 
a  fine  subject  spoiled  by  a  dull  writer. 

Honeywood.  We  should  not  be  so  severe  against 
dull  writers,  madam.  It  is  ten  to  one  but  the  dullest 
writer  exceeds  the  most  rigid  French  critic  who 
presumes  to  despise  him. 

Follower.  Damn  the  French,  the  parle  vous,  and 
all  that  belongs  to  them. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir! 

Honeytcood.  Ha  ha,  ha!  honest  Mr.  Flanigan. 
A  true  English  officer,  madam;  he's  not  content- 
ed with  beating  the  French,  but  he  will  scold  them 
too. 

Miss  Richland.  Yet,  Mr.  Honeywood,  this  does 
not  convince  me  but  that  severity  in  criticism  i» 
necessary.  It  was  our  first  adopting  the  severity 
of  French  taste,  that  has  brought  them  in  turn  to 
taste  us. 

Bailiff.  Taste  us  !  By  the  Lord,  madam,  they 
devour  us.  Give  monseers  but  a  taste,  and  I'll  be 
damn'd  but  they  come  in  for  a  bellyfull. 

Miss  Richland.    Very  extraordinary  this  f 

Follower.  But  very  true.  What  makes  the 
bread  rising  7  the  parle  vous  that  devour  us.  What 
makes  the  mutton  fivcpence  a  pound?  the  parle 
vous  that  eat  it  up.  What  makes  the  beer  three- 
pence-halfpenny a  pot? 

Honeywood.  Ah !  the  vulgar  rogues;  all  will  be 
out.  [Aside.]  Right,  gentlemen,  very  right,  upon 
my  word,  and  quite  to  the  purpose.  They  draw  a 
parallel,  madam,  between  the  mental  taste  and  that 
of  our  senses.  We  are  injured  as  much  by  the 
French  severity  in  the  one,  as  by  French  rapacity 
in  the  other.     That's  their  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  Though  I  don't  see  the  force 
of  the  parallel,  yet  I'll  own,  that  we  should  some- 
times pardon  books,  as  we  do  our  friends,  that  have 
now  and  then  agreeable  absurdities  to  recommend 
them. 

Bailiff.  That's  all  my  eye.  The  king  only  can 
pardon,  as  the  law  says :  for  set  in  case 

Honeywood.  I'm  quite  of  your  opinion,  sir.  I 
see  the  whole  drift  of  your  argument.  Yes,  cer- 
tainly, our  presuming  to  pardon  any  work,  is  ar- 
rogating a  power  that  belongs  to  another.  If  all 
have  power  to  condemn,  what  writer  can  be  free  7 

Bailiff.  By  his  habus  corpus.  His  habus  corpus 
can  set  him  free  at  any  time :  for,  set  in  case — 

Honeywood.  I'm  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  the  hint. 
If,  madam,  as  my  friend  observes,  our  laws  are  so 
careful  of  a  gentleman's  person,  sure  we  ought  to 
be  equally  careful  of  his  dearer  part,  his  fame. 

Follower.  Ay,  but  if  so  be  a  man's  nabb'd  you 
know — 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Flanigan,  if  you  spoke  for  ever, 
you  could  not  improve  the  last  observation.  For 
my  own  part,  I  think  it  conclusive. 

Bailiff.  As  for  the  matter  of  that,  mayhap— 


THE  GOOD-NATUREi^  MAN. 


179 


Honeywood.  Nay,  sir,  give  me  leave  in  this  in 
t/tance  to  be  positive.  For  where  is  the  necessity 
of  censuring  works  without  genius,  which  must 
shortly  sink  of  themselves  7  what  is  it,  but  aiming 
an  unnecessary  blow  against  a  victim  already  under 
the  hands  of  justice  7 

Bailiff.  Justice !  O,  by  the  elevens,  if  you  talk 
about  justice,  I  think  I  am  at  home  there :  for,  in  a 
course  of  law — 

Honeyxcood.  My  dear  Mr.  Twitch,  I  discern 
what  you'd  be  at  perfectly ;  and  I  believe  the  lady 
must  be  sensible  of  the  art  with  which  it  is  intro- 
duced. I  suppose  you  perceive  the  meaning,  ma- 
dam, of  his  course  of  law. 

Mis.f  Richland.  I  protest,  sir,  1  do  not.  I  per- 
ceive only  that  you  answer  one  gentleman  before 
he  has  finished,  and  the  other  before  he  has  well 
begun. 

Bailiff'.  Madam,  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I 
will  make  the  matter  out.  This  here  question  is 
about  severity,  and  justice,  and  pardon,  and  the  like 
of  they.     Now,  to  explain  the  thing — 

Honeywood.     O  !  curse  your  explanations. 

[^Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Mr.  Leontine,  sir,  below,  desires  to 
speak  with  you  upon  earnest  business. 

Honeywood.  That's  lucky  [Aside.]  Dear  ma- 
dam, you'll  excuse  me  and  my  good  friends  here, 
for  a  few  minutes.  There  are  books,  madam,  to 
amuse  you.     Come,  gentlemen,  you  know  I  make 

with  such  frien 
Excuse  me.     Well,  if  I  must.     But  I  know  your 
natural  politeness. 

Bailiff.     Before  and  behind,  you  know. 

Follower.  Ay,  ay,  before  and  behind,  before  and 
behind. 

[Exeunt  Honeywood,  Bailiff,  and  FoUoicer. 

Miss  Richland.  What  can  all  this  mean,  Gar- 
net 7 

Garnet.  Mean,  madam!  why,  what  should  it 
mean,  but  what  Mr.  Lofty  sent  you  here  to  see  7 
These  people  he  calls  officers,  are  officers  sure 
enough  ;  sheriff's  officers;  bailiffij,  madam. 

Miss  Richland.  Ay,  it  is  certainly  so.  Well, 
though  his  perplexities  are  far  from  giving  me 
pleasure,  yet  I  own  there's  something  very  ridicu- 
lous in  them,  and  a  just  punishment  for  his  dis- 
simulation. 

Garnet.  And  so  they  are.  But  I  wonder,  ma- 
dam, that  the  lawyer  you  just  employed  to  pay  his 
debts,  and  set  him  free,  has  not  done  it  by  this  time. 
He  ought  at  least  to  have  been  here  before  now. 
But  lawyers  are  always  more  ready  to  get  a  man 
into  troubles  than  out  of  them. 

Enter  SIR  WILLIAM  HONEYWOOD. 

Sir  William.   For  Miss  Richland  to  undertake 


setting  him  free,  I  own,  was  quite  unexpected.  I 
has  totally  unhinged  my  schemes  to  reclaim  him. 
Yet  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  find,  that  among  a 
number  of  worthless  friendships,  he  has  made  one 
acquisition  of  real  value ;  for  there  must  be  some 
softer  passion  on  her  side  that  prompts  this  gene- 
rosity. Ha !  here  before  me :  I'll  endeavour  to 
sound  her  affections. — Madam,  as  I  am  the  person 
that  have  had  some  demands  upon  the  gentleman 
of  this  house,  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  if,  before  1 
enlarged  him,  I  wanted  to  see  yourself 

Miss  Richland.  The  precaution  was  very  un- 
necessary, sir.  I  suppose  your  wants  were  only 
such  as  my  agent  had  power  to  satisfy. 

Sir  William.  Partly,  madam.  But  I  was  also 
willing  you  should  be  fully  apprised  of  the  charac- 
ter of  the  gentleman  you  intended  to  serve. 

Miss  Richland.  It  must  come,  sir,  with  a  very 
ill  grace  from  you.  To  censure  it  after  what  you 
have  done,  would  look  like  malice ;  and  to  speak 
favourably  of  a  character  you  have  oppressed,  would 
be  im])eaching  your  own.  And  sure,  his  tender- 
ness, his  humanity,  his  universal  friendship,  may 
atone  for  many  faults. 

Sir  William.  That  friendship,  madam,  which 
is  exerted  in  too  wide  a  sphere,  becomes  totally 
useless.  Our  bounty,  like  a  drop  of  water,  disap- 
pears when  diffused  too  widely.  They,  who  pre- 
tend most  to  this  universal  benevolence,  are  either 
deceivers,  or  dupes :  men  who  desire  to  cover  their 
private  ill-nature,  by  a  pretended  regard  for  all ;  or 
men  who,  reasoning  themselves  into  false  feelings, 
are  more  earr 
useful  virtues. 

Miss  Richland.  I  am  surprised,  sir,  to  hear  one, 
who  has  probably  been  a  gainer  by  the  folly  of 
others,  so  severe  in  his  censure  of  it. 

Sir  William.  Whatever  I  may  have  gained  by 
folly,  madam,  you  see  1  am  wilUng  to  prevent  your 
losing  by  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Your  cares  for  me,  sir,  are  un- 
necessary. I  always  suspect  those  services  which 
are  denied  where  they  are  wanted,  and  offered,  per- 
haps, in  hopes  of  a  refusal.  No,  sir,  my  directions 
have  been  given,  and  I  insist  upon  their  being  com- 
plied with. 

^V  William.  Thou  amiable  woman!  I  can  no 
longer  contain  the  expressions  of  my  gratitude,  my 
pleasure.  You  see  before  you  one,  who  has  been 
equally  careful  of  his  interest ;  one,  who  has  for 
some  time  been  a  concealed  spectator  of  his  follies, 
and  only  punished  in  hopes  to  reclaim  him — his 
uncle ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sir  William  Honey  wood !  You 
amaze  me.  How  shall  I  conceal  my  confusion?  I 
fear,  sir,  you'll  think  I  have  been  too  forward  in 
my  services.     I  confess  I — 

Sir  William.  Don't  make  any  apologies,  ma- 
dam.    I  only  find  myself  unable  to  repay  the  obli- 


i80 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


gation.  And  yet,  I  have  been  trying  my  interest 
of  late  to  serve  you.  Having  learnt,  madam,  that 
you  had  some  demands  upon  Government,  I  have, 
though  unasked,  been  your  solicitor  there. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir,  I'm  infinitely  obliged  to 
your  intentions.  But  my  guardian  has  employed 
another  gentleman,  who  assures  him  of  success. 

Sir  Williavi.  Who,  the  important  little  man 
that  visits  here?  Trust  me,  madam,  he's  quite 
contemptible  among  men  in  power,  and  utterly 
unable  to  serve  you.  Mr.  Lofty' s  promises  are 
much  better  known  to  people  of  fashion,  than  his 
person,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Richland.  How  have  we  been  deceived  ! 
As  sure  as  can  be  here  he  comes. 

Sir  William.  Does  he?  Remember  I'm  to  con- 
tinue unknown.  My  return  to  England  has  not 
as  yet  been  made  public.  With  what  impudence 
he  enters! 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Lofty.  Let  the  chariot— let  my  chariot  drive  off; 
I'll  visit  to  his  grace's  in  a  chair.  Miss  Richland 
here  before  me !  Punctual,  as  usual,  to  the  calls 
;f  humanity.  I'm  very  sorry,  madam,  things  of 
this  kind  should  happen,  especially  to  a  man  1  have 
shown  every  where,  and  carried  amongst  us  as  a 
particular  acquaintance. 

Miss  Richland.  I  find,  sir,  you  have  the  art  of 
making  the  misfortunes  of  others  your  own. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  what  can  a  private  man 
like  me  do?  One  man  can't  do  every  thing;  ant^ 
then,  I  do  so  much  in  this  way  every  day : — Let 
me  see ;  something  considerable  might  be  done  for 
him  by  subscription ;  it  could  not  fail  if  I  carried 
the  list.  I'll  undertake  to  set  down  a  brace  of 
dukes,  two  dozen  lords,  and  half  the  lower  house, 
at  my  own  peril. 

Sir  William.  And,  after  all,  it's  more  than  pro- 
bable, sir,  he  might  reject  the  offer  of  such  power- 
ful patronage. 

Lofly.  Then,  madam,  what  can  we  do?  You 
know  I  never  make  promises.  In  truth,  I  once  or 
twice  tried  to  do  something  with  him  in  the  way  of 
business ;  but,  as  1  often  told  his  uncle.  Sir  Wil- 
liam Honeywood,  the  man  was  utterly  impracti- 
cable. 

Sir  William.  His  uncle !  then  that  gentleman, 
I  suppose,  is  a  particular  friend  of  yours. 

Lofty.  Meaning  me,  sir? — ^Yes,  madam,  as  I 
often  said,  my  dear  Sir  William,  you  are  sensible 
I  would  do  any  thing,  as  far  as  my  poor  interest 
goes,  to  serve  your  family :  but  what  can  be  done? 
there's  no  procuring  first-rate  places  for  ninth-rate 
abilities. 

Miss  Richland.  1  have  heard  of  Sir  William 
Honeywood;  he's  abroad  in  employment :  he  con- 
fided in  your  judgment,  I  suppose? 

Lofty.  Why,  yes,  madam,  I  believe  Sir  William 


had  some  reason  to  confide  in  my  jud|mient ;  one 
httle  reason,  perhaps. 

Miss  Richland.  Pray,  sir,  what  was  it? 
Lofty.  Why,  madam — ^but  let  it  go  no  farther — 
it  was  I  procured  him  his  place. 
Sir  William.  Did  you,  sir  ? 
Lofty.  Either  you  or  I,  sir. 
Miss  Richland.  This,  Mr.  Lofty,  was  very  kind 
indeed. 

Lofty.  I  did  love  him,  to  be  sure ;  he  had  some 
amusing  qualities ;  no  man  was  fitter  to  be  a  toast- 
master  to  a  club,  or  had  a  better  head. 
Miss  Richland.  A  better  head  ? 
Lofty.  Ay,  at  a  bottle,  JTo  be  sure  he  was  as 
dull  as  a  choice  spirit :  but,  hang  it,  he  was  grate- 
ful, very  grateful ;  and  gratitude  hides  a  multitude 
of  faults. 

Sir  William.  He  might  have  reason,  perhaps. 
His  place  is  pretty  considerable,  I'm  told. 

Lofty.  A  trifle,  a  mere  trifle  among  us  men  of 
business.  The  truth  is,  he  wanted  dignity  to  fill 
up  a  greater. 

Sir  William.  Dignity  of  person,  do  you  mean, 
sir?  I'm  told  he's  much  about  my  size  and  figure, 
sir. 

Lofty.  Ay,  tall  eno'iigh  for  a  marching  regiment ; 
but  then  he  wanted  a  something — a  consequence 
of  form — a  kind  of  a — I  believe  the  lady  perceives 
my  meaning. 

Miss  Richland.  O,  perfectly ;  you  courtiers  can 
do  any  thing,  I  see. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  all  this  is  ])ut  a  mere 
exchange ;  we  do  greater  things  for  one  another 
every  day.  Why,  as  thus,  now  :  let  me  suppose 
you  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury ;  you  have  an  em- 
ployment in  you  that  I  want ;  I  have  a  place  in 
me  that  you  want ;  do  me  here,  do  you  there :  in- 
terest of  both  sides,  few  words,  flat,  done  and  done, 
and  it's  over. 

Sir  William.  A  thought  strikes  me.  [Aside.'l 
Now  you  mention  Sir  WilUam  Honeywood,  ma- 
dam, and  as  he  seems,  sir,  an  acquaintance  of  yours, 
you'll  be  glad  to  hear  he  is  arrived  from  Italy;  I 
had  it  from  a  friend  who  knows  him  as  well  as  he 
does  me,  and  you  may  depend  on  my  information. 
Lofty.  The  devil  he  is !  If  I  had  known  that, 
we  should  not  have  been  quite  so  well  acquainted. 

[Aside. 
Sir  William.  He  is  certainly  returned ;  and  as 
this  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  he  can  be  of 
signal  service  to  us,  by  introducing  me  to  him ; 
there  are  some  papers  relative  to  your  affairs  that 
require  dispatch,  and  his  inspection. 

Miss  Richland.  This  gentleman,  Mr.  Lofty,  is 
a  person  employed  in  my  affairs :  I  know  you'll 
serve  us. 

Lofty.  My  dear  madam,  I  live  but  to  serve  you. 
Sir  William  shall  even  wait  upon  him,  if  you  think 
proper  to  command  it. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


181 


Sir  William.  That  would  be  quite  unnecessary. 

Lofty.  Well,  we  must  introduce  you  then.  Call 
upon  me — let  me  see — ay,  in  two  days. 

Sir  William.  Now,  or  the  opportunity  will  be 
lost  for  ever. 

Lofty.  Well,  if  it  must  be  now,  now  let  it  be. 
But  damn  it,  that's  unfortunate ;  my  Lord  Grig's 
cursed  Pensacola  business  comes  on  this  very  hour, 
and  I'm  engaged  to  attend — another  time — 

Sir  William.  A  short  letter  to  Sir  William  will 
do. 

Lofty.  You  shall  have  it ;  yet,  in  my  opinion,  a 
letter  is  a  very  bad  way  of  going  to  work ;  face  to 
face,  that's  my  way. 

Sir  William.  The  letter,  sir,  will  do  quite  as 
well. 

Lofty.  Zounds!  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct 
me  7  direct  me  in  the  business  of  office  7  Do  you 
know  me,  sir  7  who  am  17 

Miss  Richland.  Dear  Mr,  Lofty,  this  request  is 
not  so  much  his  as  mine;  if  my  commands — ^but 
you  despise  my  power. 

Lofty.  Delicate  creature!  your  commands  could 
even  control  a  debate  at  midnight :  to  a  power  so 
constitutional,  I  am  all  obedience  and  tranquillity. 
He  shall  have  a  letter:  where  is  my  secretary? 
Dubardieu7  And  yet,  I  protest  I  don't  like  this 
way  of  doing  business.  I  think  if  I  spoke  first 
to  Sir  William — But  you  will  have  it  so. 

[Exit  with  Miss  Richland. 

Sir  William  [alone.]  Ha,  ha,  ha! — This  too  is 
one  of  my  nephew's  hopeful  associates.  O  vanity, 
thou  constant  deceiver,  how  do  all  thy  efforts  to 
exalt,  serve  but  to  sink  us !  Thy  false  colourings, 
like  those  employed  to  heighten  beauty,  only  seem 
to  mend  that  bloom  which  they  contribute  to  de- 
stroy. I'm  not  displeased  at  this  interview:  ex- 
posing this  fellow's  impudence  to  the  contempt  it 
deserves,  may  be  of  use  to  my  design;  at  least,  if  he 
can  reflect,  it  will  be  of  use  to  himself. 

Enter  JAR  VIS. 

Sir  William.  How  now,  Jarvis,  where' s  your 
master,  my  nephew? 

Jarvis.  At  his  wit's  ends,  I  believe:  he's  scarce 
gotten  out  of  one  scrape,  but  he's  running  his  head 
into  another. 

Sir  William.  How  so  7 

Jarvis.  The  house  has  but  just  been  cleared  of 
the  bailiffs,  and  now  he's  again  engaging  tooth  and 
nail  in  assisting  old  Croaker's  son  to  patch  up  a 
clandestine  match  with  the  young  lady  that  passes 
in  the  house  for  his  sister. 

Sir  William.  Ever  busy  to  serve  others. 

Jarvis.  Ay,  any  body  but  himself.  The  young 
couple,  it  seems,  are  just  setting  out  for  Scotland; 
and  he  supplies  them  with  money  for  the  journey. 

Sir  William.  Money !  how  is  he  able  to  supply 
others  who  has  scarce  any  for  himself  7 


Jarvis.  Why,  there  it  is:  he  has  no  money, 
that's  true;  but  then,  as  he  never  said  No  to  any 
request  in  his  life,  he  has  given  them  a  bill,  drawn 
by  a  friend  of  his  upon  a  merchant  in  the  city 
which  I  am  to  get  changed ;  for  you  must  know 
that  I  am  to  go  with  them  to  Scotland  myself. 

Sir  William.  How? 

Jarvis.  It  seems  the  young  gentleman  is  obliged 
to  take  a  different  road  from  his  mistress,  as  he  is 
to  call  upon  an  uncle  of  his  that  lives  out  of  the 
way,  in  order  to  prepare  a  place  for  their  reception 
when  they  return;  so  they  have  borrowed  me  from 
my  master,  as  the  properest  person  to  attend  the 
young  lady  down. 

Sir  William.  To  the  land  of  matrimony?  A 
pleasant  journey,  Jarvis, 

Jarvis.  Ay,  but  I'm  only  to  have  all  the  fatigues 
on't. 

Sir  William.  Well,  it  may  be  shorter,  and  less 
fatiguing,  than  you  imagine.  I  know  but  too 
much  of  the  young  lady's  family  and  connexions, 
whom  I  have  seen  abroad,  I  have  also  discovered 
that  Miss  Richland  is  not  indifferent  to  my  thought- 
less nephev/;  and  will  endeavour,  though  I  fear  in 
vain,  to  establish  that  connexion.  But,  come,  the 
letter  I  wait  for  must  be  almost  finished;  I'll  let 
you  further  into  my  intentions  in  the  next  room. 

[E.reunt. 


ACT  IV, 


SCENE — croaker's  HOUSE. 


Lofty.  Well,  sure  the  devil's  in  me  of  late,  for 
running  my  head  into  such  defiles,  as  nothing  but 
a  genius  like  my  own  could  draw  me  from,  1  was 
formerly  contented  to  husband  out  my  places  and 
pensions  with  some  degree  of  frugality ;  but,  curse 
it,  of  late  I  have  given  away  the  whole  Court  Re- 
gister in  less  time  than  they  could  print  the  title- 
page  :  yet,  hang  it,  why  scruple  a  lie  or  two  to  come 
at  a  fine  girl,  when  I  every  day  tell  a  thousand  for 
nothing.  Ha!  Honey  wood  here  l>efore  me.  Could 
Miss  Richland  have  set  him  at  liberty? 

.  Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Mr,  Honeywood,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  abroad 
again,  I  find  my  concurrence  was  not  necessary 
in  your  unfortunate  affairs,  I  had  put  things  in  a 
train  to  do  your  business;  but  it  is  not  for  me  to 
say  what  I  intended  doing, 

Honeywood.  It  was  unfortunate  indeed,  sir. 
But  what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is,  that  while  you 
seem  to  be  acquainted  with  my  misfortune,  I  my- 
self continue  still  a  stranger  to  my  benefactoi*. 

Lofty.  How !  not  know  the  friend  that  served 
you? 

Honeywood.  Can't  guess  at  the  person. 

Lofty.  Inquire. 


182 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Honeywood.  I  have;  but  all  I  can  learn  is,  that 
he  chooses  to  remain  concealed,  and  that  all  in 
quiry  must  be  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Must  be  fr\iitless! 

Honeywood.  Absolutely  fruitless. 

Lofty.  Sure  of  that? 

Honeyicood.  Very  sure. 

Lofty.  Then  I'll  be  damn'd  if  you  shall  ever 
know  it  from  me. 

Honeywood.  Howr,  sir? 

Lofty.  I  suppose  now,  Mr.  Honeywood,  you 
think  my  rent-roll  very  considerable,  and  that  1 
have  vast  sums  of  money  to  throw  away ;  I  know 
you  do.  The  world,  to  be  sure,  says  such  things 
of  me. 

Honeywood.  The  world,  by  what  I  learn,  is  no 
stranger  to  your  generosity.  But  where  does  this 
tend? 

Lofty.  To  nothing;  nothing  in  the  world.  The 
town,  to  be  sure,  when  it  makes  such  a  thing  as 
me  the  subject  of  conversation,  has  arsserted,  that 
I  never  yet  patronised  a  man  of  merit. 

Honeywood.  I  have  heard  instances  to  the  con- 
trary, even  from  yourself 

Lofty.  Yes,  Honeywood;  and  there  are  in- 
stances to  the  contrary,  that  you  shall  never  hear 
from  myself 

Honeywood.  Ha!  dear  sir,  permit  me  to  ask  you 
but  one  question. 

Lofty.  Sir,  ask  me  no  questions;  I  say,  sir,  ask 
me  no  questions ;  I'll  be  damn'd  if  I  answer  them. 

Honeywood.  I  will  ask  no  further.  My  friend ! 
my  benefactor !  it  is,  it  must  be  here,  that  I  am  in- 
debted for  freedom,  for  honour.  Yes,  thou  wor- 
thiest of  men,  from  the  beginning  I  suspected  it, 
but  was  afraid  to  return  thanks ;  which,  if  unde- 
served, might  seem  reproaches. 

Lofty.  I  protest  I  do  not  understand  all  this, 
Mr,  Honeywood :  you  treat  me  very  cavalierly.  I 
do  assure  you,  sir — Blood,  sir,  can't  a  man  be  per- 
mitted to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  his  own  feehngs, 
without  all  this  parade? 

Honeywood.  Nay,  do  not  attempt  to  conceal  an 
action  that  adds  to  your  honour.  Your  looks,  your 
air,  your  manner,  all  confess  it. 

Lofty.  Confess  it,  sir!  torture  itself,  sir,  shall 
never  bring  me  to  confess  it.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I 
have  admitted  you  upon  terms  of  friendship.  Don't 
let  us  fall  out ;  make  me  happy,  and  let  this  be 
buried  in  oblivion.  You  know  I  hate  ostentation ; 
you  know  I  do.  Come,  come,  Honeywood,  you 
know  I  always  loved  to  be  a  friend,  and  not  a  pa- 
tron. I  beg  this  may  make  no  kind  of  distance 
between  us.  Come,  come,  you  and  I  must  be 
more  familiar — Indeed  we  must. 

Honeywood.  Heavens!  Can  I  ever  repay  such 
friendship?  Is  there  anyway? — Thou  best  of  men, 
can  I  ever  return  the  obligation? 

Lofty.  A  bagatelle,  a  mere  bagatelle!  But  I  see 


your  heart  is  labouring  to  be  grateful.  You  shall 
be  grateful.     It  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  you. 

Honeywood.  How!  teach  me  the  manner.  Is 
there  any  way? 

Lofty.  From  this  moment  you're  mine.  Ye« 
my  friend,  you  shall  know  it — I'm  in  love. 

Honeywood.  And  can  I  assist  you? 

Lofty.  Nobody  so  well. 

Honeywood.  In  what  manner  ?  I'm  all  impa 
tience. 

Lofty.  You  shall  make  love  for  me. 

Honeywood.  And  to  whom  shall  I  speak  in  your 
favour  ? 

Lofty.  To  a  lady  with  whom  you  have  great  in- 
terest, I  assure  you  ;  Miss  Richland. 

Honeyicood.  Miss  Richland! 

Lofty.  Yes,  Miss  Richland.  She  has  struck 
the  blow  up  to  the  hilt  in  my  bosom,  by  Jupiter. 

Honeywood.  Heavens!  was  ever  any  thing  more 
unfortunate  ?  It  is  too  much  to  be  endured. 

Lofty.  Unfortunate,  indeed!  And  yet  can  I  en- 
dure it,  till  you  have  opened  the  affair  to  her  for 
me.  Between  ourselves,  I  think  she  likes  me.  I'm 
not  apt  to  boast,  but  I  think  she  does. 

Honeywood.  Indeed !  but  do  you  know  the  per- 
son you  apply  to  ? 

Lofty.  Yes,  I  know  you  are  her  friend  and  mine : 
that's  enough.  To  you,  therefore,  I  commit  the 
success  of  my  passion.  I'll  say  no  more,  let  friend- 
ship do  the  rest.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  if  at  any 
time  my  little  interest  can  be  of  service — but,  hang 
it,  I'll  make  no  promises — you  know  my  interest  is 
yours  at  any  tune.  No  apologies,  my  friend,  I'll 
not  be  answered ;  it  shall  be  so.  {Exit. 

Honeywood.  Open,  generous,  unsuspecting  man! 
He  little  thinks  that  I  love  her  too ;  and  with  such 
an  ardent  passion ! — But  then  it  was  ever  but  a 
vain  and  hopeless  one ;  my  torment,  my  persecu- 
tion !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Love,  friendship ;  a  hope- 
less passion,  a  deserving  friend !  Love,  that  has 
been  my  tormentor ;  a  friend  that  has,  perhaps,  dis- 
tressed himself  to  serve  me.  It  shall  be  so.  Yes, 
1  will  discard  the  fondling  hope  from  my  bosom, 
and  exert  all  my  influence  in  his  favour.  And 
yet  to  see  her  in  the  possession  of  another ! — In- 
upportable !  But  then  to  betray  a  generous,  trust- 
ing friend  ! — Worse,  worse !  Yes,  I'm  resolved. 
Let  me  but  be  the  instrument  of  their  happiness, 
and  then  quit  a  country,  where  I  must  for  ever  de- 
spair of  finding  my  own.  [Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA,  and  GARNET,  who  carries  a  milliner's  box. 

Olivia.  Dear  me,  I  wish  this  journey  were  over. 
No  news  of  Jar  vis  yet?  I  believe  the  old  peevish 
creature'uelays  purely  to  vex  me. 

Garnet.  Why,  to  be  sure,  madam,  I  did  hear 
him  say,  a  little  snubbing  before  marriage  would 
teach  you  to  bear  it  the  better  afterwards. 

Olivia.  To  be  gone  a  full  hour,  though  he  liad 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


183 


«nly  to  get  a  bill  changed  in  the  city !  How  pro 
voking. 

Garnet.  I'lllay  my  life,  Mr.  Leontine,  that  had 
twice  as  much  to  do,  is  setting  off  by  this  time 
from  his  inn ;  and  here  you  are  left  behind. 

Olivia.  Well,  let  us  be  prepared  for  his  coming, 
however.  Are  you  sure  you  have  omitted  nothing, 
Garnet  ? 

Garnet.  Not  a  stick,  madam — all's  here.  Yet 
I  wish  you  would  take  the  white  and  silver  to  be 
married  in.  It's  the  worst  luck  in  the  world,  in 
any  thing  but  white.  I  knew  one  Bett  Stubbs  of 
our  town  that  was  married  in  red;  and,  as  sure  as 
eggs  is  eggs,  the  bridegroom  and  she  had  a  miff 
before  morning. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  I'm  all  impatience  till  we 
are  out  of  the  house. 

Garnet.  Bless  me,  madam,  I  had  almost  forgot 
the  wedding  ring ! — The  sweet  Uttle  thing — I  don't 
think  it  would  go  on  my  little  finger.  And  what 
if  I  put  in  a  gentleman's  night-cap,  in  case  of  ne- 
cessity, madam? — But  here's  Jarvis. 

Enter  JARVIS. 

Olivia.  O  Jarvis,  are  you  come  at  last  1  We 
have  been  ready  this  half  hour.  Now  let's  be  go- 
ing.    Let  us  fly ! 

Jarvis.  Ay,  to  Jericho;  for  we  shall  have  no 
going  to  Scotland  this  bout,  I  fancy. 

Olivia.  How  !  what's  the  matter? 

Jarvis.  Money,  money,  is  the  matter,  madam. 
We  have  got  no  money.  What  the  plague  do  you 
send  me  of  your  fool's  errand  for?  My  master's  bill 
upon  the  city  is  not  worth  a  rush.  Here  it  is ;  Mrs. 
Garnet  may  pin  up  her  hair  with  it. 

Olivia.  Undone !  How  could  Honeywood  serve 
us  so  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?  Can't  we  go  without  it? 

Jarvis.  Go  to  Scotland  without  money !  To 
Scotland  without  money !  Lord,  how  some  people 
understand  geography  !  We  might  as  well  set  sail 
for  Patagonia  upon  a  cork-jacket, 

Olivia,  Such  a  disappointment !  What  a  base 
msincere  man  was  your  master,  to  serve  us  in  this 
manner !  Is  this  his  good-nature  ? 

Jarvis  Nay,  don't  talk  ill  of  my  master,  madam. 
I  won't  bear  to  hear  any  body  talk  ill  of  him  but 
myself. 

Garnet.  Bless  us!  now  I  think  on't,  madam,  you 
need  not  be  under  any  uneasiness :  I  saw  Mr. 
Leontine  receive  forty  guineas  from  his  father  just 
before  he  set  out,  and  be  can't  yet  have  left  the  inn. 
A  short  letter  will  reach  him  there. 

Olivia.  Well  remembered,  Garnet;  I'll  write 
immediately.  How's  this!  Bless  me,  jny  hand 
trembles  so,  I  can't  write  a  word.  Do  you  write, 
Garnet ;  and,  upon  second  thought,  it  will  be  bet- 
ter from  you. 

Garnet.  Truly,  madam,  I  write  and  indite  but 
poorly.     I  never  was  'cute  at  my  learning.     But 


I'll  do  what  I  can  to  please  you.  Let  me  see.  All 
out  of  my  own  head,  I  suppose ! 

Olivia.  Whatever  you  please. 

Garnet  [writing.]  Muster  Croaker — Twenty 
guineas,  madam? 

Olivia.  Ay,  twenty  will  do. 

Garnet.  At  the  bar  of  the  Talbot  till  called  for. 
Expedition — Will  be  blown  up — All  of  a  flame— 
auick  dispatch— Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love.— I 
conclude  it,  madam,  with  Cupid :  I  love  to  see  a 
love-letter  end  like  poetry. 

Olivia.  Well,  well,  what  you  please,  any  thing. 
But  how  shall  we  send  it  ?  I  can  trust  none  of  the 
servants  of  this  family. 

Garnet.  Odso,  madam,  Mr.  Honeywood' s  but- 
ler is  in  the  next  room:  he's  a  dear,  sweet  man, 
he'll  do  any  thing  for  me. 

Jarvis.  He !  the  dog,  he'll  certainly  commit  some 
blunder.     He's  drunk  and  sober  ten  times  a-day. 

Olivia.  No  matter.  Fly,  Garnet;  any  body  we 
can  trust  will  do.  [Exit  Garnet.]  Well,  Jarvis, 
now  we  can  have  nothing  more  to  interrupt  us ; 
you  may  take  up  the  things,  and  carry  them  on  to 
the  inn.     Have  you  no  hands,  Jarvis  ? 

Jarvis.  Soft  and  fair,  young  lady.  You  that 
are  going  to  be  married,  think  things  can  never  be 
done  too  fast ;  but  we,  that  are  old,  and  know  what 
we  are  about,  must  elope  methodically,  madam. 

Olivia.  Well,  sure,  if  my  indiscretions  were  Xq 
be  done  over  again 

Jarvis.  My  life  for  it,  you  would  do  them  ten 
times  over. 

Olivia.  Why  will  you  talk  so?  If  you  knew 
how  unhappy  they  made  me 

Jarvis.  Very  unhappy,  no  doubt :  I  was  once 
just  as  unhappy  when  I  was  going  to  be  married 
myself,     I'll  tell  you  a  story  about  that 

Olivia.  A  story!  when  I'm  all  impatience  to  be 
away.  Was  there  ever  such  a  dilatory  creature ! — 

Jarvis.  Well,  madam,  if  we  must  march,  why 
we  will  march,  that's  all.  Though,  odds-bobs,  we 
have  still  forgot  one  thing :  we  should  never  travel 
without — a  case  of  good  razors,  and  a  box  of  shav- 
ing powder.  But  no  matter,  I  believe  we  shall  be 
pretty  well  shaved  by  the  way.  [Going. 

Enter  GARNET, 

Garnet.  Undone,  undone,  madam.  Ah,  Mr. 
Jarvis,  you  said  right  enough.  As  sure  as  death, 
Mr.  Honey  wood's  rogue  of  a  drunken  butler  drop- 
ped the  letter  before  he  went  ten  yards  from  the 
door.  There's  old  Croaker  has  just  picked  it  up, 
and  is  this  moment  reading  it  to  himself  in  the  hall. 

Olivia.  Unfortunate !  we  shall  be  discovered. 

Garnet.  No,  madam ;  don't  be  uneasy,  he  can 
make  neither  head  nor  tail  of  it.  To  be  sure  he 
looks  as  if  he  was  broke  loose  from  Bedlam  about 
it,  but  he  can't  find  what  it  means  for  all  that.  O 
lud,  he  is  coming  this  way  all  in  the  horrors! 


184 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Olivia.  Then  let  us  leave  the  house  this  instant 
for  fear  he  should  ask  further  questions.  In  the 
mean  time,  Garnet,  do  you  write  and  send  off  just 
such  another.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croaker.  Death  and  destruction!  Are  all  the 
horrors  of  air,  fire,  and  water,  to  be  levelled  only  at 
jne7  Am  I  only  to  be  singled  out  for  gunpowder- 
plots,  combustibles  and  conflagration  ?  Here  it  is — 
An  incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  "  To 
Muster  Croaker,  these  with  speed."  Ay,  ay, 
plain  enough  the  direction :  all  in  the  genuine 
incendiary  speUing,  and  as  cramp  as  the  devil, 
"With  speed."  O,  confound  your  speed.  But 
let  me  read  it  once  more.  [Reads.]  "Muster 
Croaker,  as  sone  as  yowe  see  this,  leve  twenty 
guineas  at  the  bar  of  the  Talboot  tell  called  for,  or 
yowe  and  yower  experetion  will  be  all  blown  up." 
Ah,  but  too  plain.  Blood  and  gunpowder  in  every 
line  of  it.  Blown  up !  Murderous  dog  !  All  blown 
up!  Heavens!  what  have  I  and  my  poor  family 
done,  to  be  all  blown  up '?  [Reads.]  "  Our  pockets 
are  low,  and  money  we  must  have."  Ay,  there's 
the  reason ;  they'll  blow  us  up,  because  they  have 
got  low  pockets.  [Reads.]  "  It  is  but  a  short  time 
you  have  to  consider ;  for  if  this  takes  wind,  the 
house  will  quickly  be  all  of  a  flame."  Inhuman 
monsters !  blow  us  up,  and  then  burn  us !  The 
earthquake  at  Lisbon  was  but  a  bonfire  to  it. 
[Reads.]  "  Make  quick  dispatch,  and  so  no  more 
at  present.  But  may  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love, 
go  with  you  wherever  you  go."  The  little  god  of 
love !  Cupid,  the  little  god  of  love  go  with  me ! — Go 
you  to  the  devil,  you  and  your  little  Cupid  together. 
I'm  so  frightened,  I  scarce  know  whether  I  sit, 
stand,  or  go.  Perhaps  this  moment  I'm  treading 
on  lighted  matches,  blazing  brimstone,  and  barrels 
of  gunpowder.  They  are  preparing  to  blow  me 
up  into  the  clouds.  Murder !  We  shall  be  all  burnt 
in  our  beds ;  we  shall  be  all  burnt  in  our  beds. 

Enter  MISS  RICHLAND. 

Miss  Richland.     Lord,  sir,  what's  the  matter? 

Croaker.  Murder's  the  matter.  We  shall  be  all 
blown  up  in  our  beds  before  morning. 

Miss  Richland.  I  hope  not,  sir. 

Croaker.  What  signifies  what  you  hope,  madam, 
when  I  have  a  certificate  of  it  here  in  my  hand  1 
Will  nothing  alarm  my  family?  Sleeping  and  eat- 
ing, sleeping  and  eating  is  the  only  work  from 
morning  till  night  in  my  house.  My  insensible 
crew  could  sleep  though  rocked  by  an  earthquake, 
and  fry  beef-steaks  at  a  volcano. 

Miss  Richland.  But,  sir,  you  have  alarmed  them 
so  often  already ;  we  have  nothing  but  earthquakes, 
famines,  plagues,  and  mad  dogs,  from  year's  end 
to  year's  end.  You  remember,  sir,  it  is  not  above 
a  month  ago,  you  assured  us  of  a  conspiracy  among 


the  bakers  to  poison  us  in  our  bread ;  and  so  kep^ 
the  family  a  week  upon  potatoes. 

Croaker.  And  potatoes  were  too  good  for  them. 
But  why  do  I  stand  talking  here  with  a  girl,  when 
I  should  be  facing  the  enemy  without  ?  Here,  John, 
Nicodemus,  search  the  house.  Look  into  the  cel- 
lars, to  see  if  there  be  any  combustibles  below; 
and  above,  in  the  apartments,  that  no  matches  be 
thrown  in  at  the  windows.  Let  all  the  fires  be  put 
out,  and  let  the  engine  be  drawn  out  in  the  yard, 
to  play  upon  the  house  in  case  of  necessity.     [Exit. 

Miss  Richland  [alone.]  What  can  he  mean  by 
all  this?  Yet  why  should  I  inquire,  when  he 
alarms  us  in  this  manner  almost  every  day.  But 
Honeywood  has  desired  an  interview  with  me  in 
private.  What  can  he  mean?  or  rather,  what 
means  this  palpitation  at  his  approach  ?  It  is  the 
first  time  he  ever  showed  any  thing  in  his  conduct 
that  seemed  particular.  Sure  he  can  not  mean  ta 
but  he's  here. 


Enter  HONEYWOOD. 

Honeywood.  I  presumed  to  solicit  this  interview 
madam,  before  I  left  town,  to  be  permitted 

Miss  Richland.  Indeed !  Leaving  town,  sir  ? — 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam;  perhaps  the  king- 
dom. I  have  presumed,  I  say,  to  desire  the  favour 
of  this  interview, — in  order  to  disclose  something 
which  our  long  friendship  prompts.  And  yet  my 
fears 

Miss  Richland.  His  fears  !  What  are  his  fears 
to  mine !  [Aside.]  We  have  indeed  been  long  ac- 
quainted, sir ;  very  long.  If  I  remember,  our  first 
meeting  was  at  the  French  ambassador's. — Do  you 
recollect  how  you  were  pleased  to  rally  me  upon 
my  complexion  there? 

Honeywood.  Perfectly,  madam;  I  presumed  to 
reprove  you  for  painting ;  but  your  warmer  blushes 
soon  convinced  the  company,  that  the  colouring 
was  all  from  nature. 

Miss  Richland.  And  yet  you  only  meant  it  in 
your  good-natured  way,  to  make  me  pay  a  compli- 
ment to  myself  In  the  same  manner  you  danced 
that  night  with  the  most  awkward  woman  in  com- 
pany, because  you  saw  nobody  else  would  take  her 
out. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  and  was  rewarded  the  next 
night,  by  dancing  with  the  finest  woman  in  com- 
pany, whom  every  body  wished  to  take  out. 

Miss  Richland.  Well,  sir,  if  you  thought  so 
then,  I  fear  your  judgment  has  since  corrected  the 
errors  of  a  first  impression.  We  generally  show 
to  most  advantage  at  first.  Our  sex  are  like  poor 
tradesmen,  that  put  all  their  best  goods  to  be  seen 
at  the  windows, 

Honeywood.  The  first  impression,  madam,  did 
indeed  deceive  me.  1  expected  to  find  a  woman 
with  all  the  faults  of  conscious  flattered  beauty :  I 
expected  to  find  her  vain  and  insolent     But  every 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


l» 


day  has  since  taught  me,  that  it  is  possible  to  pos- 
sess sense  without  pride,  and  beauty  without  affec- 
tation. 

Miss  Richland.  This,  sir,  is  a  style  very  unusual 
with  Mr.  Honey  wood ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  why  he  thus  attempts  to  increase  that  vanity, 
which  his  own  lessons  have  taught  me  to  despise. 

Honeywood.  I  ask  pardon,  madam.  Yet,  from 
our  long  friendship,  [  presumed  I  might  have  some 
right  to  offer,  without  ofi'ence,  what  you  may  re- 
fuse, without  offending. 

Miss  Richland.  Sir !  I  beg  you'd  reflect :  though, 
I  fear,  I  shall  scarce  have  any  power  to  refuse  a 
request  of  yours,  yet  you  may  be  precipitate :  con- 
sider, sir. 

Honeywood.  I  own  my  rashness ;  but  as  I  plead 
the  cause  of  friendship,  of  one  who  loves — Don't 
be  alarmed,  madam — who  loves  you  with  the  most 
ardent  passion,  whose  whole  happiness  is  placed  in 
you 

Miss  Richland.  I  fear,  sir,  I  shall  never  find 
whom  you  mean,  by  this  description  of  him. 

Honeywood.  Ah,  madam,  it  but  too  plainly 
points  him  out ;  though  he  should  be  too  humble 
himself  to  urge  his  pretensions,  or  you  too  modest 
to  understand  them. 

Miss  Richland.  Well;  it  would  be  affectation 
any  longer  to  pretend  ignorance  ;  and  I  will  own, 
sir,  I  have  long  been  prejudiced  in  his  favour.  It 
was  biit  natural  to  wish  to  make  his  heart  mine,  as 
he  seemed  himself  ignorant  of  its  value. 

Honeywood.  I  see  she  always  loved  him.  [ilstrfe.] 
I  find,  madam,  you're  already  sensible  of  his  worth, 
his  passion.  How  happy  is  my  friend,  to  be  the 
favourite  of  one  with  such  sense  to  distinguish 
merit,  and  such  beauty  to  reward  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Your  friend,  sir !  What  friend  ? 

Honeywood.  My  best  friend — my  friend  Mr. 
Lofty,  madam. 

Miss  Richland.     He,  sir! 

Honeywood.  Yes,  he,  madam.  He  is,  indeed, 
what  your  warmest  wishes  might  have  formed  him; 
and  to  his  other  qualities  he  adds  that  of  the  most 
passionate  regard  for  you. 

Miss  Richland.  Amazement ! — No  more  of  this, 
I  beg  you,  sir. 

Honeywood.  1  see  your  confusion,  madam,  and 
know  how  to  interpret  it.  And,  since  I  so  plainly 
read  the  language  of  your  heart,  shall  I  make  my 
friend  happy,  by  communicating  your  sentiments? 

Miss  Richland.     By  no  means. 

Honeywood.  Excuse  me,  I  must ;  I  know  you 
desire  it. 

Miss  Richland.  Mr.  Honeywood,  let  me  tell 
jou,  that  you  wrong  my  sentiments  and  yourself. 
When  I  first  appUed  to  your  friendship,  I  expected 
advice  and  assistance ;  but  now,  sir,  I  see  that  it  is 
in  vain  to  expect  happiness  from  him  who  has  been 
80  bad  an  economist  of  his  own ;  and  that  I  must 


disclaim  his  friendship  who  ceases  to  be  a  friend  to 
himself  [Exit. 

Honeywood.  How  is  this !  she  has  confessed  she 
loved  him,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  part  in  displea- 
sure. Can  I  have  done  any  thing  to  reproach  my 
self  with  7  No ;  I  believe  not :  yet  after  all,  these 
things  should  not  be  done  by  a  third  person :  I 
should  have  spared  her  confusion.  My  friendship 
carried  me  a  little  too  far. 

Enter  CROAKER,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  and  MRS 
CROAKER. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  And  so,  my  dear, 
it's  your  supreme  wish  that  I  should  be  quite 
wretched  upon  this  occasion?  ha!  ha! 

Croaker  [Mimicking^  Ha!  ha!  ha!  And  so, 
my  dear,  it's  your  supreme  pleasure  to  give  me  n(» 
better  consolation? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Positively,  my  dear ;  what  is  this 
incendiary  stuff  and  trumpery  to  me  ?  our  house 
may  travel  through  the  air  hke  the  house  of  Loret- 
to,  for  aught  I  care,  if  I  am  to  be  miserable  in  it. 

Croaker.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  converted 
into  a  house  of  correction  for  your  benefit.  Have 
we  not  every  thin^  to  alarm  us?  Perhaps  this  very 
moment  the  tragedy  is  beginning. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Then  let  us  reserve  our  distress 
till  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  or  give  them  the  mo- 
ney they  want,  and  have  done  with  them. 

Croaker.  Give  them  my  money! — And  pray, 
what  right  have  they  to  my  money? 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  pray,  what  right  then  have 
you  to  my  good-humour? 

Croaker.  And  so  your  good-humour  advises  me 
to  part  with  my  money  1  Why  then,  to  tell  your 
good-humour  a  piece  of  my  mind,  I'd  sooner  part 
with  my  wife.  Here's  Mr.  Honeywood,  see  what 
he'll  say  to  it.  My  dear  Honeywood,  look  at  thi» 
incendiary  letter  dropped  at  my  door.  It  will  freeze 
you  with  terror ;  and  yet  lovey  here  can  read  it — 
can  read  it,  and  laugh. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Yes,  and  so  will  Mr.  Honey- 
wood. 

Croaker.  If  he  does,  I'll  suffer  to  be  hanged  the 
next  minute  in  the  rogue's  place,  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Speak,  Mr.  Honeywood;  is  there 
any  thing  more  foolish  than  my  husband's  fright 
upon  this  occasion  ? 

Honeywood.  It  would  not  become  me  to  decide, 
madam ;  but  doubtless,  the  greatness  of  his  terrors 
now  will  but  invite  them  to  renew  their  villany 
another  time. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  I  told  you,  he'd  be  of  my  opinion. 

Croaker.  How,  sir!  do  you  maintain  that  I 
shojild  lie  down  under  such  an  injury,  and  show, 
neither  by  my  tears  nor  complaints,  that  I  have 
something  of  the  spirit  of  a  man  in  me  ? 

Honeywood.  Pardon  me,  sir.  You  ought  to 
make  the  loudest  complaints,  if  you  desire  redress. 


186 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


The  surest  way  to  have  redress,  is  to  be  earnest  in 
the  pursuit  of  it. 

Croaker.  Ay,  whose  opinion  is  he  of  now? 
Mrs.  Croaker.  But  don't  you  think  that  laugh- 
ing off  our  fears  is  the  best  way  7  ' 

Honerjwood.  What  is  the  best,  madam,  few  can 
say ;  But  I'll  maintain  it  to  be  a  very  wise  way. 

Croaker.  But  we're  talking  of  the  best.  Surely 
the  best  way  is  to  face  the  enemy  in  the  field,  and 
not  wait  till  he  plunders  us  in  our  very  bed-chamber. 

HoneyiDood.  Why  sir,  as  to  the  best,  that — 
that's  a  very  wise  way  too. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  But  can  any  thing  be  more  ab- 
surd, than  to  double  our  distresses  by  our  appre- 
hensions, and  put  it  in  the  power  of  every  low  fel- 
low, that  can  scrawl  ten  words  of  wretched  spelling 
to  torment  us. 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  nothing  more  ab- 
surd. 

Croaker.  How !  would  it  not  be  more  absurd  to 
despise  the  rattle  till  we  are  bit  by  the  snake? 

Honeywood.  Without  doubt,  perfectly  absurd. 

Croaker.  Then  you  are  of  my  opinion  1 

Honeywood.  Entirely. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  And  you  reject  mine? 

Honeywood.  Heavens  forbid,  madam !  No  sure, 
no  reasoning  can  be  more  just  than  yours.  AVe 
ought  certainly  to  despise  malice  if  we  can  not  op- 
pose it,  and  not  make  the  incendiary's  pen  as  fatal 
to  our  repose  as  the  highwayman's  pistol. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  O!  then  you  think  I'm  quite 
right. 

Honeywood.  Perfectly  right. 

Croaker.  A  plague  of  plagues,  we  can't  be  both 
right.  I  ought  to  be  sorry,  or  I  ought  to  be  glad. 
My  hat  must  be  on  my  head,  or  my  hat  must  be  off. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  Certainly,  in  two  opposite  opin- 
ions, if  one  be  perfectly  reasonable,  the  other  can't 
be  perfectly  right. 

Honeywood.  And  why  may  not  both  be  right, 
madam?  Mr.  Croaker  in  earnestly  seeking  redress, 
and  you  m  waiting  the  event  with  good-humour? 
Pray,  let  me  see  the  letter  again.  I  have  it.  This 
letter  requires  twenty  guineas  to  be  lefl  at  the  bar 
of  the  Talbot  Inn.  If  it  be  indeed  an  incendiary 
letter,  what  if  you  and  I,  sir,  go  there;  and  when 
the  writer  comes  to  be  paid  for  his  expected  booty, 
seize  hira. 

Croaker.  My  dear  friend,  it's  the  very  thing ; 
the  very  thing.  While  I  walk  by  the  door,  you 
shall  plant  yourself  in  ambush  near  the  bar ;  burst 
out  upon  the  miscreant  like  a  masked  battery ;  ex- 
tort a  confession  at  once,  and  so  hang  him  up  by 
surprise. 

Honeywood.  Yes,  but  I  would  not  choose  to  ex- 
ercise too  much  severity.  It  is  my  maxim,  sir,  that 
crimes  generally  punish  themselves. 

Croaker.  Well,  but  we  may  upbraid  him  a  little, 
I  suppose  1  ^Ironically. 


Homy  wood.  Ay,  but  not  punish  him  too  rigidly. 

Croaker.  Well,  well,  leave  that  to  my  own  be- 
nevolence. 

HoneyxDood.    Well,  I  do;  but  remember  that 
universal  benevolence  is  the  first  law  of  nature. 
[Exeunt  Honeywood  and  Mrs.  Croaker 

Croaker.  Yes;  and  my  universal  benevolence 
will  hang  the  dog,  if  he  had  as  many  necks  as  a 
hydra. 


ACT  V 

SCENE — AN  INN. 
Enter  OLIVIA,  JARVI3. 

Olivia.  Well,  we  have  got  safe  to  the  inn, 
however.     Now,  if  the  post-chaise  were  ready — 

Jarvis.  The  horses  are  just  finishing  their  oats ; 
and,  as  they  are  not  going  to  be  married,  they 
choose  to  take  their  own  time, 

Olivia.  You  are  for  ever  giving  wrong  motives 
to  my  impatience. 

Jarvis.  Be  as  impatient  as  you  will,  the  horses 
must  take  their  own  time ;  besides,  you  don't  con- 
sider we  have  got  no  answer  from  our  fellow  tra- 
veller yet.  If  we  hear  nothing  from  Mr.  Leontine, 
we  have  only  one  way  left  us. 

Olivia.  What  way? 

Jarvis.  The  way  home  again. 

Olivia.  Not  so.  I  have  made  a  resolution  to  go, 
and  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  break  it. 

Jarvis.  Ay;  resolutions  are  well  kept,  when 
they  jump  with  inclination.  However,  I'll  go 
hasten  things  without.  And  I'll  call,  too,  at  the 
bar,  to  see  if  any  thing  should  be  left  for  us  there. 
Don't  be  in  such  a  plaguy  hurry,  madam,  and  we 
shall  go  the  faster,  I  promise  you.  [Exit  Jarvis. 

Enter  LANDLADY. 

Landlady.  What!  Solomon,  why  don't  you 
move?  Pipes  and  tobacco  for  the  Lamb  there. — 
Will  nobody  answer?  To  the  Dolphin;  quick. 
The  Angel  has  been  outrageous  this  half  hour. 
Did  your  ladyship  call,  madam? 

Olivia.  No,  madam. 

Landlady.  I  find  as  you're  for  Scotland,  madam, 
— But  that's  no  business  of  mine ;  married,  or  not 
married,  I  ask  no  questions.  To  be  sure  we  had 
a  sweet  little  couple  set  off  from  this  two  days  ago 
for  the  same  place.  The  gentleman,  for  a  tailor, 
was,  to  be  sure,  as  fine  a  spoken  tailor  as  ever  blew 
froth  from  a  full  pot.  And  the  young  lady  so  bash- 
ful, it  was  near  half  an  hour  before  we  could  get 
her  to  finish  a  pint  of  raspberry  between  us. 

Olivia.  But  this  gentleman  and  I  are  not  going 
to  be  married,  I  assure  you. 

Landlady.  May-be  not.  That's  no  business  of 
mine;  for  certain,  Scotch  marriages  seldom  turn 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


ly; 


out.  There  was,  of  my  own  knowledge,  Miss  Mac- 
fag,  that  married  her  father's  footman — Alack-a- 
day,  she  and  her  husband  soon  parted,  and  now 
keep  separate  cellars  in  Hedge-lane, 

Olivia.  A  very  pretty  picture  of  what  lies  before 
me !  [Aside. 

Enter  LEONTINE. 

Leontine.  My  dear  Olivia,  my  anxiety,  till  you 
were  out  of  danger,  was  too  great  to  be  resisted.  I 
could  not  help  coming  to  see  you  set  out.  though  it 
exposes  us  to  a  discovery. 

Olivia.  May  every  thing  you  do  prove  as  fortu- 
nate. Indeed,  Leontine,  we  have  been  most  cru- 
elly disappointed.  Mr.  Honeywood's  bill  upon  the 
city  has,  it  seems,  been  protested,  and  we  have 
been  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed. 

Leontine.  How !  an  offer  of  his  own  too.  Sure, 
he  could  not  mean  to  deceive  us  ? 

Olivia.  Depend  upon  his  sincerity ;  he  only  mis- 
took the  desire  for  the  power  of  serving  us.  But 
let  us  think  no  more  of  it.  I  believe  the  post-chaise 
is  ready  by  this. 

Landlady.  Not  quite  yet;  and,  begging  your 
ladyship's  pardon,  I  don't  think  your  ladyship  quite 
ready  for  the  post-chaise.  The  north  road  is  a  cold 
place,  madam.  I  have  a  drop  in  the  house  of  as 
pretty  raspberry  as  ever  was  tipt  over  tongue.  Just 
a  thimble-full  to  keep  the  wind  off  your  stomach. 
To  be  sure,  the  last  couple  we  had  here,  they  said 
it  was  a  perfect  nosegay.  Ecod,  1  sent  them  both 
away  as  good-natured — Up  went  the  blinds,  round 
went  the  wheels,  and  drive  away  post-boy  was  the 
word. 

Enter  CROAKER. 

Croaker.  Well,  while  my  friend  Honey  wood  is 
upon  the  post  of  danger  at  the  bar,  it  must  be  my 
business  to  have  an  eye  about  me  here.  I  think  I 
know  an  incendiary's  look ;  for  wherever  the  devil 
makes  a  purchase,  he  never  fails  to  set  his  mark. 
Ha !  who  have  we  here  7  My  son  and  daughter ! 
What  can  they  be  doing  here  1 

Landlady.  I  tell  you,  madam,  it  will  do  you 
good ;  I  think  I  know  by  this  time  what's  good  for 
the  north  road.     It's  a  raw  night,  madam. — Sir — 

Leontine.  Not  a  drop  more,  good  madam.  I 
should  now  take  it  as  a  greater  favour,  if  you  hasten 
the  horses,  for  I  am  afraid  to  be  seen  myself. 

Landlady.  That  shall  be  done.  Wha,  Solo- 
mon !  are  you  all  dead  there  7  Wha,  Solomon,  I 
say!  [Exit,  bawling. 

Olivia.  Well,  I  dread  lest  an  expedition  begun 
in  fear,  should  end  in  repentance, — Every  moment 
we  stay  increases  our  danger,  and  adds  to  my  ap- 
prehensions. 

Leontine.  There's  no  danger,  trust  me,  my  dear; 
there  can  be  none.  If  Honey  wood  has  acted  with 
honour,  and  kept  my  father,  as  he  promised,  in 


employment  till  we  are  out  of  danger,  nothing  can 
interrupt  our  journey. 

Olivia.  I  have  no  doubt  of  Mr,  Honeywood's 
sincerity,  and  even  his  desires  to  serve  us.  My 
fears  are  from  your  father's  suspicions.  A  mind 
so  disposed  to  be  alarmed  without  a  cause,  will  be 
but  too  ready  when  there's  a  reason. 

Leontine.  Why  let  him  when  we  are  out  of  his 
power.  But  believe  me,  Olivia,  you  have  no  great 
reason  to  dread  his  resentment.  His  repining  tem- 
per, as  it  does  no  manner  of  injury  to  himself,  so 
will  it  never  do  harm  to  others.  He  only  frets  to 
keep  himself  employed,  and  scolds  for  his  private 
amusement, 

Olivia.  I  don't  know  that;  but,  I'm  sure,  on 
some  occasions  it  makes  him  look  most  shockingly. 

Croaker  [discovering  himself.]  How  does  he 
look  now  7 — How  does  he  look  now  7 

Olivia.  Ah! 

Leontine.  Undone. 

Croaker.  How  do  I  look  now  7  Sir,  I  am  your 
very  humble  servant.  Madam,  I  am  yours.  What, 
you  are  going  off,  are  you  7  Then,  first,  if  you 
please,  take  a  word  or  two  from  me  with  you  before 
you  go.  Tell  me  first  where  you  are  going ;  and 
when  you  have  told  me  that,  perhaps  I  shall  know 
as  little  as  I  did  before. 

Leontine.  If  that  bo  so,  our  answer  might  but 
increase  your  displeasure,  without  adding  to  your 
information. 

Croaker.  I  want  no  information  from  you,  puppy: 
and  you  too,  good  madam,  what  answer  have  you 
got 7  Eh!  [A  cry  without,  stop  him,]  I  think  I 
heard  a  noise.  My  friend  Honey  wood  without — 
has  he  seized  the  incendiary  7  Ah,  no,  for  now 
I  hear  no  more  on't, 

Leontine.  Honey  wood  without !  Then,  sir,  it 
was  Mr.  Honey  wood  that  directed  you  hither  7 

Croaker.  No,  sir,  it  was  Mr.  Honey  wood  con- 
ducted me  hither. 

Leontine.  Is  it  possible  7 

Croaker.  Possible !  Why  h'^'s  in  the  house  now, 
sir ;  more  anxious  about  me  than  my  own  son,  sir. 

Leontine.  Then,  sir,  he's  a  villain. 

Croaker.  H9W,  sirrah !  a  villain,  because  he  takes 
most  care  of  your  father  7  I'll  not  bear  it,  I  tell 
you  I'll  not  bear  it.  Honey  wood  is  a  friend  to  the 
family,  and  I'll  have  him  treated  as  such. 

Leontine.  I  shall  study  to  repay  his  friendship 
as  it  deserves. 

Croaker.  Ah,  rogue,  if  you  knew  how  earnestly 
he  entered  into  my  griefs,  and  pointed  out  the  mean? 
to  detect  them,  you  would  love  him  as  I  do.  [^4 
cry  without,  stop  him.]  Fire  and  fury !  they  have 
seized  the  incendiary :  they  have  the  villain,  the 
incendiary  in  view.  Stop  him  !  stop  an  incendia- 
ry !  a  murderer !  stop  him !  [E-xit. 

Olivia.  O,  my  terrors !     What  can  this  tumuU 


1^ 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Honeywood's  sincerity.     But  we  shall  have  satis 
faption  :  he  shall  give  me  instant  satisfaction. 

Olivia.  It  must  not  be,  my  Leontine,  if  you 
yalue  my  esteem  or  my  happiness.  Whatever  be 
our  fate,  let  us  not  add  guilt  to  our  misfortunes — 
Consider  that  our  innocence  will  shortly  be  all  that 
we  have  left  us.     You  must  forgive  him. 

Leontine.  Forgive  him !  Has  he  not  in  every 
instance  betrayed  us  ?  Forced  to  borrow  money 
from  him,  which  appears  a  mere  trick  to  delay  us; 
promised  to  keep  my  father  engaged  till  we  were 
out  of  danger,  and  here  brought  him  to  the  very 
scene  of  our  escape  7 

Olivia.  Don't  be  precipitate.  We  may  yet  be 
mistaken 


Enter  POSTBOY,  dragging  in  JARVIS;  HONEYWOOD 

entering  soon  after. 

Postboy.  Ay,  master,  we  have  him  fast  enough. 
Here  is  the  incendiary  dog.  I'm  entitled  to  the 
reward  ;  I'll  take  my  oath  I  saw  him  ask  for  the 
money  at  the  bar,  and  then  run  for  it. 

Honeywood.  Come,  bring  him  along.  Let  us 
see  him.  Let  him  learn  to  blush  for  his  crimes. 
[Discovering  his  mistake.]  Death !  what's  here  1 
Jarvis,  Leontine,  Olivia !  What  can  all  this  mean? 

Jarvis.  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  means :  that 
I  was  an  old  fool,  and  that  you  are  my  master — 
that's  all. 

Honeywood.     Confusion ! 

Leontine.  Yes,  sir,  I  find  you  have  kept  your 
word  with  me.  After  such  baseness,  I  wonder 
how  you  can  venture  to  see  the  man  you  have  in- 
jured? 

Honeywood.  My  dear  Leontine,  by  my  life,  my 
honour — 

Leontine.  Peace,  peace,  for  shame ;  and  do  not 
continue  to  aggravate  baseness  by  hypocrisy.  I 
know  you,  sir,  1  know  you. 

Honeywood.  Why  won't  you  hear  me  7  By  all 
that's  just,  I  know  not — 

Leontine.  Hear  you,  sir,  to  what  purpose?  1 
now  see  through  all  your  low  arts;  your  ever  com- 
plying with  every  opinion;  your  never  refusing 
any  request:  your  friendship's  as  common  as  a 
prostitute's  favours,  and  as  fallacious ;  all  these,  sir, 
have  long  been  contemptible  to  the  world,  and  are 
now  perfectly  so  to  me. 

Honeywood.  Ha!  contemptible  to  the  world! 
that  reaches  me.  [Aside. 

Leontine.  All  the  seeming  sincerity  of  your 
professions,  I  now  find,  were  only  allurements  to 
betray;  and  all  your  seeming  regret  for  their  con- 
sequences, only  calculated  to  cover  the  cowardice 
of  your  heart.     Draw,  villain! 


Leontine.    Some  new  mark,  I  suppose,  of  Mr.  incendiary?     [Seizing  the  Postboy.]     Hold  him 

fast,  the  dog :  he  has  the  gallows  in  his  face.  Come, 
you  dog,  confess ;  confess  all,  and  hang  yourself. 

Postboy.  Zounds!  master,  what  do  you  throttle 
me  for? 

Croaker  [beating  him.]  Dog,  do  you  resist?  do 
you  resist  ? 

Postboy.  Zounds!  master,  I'm  not  he:  there's 
the  man  that  we  thought  was  the  rpgue,  and  turns 
out  to  be  one  of  the  company. 
Croaker.  How! 

Honeywood.  Mr.  Croaker,  we  have  all  been  un- 
der a  strange  mistake  here;  I  find  there  is  nobody 
guilty ;  it  was  all  an  error;  entirely  an  error  of  our 
own. 

Croaker.  And  I  say,  sir,  that  you're  in  an  error ; 
for  there's  guilt  and  double  guilt,  a  plot,  a  damned 
Jesuitical,  pestilential  plot,  and  I  must  have  proo' 
of  it. 

Honeywood.  Do  but  hear  me. 
Croaker.  What,  you  intend  to  bring  'em  oflf,  I 
suppose?    I'll  hear  nothing. 

Honeywood.    Madam,  you  seem  at  least  cahn 
enough  to  hear  reason. 
Olivia.  Excuse  me. 

Honeywood.  Good  Jarvis,  let  me  then  explain  it 
to  you. 

Jarvis.  What  signifies  explanations  when  the 
thing  is  done  ? 

Honeywood.  Will  nobody  hear  me?  Was  there 
ever  such  a  set,  so  blinded  by  passion  and  preju- 
dice !  [  To  the  Postboy.]  My  good  friend,  I  be^ 
lieve,  you'll  be  surprised  when  I  assure  you — 

Postboy.  Sure  me  nothing — I'm  sure  of  nothing 
but  a  good  beating. 

Croaker.  Come  then  you,  madam,  if  you  ever 
hope  for  any  favour  or  forgiveness,  tell  me  sincere- 
ly all  you  know  of  this  affair. 

Olivia.  Unhappily,  sir,  I'm  but  too  much  the 
cause  of  your  suspicions :  you  see  before  you,  sir, 
one  that  with  false  pretences  has  stepped  into  your 
family  to  betray  it ;  not  your  daughter — 
Croaker.  Not  my  daughter  ? 
Olivia.  Not  your  daughter — but  a  mean  de- 
ceiver— who — support  me,  I  can  not — 

Honeywood.  Help,  she's  going;  give  her  air. 
Croaker.  Ay,  ay,  take  the  young  woman  to  the 
air ;  I  would  not  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head,  whosever 
daughter  she  may  be — not  so  bad  as  that  neither. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Croaker. 
Croaker.    Yes,   yes,  all's  out;  I   now  see  the 
whole  affair ;  my  son  is  either  married,  or  going  to 
be  so,  to  this  lady,  whom  he  imposed  upon  me  as 
his  sister.     Ay,  certainly  so;  and  yet  I  don't  find 
it  afflicts  me  so  much  as  one  might  think.  There's 
the  advantage  of  fretting  away  our  misfortunes  he- 
forehand,  we  never  feel  them  when  they  come. 
Enter  MISS  RICHLAND  and  SIR  WILLIAM. 
Sir  William.    But  how  do  you  know,  madam 


Enter  CROAKER,  out  of  breath. 
Croaker.  Where  is  the  villain  ?     Where  is  the 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


189 


that  my  nephew  intends  setting  off  from  this 
place) 

Miss  Richland.  My  maid  assured  me  he  was 
come  to  this  inn,  and  my  own  knowledge  of  his  in- 
tending to  leave  the  kingdom  suggested  the  rest. 
But  what  do  I  see !  my  guardian  here  before  us ! 
Who,  my  dear  sir,  could  have  expected  meeting 
jrou  here  1  to  what  accident  do  we  owe  this  plea- 
sure 7 

Croaker.     To  a  fool,  I  believe. 
Miss  Richland.    But  to  what  purpose  did  you 
come? 

Croaker.     To  play  the  fool. 
Miss  Rkhland.     But  with  whom  1 
Croaker.    With  greater  fools  than  myself. 
Miss  Richland.     Explain. 
Croaker.    Why,  Mr.  Hone3rwood  brought  me 
here  to  do  nothing  now  I  am  here ;  and  my  son  is 
oing  to  be  married  to  I  don't  know  who,  that  is 
nere :  so  now  you  are  as  wise  as  I  am. 
Miss  Richland.    Married  !  to  whom,  sir  1 
Croaker.  To  Olivia,  my  daughter,  as  I  took  her 
to  be ;  but  who  the  devil  she  is,  or  whose  daughter 
she  is,  I  know  no  more  than  the  man  in  the  moon. 
Sir  William.  Then,  sir,  I  can  inform  you ;  and, 
though  a  stranger,  yet  you  shall  find  me  a  friend 
to  your  family.     It  will  be  enough,  at  present,  to 
assure  you,  that  both  in  point  of  birth  and  fortune 
the  young  lady  is  at  least  your  son's  equal.    Being 
left  by  her  father,  Sir  James  Woodville — 

Croaker.  Sir  James  Woodville !  What,  of  the 
west? 

Sir  William.  Being  left  by  him,  I  say,  to  the 
care  of  a  mercenary  wretch,  whose  only  aim  was 
to  secure  her  fortune  to  himself,  she  was  sent  to 
Prance,  under  pretence  of  education;  and  there 
every  art  was  tried  to  fix  her  for  life  in  a  convent, 
Contrary  to  her  inclinations.  Of  this  I  was  inform- 
ed upon  my  arrival  at  Paris ;  and,  as  I  had  been 
^nce  her  father's  friend,  1  did  all  in  my  power  to 
fifustrate  her  guardian's  base  intentions.  I  had 
even  meditated  to  rescue  her  from  his  authority, 
when  your  son  stepped  in  with  more  pleasing  vio- 
lence, gave  her  liberty,  and  you  a  daughter. 

Croaker.  But  I  intend  to  have  a  daughter  of  my 
own  choosing,  sir.  A  young  lady,  sir,  whose  for- 
tune, by  my  interest  with  those  who  have  interest, 
will  be  double  what  my  son  has  a  right  to  expect. 
Do  you  know  Mr.  Lofty,  sir? 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir ;  and  know  that  you  are 
deceived  in  him.  But  step  this  way,  and  I'll  con- 
vince you. 

[Croaker  and  ^ir  William  seem  to  confer. 

Enter  HONEYWGOD. 

Honeywdod.  Obstinate  man,  still  to  persist  in 
his  outrage !  Insulted  by  him,  despised  by  all,  I 
now  begin  to  grow'  eoiitemptible  even  to  myself, 
tlofw  Have  I  sunic*  by  tO)  great  tin  akiiduity  to 


please !  How  have  I  over-taxed  all  my  abilities, 
lest  the  approbation  of  a  single  fool  should  escape 
me  !  But  all  is  now  over ;  I  have  survived  my  repu- 
tation, my  fortune,  my  friendships,  and  nothing 
remains  henceforward  for  me  but  solitude  and  re- 
pentance. 

Miss  Richland.  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Honey  wood,  tha 
you  are  setting  off,  without  taking  leave  of  your 
friends?  The  report  is,  that  you  are  quilting  En 
gland:  Can  it  be? 

Honeywood.  Yes,  madam  ;  and  though  I  am  so 
unhappy  as  to  have  fallen  under  your  displeasure, 
yet,  thank  Heaven !  I  leave  you  to  happiness ;  to 
one  who  loves  you,  and  deserves  your  love ;  to  one 
who  has  power  to  procure  you  affluence,  and  gene- 
rosity to  improve  your  enjoyment  of  it. 

Miss  Richland.  And  are  you  sure,  sir,  that  the 
gentleman  you  mean  is  what  you  describe  him  ? 

Honeywood.  I  have  the  best  assurances  of  it — 
his  serving  me.  He  does  indeed  deserve  the  high- 
est happiness,  and  that  is  in  your  power  to  confer. 
As  for  me,  weak  and  wavering  as  I  have  been, 
obliged  by  all,  and  incapable  of  serving  any,  what 
happiness  can  I  find  but  in  solitude  ?  what  hope, 
but  in  being  forgotten? 

Miss  Richland.  ,  A  thousand !  to  live  among 
friends  that  esteem  you,  whose  happiness  it  will  be 
to  be  permitted  to  obUge  you. 

Honeywood.  No,  madam,  my  resolution  is  fixed. 
Inferiority  among  strangers  is  easy;  but  among 
those  that  once  were  equals,  insupportable.  Nay, 
to  show  you  how  far  my  resolution  can  go,  I  can 
now  speak  with  calmness  of  my  former  follies,  my 
vanity,  ray  dissipation,  my  weakness.  I  will  even 
confess,  that,  among  the  number  of  my  other  pre- 
sumptions, I  had  the  insolence  to  think  of  loving 
you.  Yes,  madam,  while  I  was  pleading  the  pas- 
sion of  another,  my  heart  was  tortured  with  its 
own.  But  it  is  over:  it  was  unworthy  our  friend- 
ship, and  let  it  be  forgotten. 

Miss  Richland.    You  amaze  me! 

Honeywood.  But  you'll  forgive  it,  I  know  you 
will;  since  the  confession  should  not  have  come 
from  me  even  now,  but  to  convince  you  of  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  intention  of— -never  mentioning  it 
more.  [Going. 

Miss  Richland.  Stay,  sir,  one  moment — Ha! 
he  here — 

Enter  LOFTY. 

Lofty.  Is  the  coast  clear  ?  None  but  friends?  I 
have  followed  you  here  with  a  trifling  piece  of  in- 
telligence ;  but  it  goes  no  farther,  things  are  not  yet 
ripe  for  a  discovery.  I  have  spirits  working  at  a 
certain  board ;  your  aflair  at  the  treasury  will  be 
done  in  less  than — a  thousand  years.    Mum  ! 

Miss  Richland.  Sooner,  sir,  I  should  hope. 

Lqfly.  Why,  yes,  I  believe  it  may,  if  it  falls 
into  proper  hands,  that  know  where  to  push  and 


190 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


wrhere  to  parry ;  that  know  how  the  land  lies — eh, 
Honey  wood  1 

Miss  Rkhland.  It  has  fallen  into  yours. 

Lofty.  Well,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
your  thing  is  done.  It  is  done,  I  say — that's  all. 
I  have  just  had  assurances  from  Lord  Neverout, 
that  the  claim  has  been  examined,  and  found  ad- 
missible.    Quietus  is  the  word,  madam. 

Honeywood.  But  how  7  his  lordship  has  been  at 
Newmarket  these  ten  days. 

Lofty.  Indeed !  Then  Sir  Gilbert  Goose  must 
have  been  most  damnably  mistaken.  I  had  it  of 
*    him. 

Miss  Richland.  He !  why  Sir  Gilbert  and  his 
family  have  been  in  the  country  this  month. 

Lofty.  This  month !  it  must  certainly  be  so — 
Sir  Gilbert's  letter  did  come  to  me  from  New- 
market, so  that  he  must  have  met  his  lordship  there ; 
and  so  it  came  about.  I  have  his  letter  about  me; 
I'll  read  it  to  you.  [  Taking  out  a  large  bundle.] 
That's  from  Paoli  of  Corsica,  that  from  the  Mar- 
quis of  Squilachi. — Have  you  a  mind  to  see  a  letter 
from  Count  Poniatowski,  now  King  of  Poland 7— 

Honest  Pon [Searching.]  O,  sir,  what  are  you 

here  too  ?  I'll  tell  you  what,  honest  friend,  if  you 
have  not  absolutely  delivered  my  letter  to  Sir  Wil- 
liam Honeywood,  you  may  return  it.  The  thing 
will  do  without  him. 

Sir  William.  Sir,  I  have  delivered  it ;  and  must 
inform  you,  it  was  received  with  the  most  mortify- 
ing contempt. 

Croaker.  Contempt !  Mr.  Lofty,  what  can  that 
mean? 

Lofty.  Let  him  go  on,  let  him  go  on,  I  say. 
You'll  find  it  come  to  something  presently. 

Sir  William.  Yes,  sir;  I  believe  you'll  be 
amazed,  if  after  waiting  some  time  in  the  ante- 
chamber, after  being  surveyed  with  insolent  curi- 
osity by  the  passing  servants,  I  was  at  last  assured, 
that  Sir  William  Honeywood  knew  no  such  per- 
son, and  1  must  certainly  have  been  imposed  upon. 

Lofty.  Good!  let  me  die;  very  good.  Ha!  ha! 
ha! 

Croaker.  Now,  for  my  life,  I  can't  find  out  half 
the  goodness  of  it. 

Lofty.  You  can't.    Ha!  ha! 

Croaker.  No,  for  the  soul  of  me!  I  think  it  was 
as  confounded  a  bad  answer  as  ever  was  sent  from 
one  private  gentleman  to  another. 

Lofty.  And  so  you  can't  find  out  the  force  of  the 
message '?  Why,  1  was  in  the  house  at  that  very 
time.  Ha!  ha!  It  was  I  that  sent  that  very  an- 
swer to  my  own  letter.     Ha!  ha! 

Croaker.     Indeed!  How?  Why? 

Lofty.  In  one  word,  things  between  Sir  William 
and  me  must  be  behind  the  curtain.  A  party  has 
many  eyes.  He  sides  with  Lord  Buzzard,  I  side 
with  Sir  Gilbert  Goose.  So  that  unriddles  the 
mystery. 


Croaker.  And  so  it  does,  indeed ;  and  all  my  sus- 
picions are  over. 

Lofty.  Your  suspicions !  What,  then,  you  have 
been  suspecting,  you  have  been  suspecting,  have 
you  ?  Mr.  Croaker,  you  and  I  were  friends ;  we 
are  friends  no  longer.  Never  talk  to  me.  It's  over; 
I  say,  it's  over. 

Croaker.  As  I  hope  for  your  favour  I  did  not 
mean  to  offend.    It  escaped  me.    Don't  be  discom* 


Lofty.  Zounds !  sir,  but  I  am  discomxx)sed,  anJ 
will  be  discomposed.  To  be  treated  thus !  Who 
am  I  ?  Was  it  for  this  I  have  been  dreaded  both  by 
ins  and  outs?  Have  I  been  libelled  in  the  Gazetteer, 
and  praised  in  the  St.  James's?  have  1  been  chaired 
at  Wildman's,  and  a  speaker  at  Merchant- Tailor's 
Hall?  have  I  had  my  hand  to  addresses,  and  my 
head  in  the  print-shops ;  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects'? 

Croaker.  My  dear  sir,  be  pacified.  What  can 
you  have  but  asking  pardon  ? 

Lofty.  Sir,  I  will  not  be  pacified — Suspects  f 
Who  am  I  ?  To  be  used  thus  !  Have  I  paid  court 
to  men  in  favour  to  serve  my  friends ;  the  lords  of 
the  treasury.  Sir  William  Honeywood,  and  the 
rest  of  the  gang,  and  talk  to  me  of  suspects  ?  Who 
am  I,  I  say,  who  am  I? 

Sir  William.  Since,  sir,  you  are  so  pressing  for 
an  answer,  I'll  tell  you  who  you  are: — A  gentle- 
man, as  well  acquainted  with  politics  as  with  men 
in  power ;  as  well  acquainted  with  persons  of  fash- 
ion as  with  modesty ;  with  lords  of  the  treasury  as 
with  truth;  and  with  all,  as  you  are  with  Sir  Wil- 
liam Honeywood.  I  am  Sir  William  Honeywood. 
[Discovering  his  ensigns  of  the  Bath. 

Croaker.     Sir  William  Honeywood ! 

Honeywood.  Astonishment!  my  uncle!   [Aside^ 

Lofty.  So  then,  my  confounded  genius  has  been 
all  this  time  only  leading  me  up  to  the  garret,  in 
order  to  fling  me  out  of  the  window. 

Croaker.  What,  Mr.  Importance,  and  are  these 
your  works  ?  Suspect  you !  You,  who  have  been 
dreaded  by  the  ins  and  outs ;  you,  who  have  had 
your  hands  to  addresses,  and  your  head  stuck  up 
in  print-shops.  If  you  were  served  right,  you 
should  have  your  head  stuck  up  in  a  pillory. 

,Lofty.  Ay,  stick  it  where  you  will;  for  by  the 
lord,  it  cuts  but  a  very  poor  figure  where  it  sticks 
at  present. 

Sir  William.  Well,  Mr.  Croaker,  I  hope  yov 
now  see  how  incapable  this  gentleman  is  of  serv- 
ing you,  and  how  httle  Miss  Richland  has  to  ex- 
pect from  his  influence. 

Croaker.  Ay,  sir,  too  well  I  see  it;  and  I  can't 
but  say  I  have  had  some  boding  of  it  these  ten 
days.  So  I'm  resolved,  since  my  son  has  placed 
his  affections  on  a  lady  of  moderate  fortune,  to  be 
satisfied  with  his  choice,  and  not  run  the  hazard  ot 
another  Mr.  Lofty  in  helping  him  to  a  better. 

Sir  William.    I  approve  your  resolution;  and 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN. 


191 


here  they  come  to  receive  a  confirmation  of  your 
pardon  and  consent. 

Enter  MRS.  CROAKER,  .lARVlS,  I.E0NT1NE,  and 
OLIVIA. 

Mrs.  Croaker.  "Where's  my  husband?  Come, 
come,  lovey,  you  must  forgive  them.  Jarvis  here 
has  been  to  tell  me  the  whole  affair;  and  I  say,  you 
must  forgive  them.  Our  own  was  a  stolen  match, 
you  know,  my  dear ;  and  we  never  had  any  reason 
to  repent  of  it. 

Croaker.  I  wish  we  could  both  say  so.  Howev- 
er, this  gentleman.  Sir  William  Honeywood,  has 
been  beforehand  with  you  in  obtaining  their  pardon. 
So  if  the  two  poor  fools  have  a  mind  to  marry,  I 
think  we  can  tack  them  together  without  crossing 
the  Tweed  for  it.  [Joining  their  hands. 

Leontine.  How  blest  and  unexpected!  What, 
what  can  we  say  to  such  goodness?  But  our  fu- 
ture obedience  shall  be  the  best  reply.  And  as  for 
this  gentleman,  to  whom  we  owe 

Sir  William.  Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  interrupt  your 
thanks,  as  I  have  here  an  interest  that  calls  me. 
[  Turning  to  Honeywood.]  Yes,  sir,  you  are  sur- 
prised to  see  me ;  and  I  own  that  a  desire  of  cor- 
recting your  follies  led  me  hither.  I  saw  with  in- 
dignation the  errors  of  a  mind  that  only  sought  ap- 
plause from  others;  that  easiness  of  disposition 
which,  though  inclined  to  the  right,  had  not  cou- 
rage to  condemn  the  wrong.  I  saw  with  regret 
those  splendid  errors,  that  still  took  name  from 
some  neighbouring  duty ;  your  charity,  that  was  but 
injustice ;  your  benevolence,  that  was  but  weak- 
ness ;  and  your  friendship  but  credulity.  I  saw 
with  regret,  great  talents  and  extensive  learning 
only  employed  to  add  sprightliness  to  error,  and  in- 
crease your  perplexities.  1  saw  your  mind  with 
a  thousand  natural  charms ;  but  the  greatness  of  its 
beauty  served  only  to  heighten  my  pity  for  its 
prostitution. 

Honeywood.  Cease  to  upbraid  me,  sir:  I  have 
for  some  time  but  too  strongly  felt  the  justice  of 
your  reproaches.  But  there  is  one  way  still  left  me. 
Y'es,  sir,  1  have  determined  this  very  hour  to  quit 
forever  a  place  where  I  have  made  myself  the  volun- 
tary slave  of  all,  and  to  seek  among  strangers  that 
fortitude  which  may  give  strength  to  the  mind,  and 
marshal  all  its  dissipated  virtues.  Yet  ere  I  de- 
part, permit  me  to  solicit  favour  for  this  gentle- 
man; who,  notwithstanding  what  has  happened, 
has  laid  me  under  the  most  signal  obligations.  Mr, 
Lofty 

Lofty.  Mr.  Honeywood,  I'm  resolved  upon  a  re- 
formation as  well  as  you.  I  now  begin  to  find  that 
the  man  who  first  invented  the  art  of  speaking 
truth,  was  a  much  cunninger  fellow  than  I  thought 
him.  And  to  prove  that  1  design  to  speak  truth 
for  the  future,  1  must  now  assure  you,  that  you 
owe  your  late   enlargement  to  another;  as,  upon 


my  soul,  I  had  no  hand  in  the  matter.  So  now 
if  any  of  the  company  has  a  mind  for  preferment, 
he  may  take  my  place;  I'm  determined  to  resign. 

[Exit. 

Honeyxcood.  How  have  1  been  deceived ! 

Sir  William.  No,  sir,  you  have  been  obliged  to 
a  kinder,  fairer  friend,  for  that  favour — to  Miss 
Richland.  Would  she  complete  our  joy,  and  make 
the  man  she  has  honoured  by  her  friendship  happy 
in  her  love,  I  should  then  forget  all,  and  be  as  blest 
as  the  welfare  of  my  dearest  kinsman  can  make 
me. 

Miss  Richland.  After  what  is  past  it  would  be 
but  affectation  to  pretend  to  indifference.  Yes,  I 
will  own  an  attachment,  which  1  find  was  more 
than  friendship.  And  if  my  entreaties  can  not  alter 
his  resolution  to  quit  the  country,  I  will  even  try 
if  my  hand  has  not  power  to  detain  him.  [Giving 
her  hand.] 

Honeywood.  Heavens!  how  can  I  have  deserved 
all  this  7  How  express  my  happiness,  my  gratitude? 
A  moment  like  this  overpays  an  age  of  apprehen- 
sion. 

Croaker.  Well,  now  I  see  content  in  every  face  j 
but  Heaven  send  we  be  all  better  this  day  three 
months ! 

Sir  William.  Henceforth,  nephew,  learn  to  re- 
spect yourself.  He  who  seeks  only  for  applause 
from  without,  has  all  his  happiness  in  another's 
keeping. 

Honeywood!  Yes,  sir,  I  now  too  plainly  per- 
ceive my  errors;  my  vanity  in  attempting  to  please 
all  by  fearing  to  offend  any ;  my  meanness,  in  ap- 
proving folly  lest  fools  should  disapprove.  Hence- 
forth, therefore,  it  shall  be  my  study  to  reserve  my 
pity  for  real  distress ;  my  friendship  for  true  merit  j. 
and  my  love  for  her,  who  first  taught  me  what  it 
is  to  be  happy 


EPILOGUE.* 

SPOKEN  BY  MRS.  BULKLEY. 

As  puflSng  quacks  some  caitiff  wretch  procure 
To  swear  the  pill,  or  drop,  has  wrought  a  cure ; 
Thus,  on  the  stage,  our  play-wrights  still  depend 
For  epilogues  and  prologues  on  some  friend, 
Who  knows  each  art  of  coaxing  up  the  town, 
And  make  full  many  a  bitter  pill  go  down. 
Conscious  of  this,  our  bard  has  gone  about. 
And  teased  each  rhyming  friend  to  help  him  out. 
An  epilogue,  things  can't  go  on  without  it; 
It  could  not  fail,  would  you  but  set  about  it. 


*  The  author,  in  expectation  of  an  Epilogue  from  a  friend  at 
Oxford,  deferred  writing  one  himself  till  the  very  last  hour. 
What  is  here  offered,  owes  all  its  success  to  the  graceful  man- 
ner of  the  actress  who  siwke  it. 


193 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS 


Young  man,  cries  one  (a  bard  laid  up  in  clover,) 
Alas!  young  man,  my  writing  days  are  over; 
Let  boys  play  tricks,  and  kick  the  straw,  not  I ; 
Your  brother  doctor  there,  perhaps,  may  try. 
What,  I!  dear  sir,  the  doctor  interposes: 
What,  plant  my  thistle,  sir,  among  his  roses! 
No,  no,  I've  other  contests  to  maintain; 
To-night  I  head  our  troops  at  Warwick-lane. 
Go  ask  your  manager — Who,  me!  Your  pardon; 
Those  things  are  not  our  forte  at  Covent-Garden. 
Our  author's  friends,  thus  placed  at  happy  distance, 
Give  him  good  words  indeed,  but  no  assistance. 


As  some  unhappy  wight  at  some  new  play. 
At  the  pit  door  stands  elbowing  away, 
While  oft  with  many  a  smile,  and  many  a  shrug. 
He  eyes  the  centre,  where  his  friends  sit  snug ; 
His  simpering  friends,  with  pleasure  in  their  eye* 
Sink  as  he  sinks,  and  as  he  rises  rise : 
He  nods,  they  nod ;  he  cringes,  they  grimace ; 
But  not  a  soul  will  budge  to  give  him  place. 
Since  then,  unhelp'd  our  bard  must  now  conform 
"  To  'bide  the  pelting  of  this  pit'less  storm." 
Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  call. 
And  be  each  critic  the  Good-natured  Man. 


I 


THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 
AS  ACTED  AT  THE  THEATRE-^ROYAL,  CO  VENT-GARDEN. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  L.  L.  D. 

t)EAR  Sir, 

By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  yoU,  I 
do  not  mean  so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself. 
It  may  do  me  some  honour  to  inform  the  public, 
that  I  have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you. 
It  may  serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  in- 
form them,  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be  found  in 
a  character  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected 
piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for 
your  partiality  to  this  performance.     The  under 
taking  a  Comedy,   not  merely  sentimental,  was 
very  dangerous;  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this 
piece  in  its  various  stages,  always  thought  it  so. 
However,  I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public ;  and, 
though  it  was  necessarily  delayed  till  late  in  the 
season,  I  have  every  reason  to  be  grateful. 
I  am,  Dear  Sir, 
Your  most  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 
Oliver  Goldsmith. 


PROLOGUE. 

BY  DAVID  GARRICK,  ESQ. 

Enter  MR.  WOODWARD,  dreaeed  in  black,  and  holding  a 
handkerchief  to  his  eyee. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray, — I  can't  yet  speak, — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week. 
"  'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,"  good  masters : 
"  I've  that  within" — for  which  there  are  no  plasters! 
Pray,  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying  ? 
The  Comic  Muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying ! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop  j 
For,  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop : 
13 


I  am  undone,  that's  all— shall  lose  my  b^ead— 
I'd  rather,  but  that's  nothing— lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  I  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals,  will  succeed ! 
Poor  Ned  and  I  are  dead  to  all  intents ; 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments ! 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up. 
We  now  and  then  take  clown  a  hearty  cup. 
What  shall  we  do  ?— If  Comedy  forsake  us, 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  Uif. 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral  ? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fix'd  my  face  and  eye — •• 
With  a  sententious  look  that  nothing  meansj 
(Faces  are  blocks  in  sentimental  scenes) 
Thus  I  begin— "All  is  not  gold  that  glitters; 
Pleasures  seem  sweet,  but  prove  a  glass  of  bitters;- 
When  ign'rance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand  : 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  or  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip ;  who  trips  may  stumble 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue  if  she  tumble." 

I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me ; 
To  make  you  laugh,  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains— hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  Doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill. 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motioi^ 
He,  in  five  draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion  r 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assured, 
If  you  will  swallow  it  the  maid  is  cured ; 
But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is. 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces ! 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives,- 
No  pois'nous  drugs  are  mix'd  in  what  he  gives. 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree? 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee ! 
The  college,  you,  must  his  pretensions  back, 
Pronounce  him  Regular,  or  dub  him  Cluacfc. 


l94 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

MEN, 

Sir  Charles  Marlow    .    .  Mr.  Gardner. 

YoDNG  Marlow  (his  son)  .  Mr.  Lewis. 

Hardcastle Mr.  Shuter. 

Hastings Mr.  Dubellamy, 

ToNy  Lumpkin     .    .    .    •  Mr.  GIoick. 

DiGGORY        Mr.  Saunders. 


WOMEN. 


Mrs.  Hardcastle 
Miss  Hardcastle 
Miss  Neville 
Maid 


Mrs.  Greene. 
Mrs.  Bulkley. 
Mrs.  Kniveton. 
Miss  Willems. 


Landlord,  Servants,  &c.  &c. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER; 

OR,  THE  mSTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT. 

ACT   L 

SCENE — A  CHAMBER  IN  AN  OLD-FASHIONED   HOUSE. 

Enter  amS.  HARDCASTLE  and  MR.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
very  particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the  whole 
country  but  ourselves,  that  does  not  take  a  trip  to 
town  now  and  then,  to  rub  ofl"  the  rust  a  little  7 
There's  the  two  Miss  Hoggs,  and  our  neighbour 
Mrs.  Grigsby,  go  to  take  a  month's  polishing  every 
winter. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  affec- 
tation to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I  wonder  why 
London  can  not  keep  its  own  fools  at  home  !  In 
my  time,  the  follies  of  the  town  crept  slowly  among 
us,  but  now  they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach. 
Its  fopperies  come  down  not  only  as  inside  passen- 
gers, but  in  the  very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine  times 
indeed ';  you  have  been  telling  us  of  them  for  many 
a  long  year.  Here  we  live  in  an  old  rumbhng 
mansion,  that  looks  for  all  the  world  Wke  an  inn, 
but  that  we  never  see  company.  Our  best  visiters 
are  old  Mrs.  Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  Httle 
Cripplegate,  the  lame  dancing-master:  and  all  our 
entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince  Eugene 
and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I  hate  such  old- 
fashioned  trumpery. 

Hardcastle.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  every  thing 
that's  old ;  old  friends,  old  times,  old  manners,  old 
books,  old  wines ;  and,  I  believe,  Dorothy,  [taking 
her  hand]  you'll  own  I  have  been  pretty  fond  of  an 
old  wife. 

Airs.  Hardcastle.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
for  ever  at  your  Dorothys  and  your  old  wives.  You 
may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be  no  Joan,  I  promise  you. 


I'm  not  so  old  as  you'd  make  me,  by  more  than  ontf 
good  year.  Add  twenty  to  twenty,  and  make  mo- 
ney of  that. 

Hardcastle.  Let  me  see :  twenty  added  to  twen-. 
ty  makes  just  fifty  and  seven. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  It's  false.  Mr.  Hardcastle ;  I 
was  but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to  bed  of  To- 
ny, that  I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my  first  husband  ; 
and  he's  not  come  to  years  of  discretion  yet. 

Hardcastle.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for  him. 
Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  No  matter.  Tony  Lumpkin 
has  a  good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by  his 
learning.  I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much  learn- 
ing to  spend  fifteen  hundred  a-year. 

Hardcastle.  Learning  quotha !  a  mere  composi- 
tion of  tricks  and  mischief. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Humour,  my  dear,  nothing  but 
humour.  Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must  allow 
the  boy  a  little  humour. 

Hardcastle.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horsepond. 
If  burning  the  footman's  shoes,  frightening  the 
maids,  and  worrying  the  kittens  be  humour,  he  has 
it.  It  was  but  yesterday  he  fastened  my  wig  to  the 
back  of  my  chair,  and  when  I  went  to  make  a  bow, 
I  popped  my  bald  head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  am  I  to  blame?  The 
poor  boy  was  always  too  dckly  to  do  any  good.  A 
school  would  be  his  death.  When  he  comes  to  be  a 
little  stronger,  who  knows  what  a  year  or  two's 
Latin  may  do  for  him? 

Hardcastle.  Latin  for  him!  A  cat  and  fiddle. 
No,  no;  the  alehouse  and  the  stable  are  the  only 
schools  he'll  ever  go  to. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the 
poor  boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have  him  long 
among  us.  Any  body  that  looks  in  his  face  may  see 
he's  consumptive. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of  the 
symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the  wrong 
way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his  lungs. 

Hardcastle.  And  truly  so  am  I ;  for  he  some- 
times whoops  like  a  speaking  trumpet — [  Tony  hal- 
looing' behind  the  scenes.]-— O,  there  he  goes — a 
very  consumptive  figure,  truly. 

Enter  TONY,  crossing  the  ptage. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Tony,  where  are  you  going,  my 
charmer  1  Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a  little  of 
your  company,  lovey  7 

Tony.  I'm  in  haste,  mother;  I  can  not  stay. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  You  shan't  venture  out  this 
raw  evening,  my  dear ;  you  look  most  shockingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three 
Pigeons  expects  me  down  every  moment.  There's 
some  fun  going  forward. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


195 


Hardcasiie.  Ay;  the  alehouse,  the  old  place;  I 
thought  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  low,  paltry  set  of  fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low  neither.  There's  Dick  Mug- 
gins the  exciseman.  Jack  Slang  the  horse  doctor, 
little  Aminidab  that  grinds  the  music  box,  and 
Tom  Twist  that  spins  the  pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappcdnt 
them  for  one  night  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should  not 
so  much  mind;  but  I  can't  abide  to  disappoint 
myself. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  \detainirtg  himl.    You  shan't 

go- 
Tony,  I  will,  I  tell  you. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  say  you  shan't. 
Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  strongest,  you  or  I. 
[Exit^  hauling  her  out. 
Hardcastle  [aZoTie].  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that 
only  spoil  each  other.     But  is  not  the  whole  age  in 
a  combination  to  drive  sense  and  discretion  out  of 
doors?  There's  my  pretty  darling  Kate  !  the  fash- 
ions of  the  times  have  almost  infected  her  too.    By 
living  a  year  or  two  in  town,  she's  as  fond  of  gauze 
and  French  frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 

Enter  MSS  HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence  ! 
dressed  out  as  usual,  my  Kate.  G  oodness !  What 
a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast  thou  got  about 
thee,  girl !  I  could  never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age, 
that  the  indigent  world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the 
trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay 
visits,  and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner;  and  in  the 
evening  I  put  on  my  housewife's  dress  to  please 
you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  remember  I  insist  on  the 
terms  of  our  agreement ;  and  by  the  by,  I  believe  I 
shall  have  occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very 
evening. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  1  don't  compre- 
hend your  meaning. 

Hardcastle.  Then  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I 
expect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen  to  be 
your  husband  from  town  this  very  day.  I  have  his 
father's  letter,  in  which  he  informs  me  his  son  is 
set  out,  and  that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly 
after. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Indeed!  1  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how  shall  I 
behave?  it's  a  thousand  to  one  I  shan't  like  him; 
our  meeting  will  be  so  formal,  and  so  hke  a  thing 
of  business,  that  I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship 
or  esteem. 

Hardcastle.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I  never  will 


control  your  choice ;  but  Mr,  Marlow,  whom  I  have 
pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir 
Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you  have  heard  mo. 
talk  so  often.  The  young  gentleman  has  been 
bred  a  scholar,  and  is  designed  for  an  employment 
in  the  service  of  his  country.  1  am  told  he's  a 
man  of  an  excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Is  he  ? 

Hardcastle.  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hardcastle,  1  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hardcastle.  Young  and  brave. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  sure  I  shall  Hke  liim. 

Hardcastle.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more, 
[kissing  his  hand]  he's  mine;  I'UJhave  him. 

Hardcastle.  And  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one  of 
the  most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all 
the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Eh !  you  have  frozen  me  to 
death  again.  That  word  reserved  has  undone  all 
the  rest  of  his  accomplishments.  A  reserved  lover, 
it  is  said,  always  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hardcastle.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom 
resides  in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with  nobler 
virtues.  It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character 
that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  must  have  more  striking 
features  to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  However,  if 
he  be  so  young,  so  handsome,  and  so  every  thing 
as  you  mention,  I  beUeve  he'll  do  still.  I  think  I'll 
have  him. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an  ob- 
stacle. It's  more  than  an  even  wa^er  he  may  not 
have  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you 
mortify  one  so?  Well,  if  he  refuses,^  instead  of  break- 
ing my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I'll  only  break  my 
glass  for  its  flattery,  set  my  cap  to  some  newer 
fashion,  and  look  out  for  some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hardcastle.  Bravely  resolved !  In  the  mean  time 
I'll  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception :  as  we 
seldom  see  company,  they  want  as  much  training 
as  a  company  of  recruits  the  first  day's  muster. 

[^xit. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aloriel.  Lud,  this  news  of 
papa's  puts  me  all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome; 
these  he  put  last;  but  I  put  them  foremost.  Sen- 
sible, good  natured ;  I  like  all  that.  But  then  re- 
served and  sheepish,  that's  much  against  him.  Yet 
can't  he  be  cured  of  his  timidity,  by  being  taught 
to  be  proud  of  his  wife?  Yes;  and  cant  I — But  I 
vow  I'm  disposing  of  the  husband  before  I  have  se- 
cured the  lover. 

Enter  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Ne- 
ville, my  dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look 
this  evening?  Is  there  any  thing  whimsical  about 


196 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


me  7  Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking  days,  child  1  Am 
I  in  face  to-day? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet  now  I 
look  again — bless  me ! — sure  no  accident  has  hap- 
pened among  the  canary  birds  or  the  gold  fishes. 
Has  your  brother  or  the  cat  been  meddling  1  or  has 
the  last  novel  been  too  moving? 

Miss  Hardoastle.  No ;  nothing  of  all  this.  I 
nave  been  threatened — I  can  scarce  get  it  out — I 
have  been  threatened  with  a  lover. 

Miss  Neville.     And  his  name — 

yiiss  Hardcastle.     Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.     Indeed! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  sou  of  Sir  Charles  Mar- 
low. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  intimate  friend 
of  Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer.  They  are  never 
asunder.  I  believe  you  must  have  seen  him  when 
we  lived  in  town. 

Miss  Hardcastle.     Never- 

Mi^s  Neville.  He's  a  very  singular  character,  I 
assure  you.  Among  women  of  reputation  and 
virtue  he  is  the  modestest  man  alive;  but  his  ac- 
quaintance give  him  a  very  different  character 
among  creatures  of  another  stamp :  you  understand 
me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  odd  character  indeed.  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  manage  him.  What  shall  I 
do?  Pshaw,  think  no  more  of  him,  but  trust  to  oc- 
currences for  success.  But  how  goes  on  your  own 
affair,  my  dear?  has  my  mother  been  courting  you 
for  my  brother  Tony  as  usual? 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one  of  our 
agreeable  tete-d-ietes.  She  has  been  saying  a  hun- 
dred tender  things,  and  setting  off  her  pretty  mon- 
ster as  the  very  pink  of  perfection. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  her  partiality  is  such, 
that  she  actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune  like 
yours  is  no  small  temptation.  Besides,  as  she  has 
the  sole  management  of  it,  I'm  not  surprised  to  see 
her  unwilling  to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  A  fortune  like  mine,  which  chiefly 
consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty  temptation. 
But,  at  any  rate,  if  my  dear  Hastings  be  but  con- 
stant, I  make  no  doubt  to  be  too  hard  for  her  at 
last.  However,  I  let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love 
with  her  son ;  and  she  never  once  dreams  that  my 
affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  My  good  brother  holds  out 
stoutly.    I  could  almost  love  him  for  bating  you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature  at 
bottom,  and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see  me  married 
to  any  body  but  himself.  But  my  aunt's  bell  rings 
for  our  afternoon's  walk  round  the  improvements. 
Allans!  Courage  is  recessary,  as  our  affairs  are 
critical. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  "Would  it  were  bed -time,  and 
all  were  well."  ''Exeunt. 


SCENE — AN   ALEHOUSE   ROOM. 

Several  shabby  Fellows  with  punch  and  tobacco.  TONY  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  a  little  higher  than  the  rest,  a  mallei 
in  his  hand. 

Omnes.     Ilui-rea !  hurrea !  hurrea  1  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  Nov/,  gentlemert,  silence  for  a 
song.  The  'Squire  is  going  to  knock  himself  down 
for  a  song. 

Omnes.     Ay,  a  song,  a  song ! 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a  song  I 
made  upon  this  alehouse,  the  Three  Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let  schoolmasters  puzzle  their  brain, 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning, 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain. 

Gives  genus  a  better  discerning. 
Let  them  brag  of  their  heathenish  gods. 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians, 
Their  quis,  and  their  quffis,  and  their  quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Tctt-^ddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

When  methodist  preachers  come  down, 

A-preaching  that  drinkmg  is  sinful, 
I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown. 

They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 
But  when  you  come  down  with  your  pence, 

For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 
I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 

But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroli 

Then  come  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever. 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout. 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  for  ever. 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons; 
But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons, 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll. 

Omnes.     Bravo !  bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  The  'Squire  has  got  spunk  in 
him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing,  bekeays 
he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's  low. 

Third  Fellow.  O  damn  any  thing  that's  low,  I 
can  not  bear  it. 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the  gen- 
teel thing  at  any  time  :  if  so  be  that  a  gentleman 
bees  in  a  concatenation  accordingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it,  Mister 
Muggins.  What,  though  I  am  obligated  to  danc* 
a  bear,  a  man  may  be  a  gentleman  for  all  that 
May  this  be  my  poison,  if  ray  bear  ever  dances  but 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


197 


to  the  very  genteelest  of  tunes ;  "  Water  Parted," 
or  "  The  minuet  in  Ariadne." 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the  'Squire  is 
not  come  to  his  own.  It  would  be  well  for  all  the 
publicans  within  ten  miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  so  it  would,  Master  Slang. 
.  I'd  then  show  what  it  was  to  keep  choice  of  com- 
pany. 

Second  Fellow.  O  he  takes  after  his  own  father 
for  that.  To  be  sure  old  '  Squire  Lumpkin  was  the 
finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  For  wind- 
ing the  straight  horn,  or  beating  a  thicket  for  a 
hare,  or  a  wench,  he  never  had  his  fellow.  It  was 
a  saying  in  the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses, 
dogs,  and  girls,  in  the  whole  county. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age,  I'll  be  no 
bastard,  I  promise  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of 
Bet  Bouncer  and  the  miller's  gray  mare  to  begin 
with.  But  come,  my  boys,  drink  about  and  be 
merry,  for  you  pay  no  reckoning.  Well,  Stingo, 
what's  the  matter '] 

Enter  LANDLORD. 

Landlord.  There  be  two  gentlemen  in  a  post- 
chaise  at  the  door.  They  have  lost  their  way  upo' 
the  forest ;  and  they  are  talking  something  about 
Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them  must  be 
the  gentleman  that's  coming  down  to  court  my  sis- 
ter.    Do  they  seem  to  be  Londoners  7 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look 
woundily  like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way,  and 
I'll  set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  [Exit  Land- 
lord.] Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be  good  enough 
company  for  you,  step  down  for  a  moment,  and  I'll 
be  with  you  in  the  squeezing  of  a  lemon. 

[Exeunt  Mob. 

Tony,  [alone.]  Father-in-law  has  been  calling 
me  whelp  and  hound  this  half-year.  Now  if  I 
pleased,  I  could  be  so  revenged  upon  the  old  grum- 
bletonian.  But  then  I'm  afraid — afraid  of  what  7 
I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen  hundred  a-year,  and 
let  him  frighten  me  out  of  that  if  he  can. 

Enter  LANDLORD,  conducting  MARLOW  and 
HASTINGS. 

Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable  day 
have  we  had  of  it !  We  were  told  it  was  but  forty 
miles  across  the  country,  and  we  have  come  above 
threescore. 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  unac- 
countable reserve  of  yours,  that  would  not  let  us 
inquire  more  frequently  on  the  way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling  to 
lay  myself  under  an  obligation  to  every  one  I  meet, ' 


and  often  stand  the  cliance  of  an  unmannerly  an- 
swer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not  likely 
to  receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm  told 
you  have  been  inquiring  for  one  Mr.  Hardcastle  in  • 
these  parts.  Do  you  know  what  part  of  the  coun- 
try you  are  in  ? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should  thank 
you  for  information. 

Tony.     Nor  the  way  you  came  ? 

Hastings.  No,  sir ;  but  if  you  can  inform  us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know  neither 
the  road  you  are  going,  nor  where  you  are,  nor  the 
road  you  came,  the  first  thing  I  have  to  inform  you 
is,  that — you  have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us  that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to 
ask  the  place  from  whence  you  came  7 

Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  directing 
us  where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence ;  but  question  for  question  is 
all  fair,  you  know. — Pray,  gentlemen,  is  not  this 
same  Hardcastle  a  cross-grained,  old-fashioned, 
whimsical  fellow,  with  an  ugly  face,  a  daughter, 
and  a  pretty  son  7 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentleman ; 
but  he  has  the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing,  troUop- 
ing,  talkative  maypole — the  son,  a  pretty,  well- 
bred,  agreeable  youth,  that  every  body  is  fond  of  7 

Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this.  The 
daughter  is  said  to  be  well-bred,  and  beautiful;  the 
son  an  awkward  booby,  reared  up  and  spoiled  at 
his  mother's  apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem! — Then,  gentlemen,  all  I 
have  to  tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.  Unfortunate ! 

Tony.  It's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy,  dirty, 
dangerous  way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gentlemen  the 
way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle' s !  [Winking  upon  the 
Landlord.]  Mr.  Hardcastle' s,  of  Cluagmire  Marsh, 
you  understand  me. 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's!  Lack-a-daisy. 
my  masters,  you're  come  a  deadly  deal  wrong! 
When  you  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  you 
should  have  crossed  down  Squash-Lane. 

Marlow.  Cross  down  Squash  Lane ! 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight  for- 
ward, till  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.  Come  to  where  four  roads  meet! 

Tony.  Ay,  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take  only 
one  of  them. 

Marlow.  O,  sdr,  you're  facetious. 

Tony.  Then  keeping  to  the  right,  you  are  to 
go  sideways,  till  you  come  upon  Crack-skull  Com- 
mon :  there  you  must  look  sharp  for  the  track  of 


198 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  wheel,  and  go  forward  till  you  come  to  Farmer 
Murrain's  barn.  Coming  to  the  farmer's  barn, 
you  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left, 
and  then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find  out 
the  old  mill. 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man !  we  could  as  soon  find 
out  the  longitude ! 

Hastings.  What's  to  be  done,  Marlow? 

MarloiD.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor  re- 
ception ;  though  perhaps  the  landlord  can  accom- 
modate us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one 
spai*e  bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken 
up  by  three  lodgers  already.  [After  a  pause,  in 
which  the  rest  seem  disconcerted.]  I  have  hit  it. 
Don't  you  think.  Stingo,  our  landlady  could  ac- 
commodate the  gentlemen  by  the  fire-side,  with — 
three  chairs  and  a  bolster  ? 

Hastings.  I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 

MarloiD.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs  and  a 
bolster. 

Tomj.   You  do,  do  you? — then,  let  me  see 
what  if  you  go  on  a  mile  farther,  to  the  Buck's 
Head ;  the  old  Buck's  head  on  the  hill,  one  of  the 
best  inns  in  the  whole  county  1 

Hastings.  O  ho!  so  we  have  escaped  an  adven- 
ture for  this  night,  however. 

Landlord  [apart  to  Tony.]  Sure,  you  ben't 
sending  them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be  you  1 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool  you.  Let  them  find  that 
out.  [To  them.]  You  have  only  to  keep  on 
straight  forward,  till  you  come  to  a  large  old  house 
by  the  road  side.  You'll  see  a  pair  of  large  horns 
over  the  door.  That's  the  sign.  Drive  up  the 
yard,  and  call  stoutly  about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The 
servants  can't  miss  the  way  7 

Tony.  No,  no :  but  I  tell  you,  though,  the  land- 
lord is  rich,  and  going  to  leave  oflT  business ;  so  he 
wants  to  be  thought  a  gentleman,  saving  your  pre- 
sence, he !  he !  he !  He'll  be  for  giving  you  his 
company ;  and,  ecod,  if  you  mind  him,  he'll  per- 
suade you  that  his  mother  was  an  alderman,  and 
his  aunt  a  justice  of  peace. 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  tCx  be  sure ; 
but  a  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds  as  any  in  the 
whole  country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with  these,  we 
shall  want  no  further  connexion.  We  are  to  turn 
to  the  right,  did  you  say  1 

Tony.  No,  no;  straight  forward.  I'll  just  step 
myself,  and  show  you  a  piece  of  the  way.  J  To 
the  Landlord.]     Mum ! 

Landlord.    Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a  s^eet, 

pleasant damn'd  mischievous  son  of  a  whf»re, 

Exeu7\t. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE — AN  OLD-FASHIONED  HOUSE. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  followed  by  three  or  four  awkward 
servants. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you  are  perfect  in  the 
table  exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you  these  three 
days.  You  all  know  your  posts  and  your  places, 
and  can  show  that  you  "have  been  used  to  good 
company,  without  ever  stirring  from  home. 
Omnes.  Ay,  ay. 

Hardcastle.  When  company  comes,  you  are  not 
to  pop  out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again,  like 
frighted  rabbits  in  a  warren. 
Omncs.  No,  no. 

Hardcastle.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken 
from  the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the  side-ta- 
ble ;  and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have  advanced  from 
the  plough,  are  to  place  yourself  behind  my  chair. 
But  you're  not  to  stand  so,  with  your  hands  in 
your  pockets.  Take  your  hands  from  your  pock- 
ets, Roger;  and  from  your  head,  you  blockhead 
you.  See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They're 
a  little  too  stiff  indeed,  but  that's  no  great  matter. 

Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  I  hold  them.  I  learned 
to  hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I  was  upon  drill 
for  the  militia.     And  so  being  upon  drill 

Hardcastle.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Dig- 
gory. You  must  be  all  attention  to  the  guests. 
You  must  hear  us  talk,  and  not  think  of  talking ; 
you  must  see  us  drink,  and  not  think  of  drinking ; 
you  must  see  us  eat  and  not  think  of  eating. 

Diggory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's 
parfectly  unpossible.  Whenever  Diggory  sees 
yeating  going  forward,  ecod  he's  always  wishing 
for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hardcastle.  Blockhead  !  Is  not  a  belly-full  in 
the  kitchen  as  good  as  a  belly-full  in  the  parlour  ? 
Stay  your  stomach  with  that  reflection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll  make 
a  shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a  slice  of  cold  beef 
in  the  pantr3^ 

Hardcastle.  Diggory,  •you  are  too  talkative, — 
Then,  if  I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or  tell  a 
good  story  at  table,  you  must  not  all  burst  out  a- 
laughing,  as  if  you  made  part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then  ecod  your  worship  must  not 
tell  the  story  of  ould  Grouse  in  the  gun-room :  I 
can't  help  laughing  at  that— he !  he !  he ! — for  the 
soul  of  me.  We  have  laughed  at  that  these  twen- 
ty years — ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  story  is  a  good 
one.  Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh  at 
that — ^but  still  remember  to  be  attentive.  Suppose 
one  of  the  company  should  call  for  a  glass  of  wine, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  Ct)NaUER. 


199 


liow  will  you  behave  1  A  glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you 


please — [to  Diggory] — eh,  why  don't  you  move? 
Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never  have  cou- 
Tage  till  I  see  the  eatables  and  drinkables  brought 
upo'  the  table,  and  then  I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 
Hardcastle.  What,  will  nobody  move? 
First  Servant.     I'm  not  to  leave  this  place. 
Second  Servant.  I'm  sure  it's  no  place  of  mine. 
Tfiird  Servant.  Nor  mine,  for  sartin. 
Diggory.  Wauns,  and   I'm  sure  it  canna  be 
mine. 

Hardcastlc.  You  numskulls !  and  so  while,  like 
your  betters,  you  are  quarreling  for  places,  the 
guests  must  be  starved.     O  you  dunces !  I  find  I 

must  begin  all  over  again But  don't  I  hear  a 

coach  drive  into  the  yard?  To  your  posts,  you 
blockheads.  I'll  go  in  the  mean  time  and  give  my 
old  friend's  son  a  hearty  reception  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  Hardcastle. 
Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  place;  is  gone  quite 
out  of  my  head. 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  place  is  to  be  every 
where. 

First  Servant.  Where  the  devil  is  mine? 
Second  Servant.     My  place  is  to  be  nowhere  at 
all;  and  so  I'ze  go  about  my  business.      [Exeu7it 
Servants,  running  about  as  if/righted,  different 
ways. 

Enter  SERVANT  with  candles,  showing  in  MARLOW  and 
HASTINGS. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  welcome! 
This  way. 

Hastings.  Afterthe  disappointments  of  the  day, 
welcome  once  more,  Charles,  to  the  comforts  of  a 
clean  room  and  a  good  fire.  Upon  my  word,  a 
very  well-looking  house ;  antique  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  mansion. 
Having  first  ruined  the  master  by  good  house-keep- 
ing, it  at  last  comes  to  levy  contributions  as  an  inn 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are  to  be 
taxed  to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have  often  seen 
a  good  sideboard,  or  a  marble  chimney-piece,  though 
not  actually  put  in  the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning 
confoundedly, 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in  all 
places ;  the  only  diflference  is,  th<?t  in  good  inns  you 
pay  dearly  for  luxuries,  in  bad  inns  you  are  fleeced 
and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  very  much  among 
them.  In  truth,  I  have  been  often  surprised,  that 
you  who  have  seen  so  much  of  the  world,  with  your 
natural  good  sense,  and  your  many  opportunities, 
could  never  yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assur- 
ance. 

Marlow.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But  tell 
me,  George,  where  could  I  have  learned  that  as- 
surance you  talk  of?  My  life  has  been  chiefly 
spent  in  a  college  or  an  inn,  in  seclusion  from  that 


lovely  part  of  the  creation  that  chiefly  teach  men 
confidence.  I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  familiarly 
acquainted  with  a  single  modest  woman,  except 
my  mother — But  among  females  of  another  class 

you  know 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  impudent 
enough  of  all  conscience. 

MarloiD.  They  are  of  us,  you  know. 
Hastings.     But  in  the  company  of  women  of 
reputation  I  never  saw  such  an  idiot,  such  a  trem- 
bler; you  look  for  all  the  world  as  if  you  wanted  an 
opportunity  of  stealing  out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do  want 
to  steal  out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I  have  often  form- 
ed a  resolution  to  break  the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at 
any  rate.  But  I  don't  know  how,  a  single  glance 
from  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  rny  reso- 
lutirm.  An  impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit  mo- 
desty, but  I'll  be  hanged  if  a  modest  man  can 
ever  counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the  fine 
things  to  them  that  I  have  heard  you  lavish  upon 
the  bar-maid  of  an  irm,  or  even  a  college  bed-maker. 
Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine  things 
to  them;  they  freeze,  they  petrify  me.  They  may 
talk  of  a  comet,  or  a  burning  mountain,  or  some 
such  bngatclle;  but  tome,  a  modest  woman,  dress- 
ed out  in  all  her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  ob- 
ject of  the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  At  this  rate,  man,  how 
can  you  ever  expect  to  marry  ? 

Alarlovj.  Never,  unless,  as  among  kings  and 
princes,  my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by  proxy.  If, 
indeed,  like  an  eastern  bridegroom,  one  were  to  be 
introduced  to  a  wife  he  never  saw  before,  it  might 
be  endured.  But  to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a 
formal  courtship,  together  with  the  episode  of 
aunts,  grandmothers,  and  cousins,  and  at  last  to 
blunt  out  the  broad  staring  question  of,  Madam, 
will  you  marry  me?  No,  no,  that's  a  strain  much 
above  me,.  I  assure  you. 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  Bu^  how  do  a^ou  intend 
behaving  to  the  lady  you  are  come  down  to  visit  at 
the  request  of  your  father? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies.  Bow 
very  low,  answer  yes  or  no  to  all  her  demands — 
But  for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I  shall  venture  to 
look  in  her  face  till  1  see  my  father's  again. 

Hasting^.  V  m  surprised  that  one  who  is  so  warm 
a  friend  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlow.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings,  my 
chief  inducement  down  was  to  be  instrumental  in 
forwarding  your  happiness,  not  my  own.  Miss 
Neville  loves  you,  the  family  don't  know  you!  as 
my  friend  you  are  sure  of  a  reception,  and  let  hoji 
our  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow!  But  I'll  suppress 
the  emotion.  Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly  seeking  to 
carry  off  a  fortune,  you  should  be  the  last  man  in 


200 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  world  I  would  apply  to  for  assistance.  But 
Miss  Neville's  person  is  all  1  ask,  and  that  is 
mine,  both  from  her  deceased  father's  consent, 
and  her  own  inclination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man!  You  have  talents  and 
art  to  captivate  any  woman.  I'm  doomed  to  adore 
the  sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with  the  only  part  of  it 
I  despise.  This  stammer  in  my  address,  and  this 
awkward  unprepossessing  visage  of  mine  can  never 
permit  me  to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's 
'prentice,  or  one  of  the  duchesses  of  Drury-lane. 
Pshaw !  this  fellow  here  to  interrupt  us. 

Enter  HARDCASTL5. 

Hardcastle.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are 
heartily  welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow  1  Sir,  y^ou 
are  heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my  way,  you  see,  to 
receive  my  friends  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  I  like 
to  give  them  a  hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at 
my  gate.  I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks 
taken  care  of 

Marlow  [aside].  He  has  got  our  names  from 
the  servants  already. — [  To  Hardcastle.]  We  ap- 
prove your  caution  and  hospitality,  sir. — [  To  Has- 
tings.] I  have  been  thinking,  George,  of  changing 
our  travelling  dresses  in  the  morning.  1  am  grown 
confoundedly  ashamed  of  mine. 

Hardcastle.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no 
ceremony  in  this  house. 

Marlow.  I  fancy,  Charles,  you're  right:  the  first 
blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend  opening  the  cam- 
paign with  the  white  and  gold. 

Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow — Mr.  Hastings — gen- 
tlemen— pray  be  under  no  restraint  in  this  house. 
This  is  Liberty-hall,  gentlemen.  You  may  do 
just  as  you  please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet.  George,  if  we  open  the  campaign 
too  fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want  ammunition  be- 
fore it  is  over.  I  think  to  reserve  the  embroidery 
to  secure  a  retreat. 

Hardcastle.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Mar- 
low, puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough, 
when  we  went  to  besiege  Denain.  He  first  sumr 
moned  the  garrison 

Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  ventre  d'or  waist- 
coat will  do  with  the  plain  brown  7 

Hardcastle.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison, 
which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand  men— 

Hastings.  I  think  not :  brown  and  yellow  mix 
but  very  poorly. 

Hardcastle.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  teUing 
you,  he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might  con- 
sist of  about  five  thousand  men 

Marlow.  The  girls  like  finery. 

Hardcastle.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men,  well  appointed  with  stores,  ammu- 
nition, and  other  implements  of  war.  Now,  says 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to  George  Brooks,  that 
stood  next  to  him — You  must  have  heard  of 


George  Brooks— I'll  pawn  my  dukedom,  says  he, 
but  I  take  that  garrison  without  spilling  a  drop  oif 
blood.   'So — - 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you  gave  us 
a  glass  of  punch  in  the  mean  time ;  it  would  help  us 
to  carry  on  the  siege  with  vigour. 

Hardcastle.  Punch,  sir!  [aside.]  This  is  the 
most  unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever  met 
with.  ' 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch,  A  glass  of  warrn 
punch,  after  our  journey,  will  be  comfortable.  This 
is  Liberty-hall,  you  know. 

Hardcastle.  Here's  a  cup,  sir. 

Marlow  [aside].  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Liberty- 
hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what  he  pleases. 

Hardcastle  [taking  the  cup].  1  hope  you'll  find 
it  to  your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my  own 
hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the  ingredients  are 
tolerable.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  pledge  me. 
sir?  Here,  Mr.  Marlow,  here  is  to  our  better  ac- 
quaintance. [Drinks. 

Marlow  [aside].  A  very  impudent  fellow,  this ! 
but  he's  a  character,  and  I'll  humour  him  a  little. 
Sir,  my  service  to  you.  [Drinks. 

Hastings  [aside],  I  see  this  fellow  wants  to 
give  us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he's  an  inn- 
keeper before  he  has  learned  to  be  a  gentleman. 
•  Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup,  my 
old  friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good  deal  of  busi- 
ness in  this  part  of  the  country.  Warm  work, 
now  and  then,  at  elections,  I  suppose. 

Hardcastle.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that  work 
over.  Since  cur  betters  have  hit  upon  the  expedient 
of  electing  each  other,  there  is  no  business  "  for  us 
that  sell  ale." 

Hastings.  So  then  you  have  no  turn  for  politics, 
I  find. 

Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a 
time,  indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  misjpkes* 
of  government,  like  other  people ;  but  finding  my- 
self every  day  grow  more  angry,  and  the  govern- 
ment growing  no  better,  I  left  it  to  mend  itself. 
Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble  my  head  about  Hy- 
der  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn,  than  about  Ally  Croaker. 
Sir  my  service  to  you, 

Hastings,  So  that  with  eating  above  stairs,  and 
drinking  below,  with  receiving  your  friends  with- 
in, and  amusing  them  without,  you  lead  a  good 
pleasant  bustling  Ufe  of  it. 

Hardcastle.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's 
certain.  Half  the  difierences  of  the  parish  are  ad- 
justed in  this  very  parlour. 

Marlow  [after  drinking].  And  you  have  an 
argument  in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better  than 
any  in  Westminster-hall. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  u 
little  philosophy. 

Marlow  [aside].  Well,  this  is  the  first  time  I  evei 
heard  of  an  inkeeper's  philosopliy. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


201 


Hastings.  So,  then,  like  an  experienced  general, 
you  attack  them  on  every  quarter.  If  you  find 
their  reason  manageable,  you  attack  it  with  your 
philosophy ;  if  you  find  they  have  no  reason,  you 
attack  them  with  this.  Here's  your  health,  my 
philosopher.  [Drinks. 

Hardcastle.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you;  ha! 
ha!  ha!  Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of 
Prince  Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks  at  the 
battle  of  Belgrade.     You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade,  I  be- 
lieve it's  almost  time  to  talk  about  supper.  What 
has  your  philosophy  got  in  the  house  for  supper? 

Hardcastle.  For  supper,  sir!  [Aside]  Was  ever 
such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own  house ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir ;  I  begin  to  feel  an 
appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work  to-night  in 
the  larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hardcastle  [aside].  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure 
never  my  eyes  beheld.  [To  him.]  Why  really, 
sir,  as  for  supper,  I  can't  well  tell.  My  Dorothy 
and  the  cook-maid  settle  these  things  between 
them.  I  leave  these  kind  of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Marlow.     You  do,  do  you  ? 

Hardcastle.  Entirely.  By  the  by,  I  believe  they 
are  in  actual  consultation  upon  what's  for  supper 
this  moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as  one  of 
their  privy-council.  It's  a  way  I  have  got.  When 
I  travel  I  always  choose  to  regulate  my  own  sup- 
per. Let  the  cook  be  called.  No  offence  1  hope, 
sir? 

Hardcastle.  O  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least ;  yet  I 
don't  know  how;  our  Bridget,  the  cook-maid,  is 
not  very  communicative  upon  these  occasions. 
Should  we  send  for  her,  she  might  scold  us  all  out 
of  the  house. 

Hastings.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder  then. 
1  ask  it  as  a  favour.  I  always  match  my  appetite 
to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [to  Hardcasth,  who  looks  at  them  with 
surprise].  Sir,  he's  very  right,  and  it's  my  way 
too. 

Hardcastle.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command 
here.  Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of  fare  for  to- 
night's supper:  I  believe  it's  drawn  out. — Your 
manner,  Mr.  Hastings,  puts  me  in  mind  of  my 
uncle,  Colonel  Wallop.  It  was  a  saying  of  his, 
that  no  man  was  sure  of  his  supper  till  he  had 
eaten  it. 

Hastings  [Aside].  All  upon  the  high  rope !  His 
uncle  a  colonel !  we  shall  soon  hear  of  his  mother 
being  a  justice  of  the  peace.  But  let's  hear  the 
bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [perusing].  What's  here?  For  the 
first  course;  for  the  second  course;  for  the  dessert. 
The  devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have  brought  down 
tue  whole  joiner's  company,  or  the  corporation  of 


Bedford,  to  eat  up  such  a  supper?    Two  or  three 
little  things,  clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.     But  let's  hear  it. 

Marlow  [reading].  For  the  first  course  at  the 
top,  a  pig,  and  prune  sauce. 

Hastings.     Damn  your  pig,  I  say. 

Marldw,  And  damn  your  prune  sauce,  say  I. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that 
are  hungry,  pig  with  prune  sauce  is  very  good 
eating. 

Marlow.  At  the  bottom  a  calf's  tongue  and 
brains. 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out,  my 
good  sir,  I  don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a  plate  by 
themselves. 

Hardcastle  [aside].  Their  impudence  con- 
founds me.  [To  them.]  Gentlemen,  you  are  my 
guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please.  Is  there 
any  thing  else  you  wish  to  retrench  or  alter,  gen- 
tlemen ? 

Marlow.  Item.  ,  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit  and 
sausages,  a  Florentine,  a  shaking  pudding,  and  a 
dish  of  tiff — tafT — taffety  cream. 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes;  I  shall 
be  as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as  at  a  green  and 
yellow  dinner  at  the  French  ambassador's  table. 
I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have 
nothing  you  like,  but  if  there  be  any  thin  it  you 
have  a  particular  fancy  to 

Marlow.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of  fare  is  so 
exquisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it  is  full  as  good  as 
another.  Send  us  what  you  please.  So  much  for 
supper.  And  now  to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired, 
and  properly  taken  care  of. 

Hardcastle.  I  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to  me. 
You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you !  I  protest,  sir,  you 
must  excuse  me,  I  always  look  to  these  things  my- 
self. 

Hardcastle.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  your- 
self easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it.  [Aside.] 
A  very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as  I  ever  met  with. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to 
attend  you.  [Aside.]  This  may  be  modern  mo- 
desty, but  I  never  saw  any  thing  look  so  hke  old- 
fashioned  impudence. 

[Exeunt  Marlow  and  Hardcastle. 

Hastings  [alone].  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civili- 
ties begin  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be 
angry  at  those  assiduities  which  are  meant  tc» 
please  him  ? — Ha!  what  do  I  see?  Miss  Neville,  by 
all  that's  happy ! 

Enter  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings !  To  what  un- 


202 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


expected  good  fortune,  to  what  accident,  am  I  to 
ascribe  this  happy  meeting? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same  question, 
as  I  could  never  have  hoped  to  meet  my  dearest 
Constance  at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn !  sure  you  mistake :  my 
aunt,  my  guardian,  lives  here.  What  could  in- 
duce you  to  think  this  house  an  inn? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with  whom 
I  came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent  here  as  to  an 
inn,  I  assure  you.  A  young  fellow,  whom  we  ac- 
cidentally met  at  a  house  hard  by,  directed  us 
hither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of  my 
hopeful  cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you  have  heard 
me  talk  so  often;  ha!  ha!  ha  I 

Hastings.  He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for  you? 
he  of  whom  I  have  such  just  apprehensions? 
^  Miss  Neville.   You  have  nothing  to  fear  from 

him,  I  assure  you.  You'd  adore  him  if  you  knew 
how  heartily  he  despises  me.  My  aunt  knows  it 
too,  and  has  undertaken  to  court  me  for  him,  and 
actually  begins  to  think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler !  You  must 
know,  my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized  this  happy 
opportunity  of  my  friend's  visit  here  to  get  admit- 
tance into  the  family.  The  horses  that  carried  us 
down  are  now  fatigued  with  their  journey,  but 
they'll  soon  be  refreshed ;  and  then,  if  my  dearest 
girl  will  trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall 
soon  be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among 
slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  though 
ready  to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave  my  little  for- 
tune behind  with  reluctance.  The  greatest  part 
of  it  was  left  me  by  my  uncl6,  the  India  director, 
and  chiefly  consists  in  jewels.  I  have  been  for 
some  time  persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them. 
I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The  instant 
*Jiey  are  put  iiito  my  possession,  you  shall  find  me 
'ieady  to  make  them  and  myself  yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles!  Your  person  is 
all  I  desire.  In  the  mean  time,  my  friend  Marlow 
must  not  be  let  into  his  mistake.  I  know  the 
strange  reserve  of  his  temper  is  such,  that  if  ab- 
ruptly informed  of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the 
house  before  our  plan  was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him  in 
the  deception?  Miss  Hardcastle  is  just  returned 
from  walking;  what  if  we  still  continue  to  deceive 
him  ? This,  this  way — '—       [  They  confer. 

Enter  MAHLOW. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good  people 
tease  me  beyond  bearing.  My  host  seems  to  think 
it  ill  manners  to  leave  me  alone,  and  so  he  claps 
not  only  himself  but  his  old-fashionod  wife  on  my 
back.  They  talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us  too; ' 
and  then,  I  suppose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet 


through  all  the  rest  of  the  family.— What  have  w« 
got  here? 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles !  Let  me  congratu- 
late you!— The  most  fortunate  accident? — Who 
do  you  think  is  just  ahghted? 

Marlow.   Can  not  guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hardcas- 
tle and  Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leave  to  introduce 
Miss  Constance  Neville  to  your  acquaintance. 
Happening  to  dine  in  the  neighbourhood,  they 
called  on  their  return  to  take  fresh  horses  here. 
Miss  Hardcastle  has  just  stepped  into  the  next 
room,  and  will  be  back  in  an  instant.  Wasn't  it 
lucky?  eh! 

Marlow  l^aside.']  I  have  been  mortified  enough 
of  all  conscience,  and  here  comes  something  to 
complete  my  embarrassment.  I 

Hastings.    Well,  but  wasn't  it  the  most  fortu-      ' 
nate  thing  in  the  world  ? 

Marlow.  Oh!  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most 
joyful  encounter — But  our  dresses,  George,  you 
know  are  in  disorder — What  if  we  should  post- 
pone the  happiness  till  to-morrow  ? — To-morrow 
at  her  own  house — It  will  be  every  bit  as  conve- 
nient— and  rather  more  respectful — To-morrow  let 
it  be.  [  Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Neville.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your  cere- 
mony will  displease  her.  The  disorder  of  your 
dress  will  show  the  ardour  of  your  impatience. 
Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the  house,  and  will 
permit  you  to  see  her.  *' 

Marlow.  O I  the  devil !  how  shall  I  support  it  1 
— Hem !  hem !  Hastings,  you  must  not  go.  Yoii 
are  to  assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall  be  confound 
edly  ridiculous.  Yet,  hang  it !  I'll  take  courage. 
Hem! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man !  it's  but  the  first  plunge, 
and  all's  over.     She's  but  a  woman,  you  know, 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I  dread 
most  to  encounter. 

Enter  MISS  HARDCASTLE,  as  returned  from  walking. 

Hastings  [introducing  them.]  Miss  Hardcas- 
tle. Mr.  Marlow.  I'm  proud  of  bringing  two 
persons  of  such  merit  together,  that  only  want  tt 
know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside.]  Now  for  meeting  m^ 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  fixce,  and  quite 
in  his  own  manner.  [After  a  pause,  in  which  he 
appears  very  uneasy  and  disconcerted.]  I'm  glad 
of  your  safe  arrival,  sir, — I'm  told  you  had  some 
accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had 
some.  Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents,  but 
should  be  sorry — madam — or  rather  glad  of  any 
accidents — that  are  so  agreeably  concluded.  Hem  . 

Hastings  [to  him.]  You  never  spoke  better  ir. 
your  whole  life.  Keep  it  up  and  I'll  insure  yOK 
the  victjry. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


203 


Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir. 
You,  that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest  compa- 
ny, can  find  Uttle  entertainment  in  an  obscure  cor- 
ner of  the  country. 

Marlow  [gathering  courage],  I  have  lived,  in- 
deed, in  the  world,  madam;  but  I  have  kept  very 
little  company.  I  have  been  but  an  observer  upon 
life,  madam,  while  others  were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the  way  to 
enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings  [to  him].  Cicero  never  spoke  better. 
Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed  in  assurance 
for  ever. 

Marlow  [to  him].  Hem!  standby  me  then,  and 
when  I'm  down,  throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  set  me 
up  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon 
life  were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed,  since  you 
must  have  had  much  more  to  censure  than  to  ap- 
prove. 

Marloio.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  always 
willing  to  be  amused.  The  folly  of  most  people  is 
rather  an  object  of  mirth  than  uneasiness. 

Hastings  [to  him].  Bravo,  bravo.  Never  spoke 
so  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss  Hardcas- 
tle, I  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow  are  going  to 
be  very  good  company.  I  believe  our  being  here 
will  but  embarrass  the  interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least.  Mr.  Plastings.  We 
like  your  company  of  all  things.  [To  him.]  Zounds! 
■George,  sure  you  won't  go?  how  can  you  leave 
us  7 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil  conversa- 
tion, so  we'll  retire  to  the  next  room.  [  To  him.] 
You  don't  consider,  man,  that  we  are  to  manage  a 
little  tete-a-tete  of  our  own.  [Exeunt. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [after  a  fause].  But  you  have 
not  been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir:  the 
ladies,  T  should  hope,  have  employed  some  part  of 
your  addresses. 

Marlow  [relapsing  into  timidity].  Pardon  me, 
madam,  I — I — I — as  yet  have  studied — only — to 
deserve  them. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  that,  some  say,  is  the 
very  worst  way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  1  love  to 
converse  only  with  the  more  grave  and  sensible 
part  of  the  sex. — But  I'm  afraid  1  grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  at  all,  sir ;  there  is  nothing 
[  Uke  so  much  as  grave  conversation  myself;  I 
could  hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed  I  have  often  been 
surprised  how  a  man  of  sentiment  could  ever  ad- 
mire those  Ught  airy  pleasures,  where  nothing 
reaches  the  heart. 

Marlow.  It's a  disease of  the  mind,  ma- 
dam. In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must  be  some 
who,  wanting  a  relish for um — a — um. 

Miss  Hardcastle.    I  understand  you,  sir.  There 


must  be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  refined 
pleasures,  pretend  to  despise  what  they  are  inca- 
pable of  tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  infinitely 
better  expressed.  I  can't  help  observing a 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  Who  could  ever  sup- 
pose this  fellow  impudent  upon  such  occasions! 
[  To  him.]    You  were  going  to  observe,  sir 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam — 1  protest, 
madam,  I  forget  what  1  was  going  to  observe. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside],  I  vow  and  so  do  I. 
[To  him.]  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this 
age  of  hypocrisy — something  about  hypocrisy,  sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of  hypo- 
crisy there  are  few  who  upon  strict  inquiry  do  not 
— a — a — a — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  understand  you  perfectly, 
sir. 

Marlow  [a^ide].  Egad!  and  that's  more  than  I 
do  myself. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypo- 
critical age  there  are  few  that  do  not  condemn  in 
public  what  they  practise  in  private,  and  think 
they  pay  every  debt  to  virtue  when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam;  those  who  have  most 
virtue  in  their  mouths,  have  least  of  it  in  their  bo- 
soms.    But  I'm  sure  I  tire  you,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Not  in  the  least,  sir;  there's 
something  so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your  man- 
ner, such  life  and  force — pray,  sir,  go  on. 

Marlow.    Yes,  madam.     I  was  saying 

that  there  are  some  occasions — when  a  total  want 

of  courage,  madam,  destroys  all  the and  puts 

us upon  a — a — a — 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  agree  with  you  entirely;  a 
want  of  courage  upon  some  occasions  assumes  the 
appearance  of  ignorance,  and  betrays  us  when  we 
most  want  to  excel.     I  beg  you'll  proceed. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking,  ma- 
dam— But  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting  us  in  the 
next  room.     I  would  not  intrude  for  the  world. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was 
more  agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life.  Pray 
go  on. 

Marlow.     Y'es,  madam,   I  was But  she 

beckons  us  to  join  her.  Madam,  shall  I  do  my- 
self the  honour  to  attend  you  7 

Miss  Hardcastle.    Well  then,  I'll  follow. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  pretty  smooth  dialogue 
has  done  for  nie.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [alone].  Pla  !  ha !  ha !  Was 
there  ever  such  a  sober,  sentimental  interview? 
I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the  whole 
time.  Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  unaccountable 
bashfulness,  is  pretty  well  too.  He  has  good 
sense,  but  then  so  buried  in  his  fears,  that  it  fa- 
tigues one  more  than  ignorance.  If  1  could  teach 
him  a  little  confidence  it  would  be  doing  somebody 


d04 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


that  I  know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that 
soraebod}'  7  That,  faith,  is  a  question  I  can  scarce 
answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY  and  MISS  NEVILLE,  followed  by  MRS. 
HARDCASTLE  and  HASTINGS. 

Tony.  What  do  you  follow  me  for,  Cousin  Con? 
I  wonder  you're  not  ashamed  to  be  so  very  engag- 
ing. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak  to 
one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  relation 

you  want  to  make  me  though;  but  it  won't  do.     1 

tell  you.  Cousin  Con,  it  won't  do;  so  I  beg  you'll 

keep  your  distance,  I  want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She  follows,  coquetting  him  to  the  hack  scene. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well !  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings, 
you  are  very  entertaining.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  world  1  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as  London,  and 
the  fashions,  though  I  was  never  there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there !  You  amaze  me !  From 
your  air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you  had  been 
bred  all  your  life  either  at  Ranelagh,  St.  James's, 
or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O!  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to 
say  so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no  manner 
at  all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town,  and  that  serves 
to  raise  me  above  some  of  our  neighbouring  rustics ; 
but  who  can  have  a  manner,  that  has  never  seen 
the  Pantheon,  the  Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough, 
and  such  places  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort  7 
All  I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 
I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tete  from  the 
Scandalous  Magazine,  and  have  all  the  fashions, 
as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the  two  Miss 
Rickets  of  Crooked-Lane.  Pray  how  do  you  like 
ihis  head,  Mr.  Hastings'? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  degagee, 
upon  my  word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a  French- 
man, I  suppose? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself 
from  a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum-book 
for  the  last  year. 

Hastings.  Indeed !  Such  a  head  in  a  side-box 
at  the  play-house  would  draw  as  many  gazers  as 
my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  city  ball. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began, 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain  wo- 
man ;  so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular,  or  one 
may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your  case, 
madam,  in  any  dress.  [Bovdng. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dress- 
ing when  1  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity  by  my 
side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle :  all  I  can  say  will  never 
argue  down  a  single  button  from  his  clothes.  I 
have  often  wanted  him  to  throw  off  his  great 
flaxen  wig,  and  where  he  was  bald,  to  plaster  it 
over,  like  my  Lord  Pately,  with  powder. 


Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam;  for,  as 
among  the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so  among 
the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  But  what  do  you  think  his 
answer  was?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic  viva- 
city, he  said  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw  oflf  his 
wig  to  convert  it  into  a  tete  for  my  own  weaving. 

Hastings.  Intolerable !  At  your  age  you  may 
wear  what  you  please,  and  it  must  become  you. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what 
do  you  take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age  about 
town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago,  forty  was  all  the 
mode;  but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to  bring  up 
fifty  for  the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Seriously.  Then  I  shall  be 
too  young  for  the  fashion. 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on  jewels 
till  she's  past  forty.  For  instance,  miss  there,  in 
a  })olite  circle,  would  be  considered  as  a  child,  as  a 
mere  maker  of  samplers. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks 
herself  as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond  of  jewels 
as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that 
young  gentleman,  a  brother  of  yours,  I  should 
presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  con- 
tracted to  each  other.  Observe  their  little  sports. 
They  fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a  day,  as  if  they 
were  man  and  wife  already.  [To  them.]  Well, 
Tony,  child,  what  soft  things  are  you  saying  to 
your  cousin  Constance  this  evening? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things;  but 
that  it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about  so,  Ecod! 
I've  not  a  place  in  the  house  now  that's  left  to  my- 
self, but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my 
dear,  he's  in  another  story  behind  your  back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous  in 
my  cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before  faces  to 
be  forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.   That's  a  damned  confounded — crack. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ah!  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't 
you  think  they're  Uke  each  other  about  the  mouth, 
Mr.  Hastings?  The  Blenkinsop  mouth  to  a  T. 
They're  of  a  size  too.  Back  to  back,  my  pretties, 
that  Mr.  Hastings  may  see  you.     Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I  tell 
you.  [Measuring. 

Miss  Neville.  O  lud !  he  has  almost  cracked  my 
head. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O,  the  monster !  For  shame, 
Tony.     You  a  man,  and  behave  so ! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my  fortin. 
Ecod,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all 
that  I'm  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  tak^jn  in 
your  education  ?     I  that  have  rocked  you  in  your 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


ao5 


cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth  with  a  spoon ! 
Did  not  I  work  that  waistcoat  to  make  you  gen- 
teel 7  Did  not  I  prescribe  for  you  every  day,  and 
weep  while  the  receipt  was  operating? 

Tony.  Ecod !  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for  you 
have  been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was  born.  I 
have  gone  through  every  receipt  in  the  Complete 
Housewife  ten  times  over;  and  you  have  thoughts 
si  coursing  me  through  Cluincey  next  spring. 
But,  ecod!  I  tell  you,  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no 
longer. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good, 
viper  7    Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good  alone, 
then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm  in  spirits.  If 
I'm  to  have  any  good,  let  it  come  of  itself;  not  to 
keep  dinging  it,  dinging  it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  That's  false;  I  never  see  you 
vvhen  you're  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then  go 
\o  the  alehouse  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to  be  de- 
lighted with  your  agreeable  wild  notes,  unfeeling 
monster ! 

Tony.  Ecod !  mamma,  your  own  notes  are  the 
mldest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  ever  the  like?  but  I  see 
he  wants  to  break  my  heart ;  I  see  he  does. 

Hastings.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lecture 
the  young  gentleman  a  Uttle.  I'm  certain  I  can 
persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  must  retire.  Come 
Constance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings,  the 
wretchedness  of  my  situation :  was  ever  poor  wo- 
man so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet,  pretty,  provok- 
ing, undutiful  boy? 

{Exeunt  Mrs.  Hardcastle  and  Miss  Neville. 

HASTINGS,  TONY. 

Tony  \singing\.  "  There  was  a  young  man 
riding  by,  and  fain  would  have  his  will.     Rang 

do  didlo  dee." Don't  mind  her.     Let  her 

cry.  It's  the  comfort  of  her  heart.  I  have  seen 
her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an  hour  together ; 
and  they  said  they  liked  the  book  the  better  the 
more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the  ladies, 
I  find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman? 

Tony.  That's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's  choosing, 
I  dare  answer?  And  yet  she  appears  to  me  a 
pretty  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her  so 
well  as  I.  Ecod !  I  know  every  inch  about  her ; 
and  there's  not  a  more  bitter  cantackerous  toad  in 
all  Christendom. 

Hastings  [aside].  Pretty  encouragement  this 
for  a  lover ! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of  that. 
She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a  thicket,  or  a 
«olt  the  first  day's  breaking. 


Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and 
silent. 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when  she's 
with  her  playmate,  she's  as  loud  as  a  hog  in  a 
gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty  about 
her  that  charms  me. 

Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little,  she 
kicks  up,  and  you're  flung  in  the  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a  little 
beauty. — Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some  beauty. 

Tony.  Band-box !  She's  all  a  made-up  thing, 
mum.  Ah!  could  you  but  see  Bet  Bouncer  of 
these  parts,  you  migi»t  then  talk  of  beauty.  Ecod, 
she  has  two  eyes  as  black  as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as 
broad  and  red  as  a  pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make 
two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend  that 
would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your  hands? 

Tony.  Anan  ? 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that  would 
take  Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to  happiness  and 
your  dear  Betsy? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a  friend, 
for  who  would  take  her  ? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me,  I'll 
engage  to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and  you  shall 
never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you  !  Ecod  I  will,  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of  horses  to  your 
chaise  that  shall  trundle  you  off  in  a  twinkling, 
and  may -be  get  you  a  part  of  her  fortin  besides  in 
jewels  that  you  little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  'Squire,  this  looks  like  a 
lad  of  spirit, 

Tony.  Come  along,  then,  and  you  shall  see 
more  of  my  spirit  before  you  are  done  with.  me. 

[Singing. 

We  are  the  boys 

That  fears  no  noise 

Where  the  thundering  cannons  roar 

[Exeunt, 


ACT  III. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  alone. 

Hardcastle.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir 
Charles  mean  by  recommending  his  son  as  the 
modestest  young  man  in  town  ?  To  me  he  ap- 
pears the  most  impudent  piece  of  brass  that  ever 
spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has  taken  possession  of 
the  easy  chair  by  the  fire-side  already.  He  took 
off  his  boots  in  the  parlour,  and  desired  me  to  see 
them  taken  care  of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how 
his  impudence  aifects  my  daughter. — She  will 
certainly  be  shocked  at  it. 


S06 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Enter  MISS  HARDCASTLE,  plainly  dressed. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have 
changed  your  dress,  as  I  bid  you;  and  yet,  I  be 
lievc;  there  was  no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to  ob- 
serve them  without  ever  debating  their  propriety. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give 
you  some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recommended 
my  modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a  lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  You  taught  me  to  expect 
something  extraordinary,  and  1  find  the  original 
exceeds  the  description. 

Hardcastle.  1  was  never  so  surprised  in  my 
life!  He  has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  saw  any  thing  hke  it: 
and  a  man  of  the  world  too! 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad— what 
a  fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man  could  learn  mo- 
desty by  travelling.  He  might  as  soon  learn  wit 
at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hardcastle.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  com- 
pany and  a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure  you  mistake,  papa !  A 
French  dancing-master  could  never  have  taught 
him  that  timid  look — that  awkward  address — that 
bashful  manner — 

Hardcastle.  Whose  look?  whose  manner,  child  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Marlow's :  his  mauvaise 
konte,  his  timidity,  struck  me  at  the  first  sight. 

Hardcastle.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you; 
for  I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen  first  sights 
that  ever  astonished  my  senses. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally !  I  never 
saw  any  one  so  modest. 

Hardcastle.  And  can  you  be  serious  1  I  never 
saw  such  a  bouncing,  swaggering  puppy  since  I 
was  born.     Bully  Dawson  was  but  a  fool  to  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Surprising!  He  met  me  with 
a  respectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a  look 
fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hardcastle.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a 
lordly  air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  ray  blood 
freeze  again. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence 
and  respect ;  censured  the  manners  of  the  age ;  ad- 
mired the  prudence  of  girls  that  never  laughed ; 
tired  me  with  apologies  for  being  tiresome ;  then 
left  the  room  with  a  bow,  and  "  Madam,  I  would 
not  for  the  world  detain  you." 
'  Hardcastle.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me 
all  his  life  before ;  asked  twenty  questions,  and 
never  waited  for  an  answer :  interrupted  my  best 
remarks  with  some  silly  pun ;  and  when  I  was  in 
my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  and 
Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if  I  had  not  a  good  hand 


at  making  punch.  Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your  fa- 
ther  if  he  was  a  maker  of  punch ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  One  of  us  must  certainly  b« 
mistaken. 

Hardcastle.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  him- 
self, I'm  determined  he  shall  never  have  my  con- 
sent. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing 
I  take  him,  he  shall  never  have  mine. 

Hardcastle.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed — 
to  reject  him. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes:  but  upon  conditions. 
For  if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent,  and  I 
more  presuming  :  if  you  find  him  more  respectful, 
and  I  more  importunate — I  don't  know — the  fellow 
is  well  enough  for  a  man — Certainly  we  don't  meet 
many  such  at  a  horse-race  in  the  country, 

Hardcastle.    If  we  should  find  him  so- But 

that's  impossible.  The  first  appearance  has  done 
my  business.     I'm  seldom  deceived  in  that. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  yet  there  may  be  many 
good  qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's 
outside  to  her  taste,'  she  then  sets  about  guessing 
the  rest  of  his  furniture.  With  her,  a  smooth  face 
stands  for  good  sense,  and  a  genteel  figure  for 
every  virtue. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation  be- 
gun with  a  comphment  to  my  good  sense,  won't 
end  with  a  sneer  at  my  understanding  'i 

Hardcastle.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young 
Mr.  Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  contra- 
dictions, he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be  mis- 
taken, what  if  we  go  to  make  further  discoveries  1 

Hardcastle.  Agreed.  But  depend  on't  I'm  in 
the  right. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  depend  on't  I'm  not 
much  in  the  wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  TONY,  running  in  with  a  casket. 

Tony.  Ecod !  I  have  got  them.  Here  they  are. 
My  cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and  all.  My 
mother  shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls  out  of  their  for- 
tin  neither.     O !  my  genus,  is  that  you  7 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you  man- 
aged with  your  mother  1  I  hope  you  have  amused 
her  with  pvetending  love  for  your  cousin,  and  that 
you  are  wiUing  to  be  reconciled  at  last?  Our  horses 
will  be  refreshed  in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon 
be  ready  to  set  off". 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your 
charges  by  the  way  [giving  the  casket]— yoat 
sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep  them ;  and  hang  those 
I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one  of  them. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


307 


Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured  them 
from  your  mother  ? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no 
fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of  thumb.  If  I 
had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer  in  mother's  bureau, 
how  could  I  go  to  the  alehouse  so  often  as  I  do? 
An  honest  man  may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any 
time. 

Hastings.  Thousands  do  it  every  day.  But  to 
be  plain  with  you.  Miss  Neville  is  endeavouring  to 
procure  them  from  her  aunt  this  very  instant.  If 
she  succeeds,  it  will  be  the  most  delicate  way  at 
least  of  obtaining  them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know  how  it 
will  be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be  well  enough, 
she'd  as  soon  part  with  the  only  sound  tooth  in  her 
head. 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her  resent- 
ment when  she  finds  she  has  lost  them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment,  leave 
me  to  manage  that.  I  don't  value  her  resentment 
the  bounce  of  a  cracker.  Zounds  !  here  they  are. 
Morrice !  Prance !  [Exit  Hastings. 

TONY,  MRS.  HARDCASTLE,  and  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hardcasile.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze 
me.  Such  a  girl  as  you  want  jewels  !  It  will  be 
time  enough  for  jewels,  my  dear,  twenty  years 
hence,  when  your  beauty  begins  to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty  at 
forty,  will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty,  madam. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of 
none.  That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thousand 
ornaments.  Besides,  child,  jewels  are  quite  out  at 
present.  Don't  you  see  half  the  ladies  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, my  Lady  Kill-daylight,  and  Mrs. 
Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them,  carry  their  jewels  to 
town,  and  bring  nothing  but  paste  and  marcasites 
back. 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but 
somebody  who  shall  be  nameless  would  like  me 
best  with  all  my  little  finery  about  me  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear, 
and  then  see  if  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes  you  want 
any  better  sparklers.  What  do  you  think,  Tony, 
my  dear?  does  your  cousin  Con  want  any  jewels 
in  your  eyes,  to  set  off  her  beauty  1 

Tony.  That's  as  thereafter  may  be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew  how 
it  would  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose 
and  table  cut  things.  They  would  make  you  look 
like  the  court  of  King  Solomon  at  a  puppet-show. 
Besides,  I  believe,  I  can't  readily  come  at  them. 
They  may  be  missing,  for  aught  I  know  to  the 
contrary. 

Tony  [apart  to  Mrs.  Hardcastle].  Then,  why 
don't  you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so  longing 


for  them?  Tell  her  they're  lost.  It's  the  only  way 
to  quiet  her.  Say  they're  lost,  and  call  me  to  bear 
witness. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [apart  to  Tonij].  You  know, 
my  dear,  I'm  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So  if  1 
say  they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness,  will  you? 
He!  he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod!  I'll  say  I  saw 
them  taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 

Miss  Neville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day, 
madam.  Just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them  as 
relics,  and  then  they  may  be  locked  up  again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them  you  should  have 
them.  They're  missing,  I  assure  you.  Lost,  for 
aught  I  know;  but  we  must  have  patience,  wherever 
they  are. 

Miss  Neville.  I'll  not  believe  it!  this  is  but  a 
shallow  pretence  to  dgny  me.  I  know  they  are 
too  valuable  to  be  so  slightly  kept,  and  as  you  are 
to  answer  for  the  loss 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Don' the  alarmed,  Constance. 
If  they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent.  But 
my  son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not  to  be 
found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They  are 
missing,  and  not  to  be  found ;  I'll  take  my  oath 
on't. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle,  You  must  learn  resignation, 
my  dear  ;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet  we 
should  not  lose  our  patience.  See  me,  how  calm 
I  am. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally  calm  at 
the  misfortunes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Now  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your 
good  sense  should  v/aste  a  thought  upon  such 
trumpery.  We  shall  soon  find  them ;  and  in  the 
mean  time  you  shall  make  use  of  my  garnets  till 
your  jewels  be  found. 

Miss  Neville.  I  detest  garnets. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  most  becoming  things  in 
the  world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You  have 
often  seen  how  well  they  look  upon  me  :  you  shall 
have  them.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things.  You 
shan't  stir. — Was  ever  any  thing  so  provoking,  to 
mislay  my  own  jewels,  and  force  me  to  wear  her 
trumpery. 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you  the 
garnets,  take  what  you  can  get.  The  jewels  are 
your  own  already.  1  have  stolen  them  out  of  her 
bureau,  and  she  does  not  know  it.  Fly  to  your 
spark,  he'll  tell  you  more  of  the  matter.  Leave  me 
to  manage  her. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  cousin  ! 
Tony.    Vanish,     She's  here  and  has  missed 
them  already.     [Exit  Miss  Neville.]     Zounds! 
how  she  fidgets  and  spits  about  like  a  Catherine 
wheel. 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Confusion!  thieves!  robbers! 
we  are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  undone. 

Tony.  Wh^'s  the  matter,  what's  the  matter, 
mamma  1  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  any  of 
the  good  family  1 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau 
has  been  broken  open,  the  jewels  taken  out,  and 
I'm  undone. 

Tony.  Oh!  is  that  all?  Ha!  ha!  ha!  By  the 
laws,  I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my  life.  Ecod, 
I  thought  you  was  ruined  in  earnest,  ha!  ha!  iia! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Why,  boy,  I'm  ruined  in 
earnest.  My  bureau  has  been  broken  open,  and 
all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that:  ha!  ha!  ha!  stick  to  that. 
I'll  bear  witness,  you  know;  call  me  to  bear  wit- 


Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's 
precious,  the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall  be  ruined 
for  ever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they  are  gone,  and  I'm  to 
say  so. 

Mrs  Hardcastle.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear 
me.     They're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make  me  for 
to  laugh,  ha !  ha !  I  know  who  took  them  well 
enough,  ha !  ha !  ha ! 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  block- 
head, that  can't  tell  the  difference  between  jest 
and  earnest?     I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest,  booby. 

Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right;  you  must  be 
in  a  bitter  passion,  and  then  nobody  will  suspect 
either  of  us.     I'll  bear  witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross- 
grained  brute,  that  won't  hear  me  ?  Can  you  bear 
witness  that  you're  no  better  than  a  fool  7  Was 
ever  poor  woman  so  beset  with  fools  on  one  hand, 
and  thieves  on  the  other  ? 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Bear  witness  again,  you 
blockhead  you,  and  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  room 
directly.  My  poor  niece,  what  will  become  of  her ! 
Do  you  laugh,  you  unfeeUng  brute,  as  if  you  en- 
joyed my  distress  1 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster? 
I'll  teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

[He  runs  off,  she  follows  him. 

Enter  MISS  HARDCASTLE  and  MAID. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  What  an  unaccountable  crea- 
ture is  that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them  to  the 
house  as  an  inn,  ha !  ha !  I  don't  wonder  at  his 
impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the  young 
gentleman,  as  you  passed  by  in  your  present  dress,  I  ring. 


asked  me  if  you  were  the  bar  maid.     He  nAmjo^ 
you  for  the  bar-maid,  madam. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  he  ?  Then  as  I  live  I'la 
resolved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me.  Pim- 
ple, how  do  you  like  my  present  dress?  Don't 
you  think  I  look  something  like  Cherry  in  the 
Beaux  Stratagem? 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every  lady 
wears  in  the  country,  but  when  she  visits  or  re- 
ceives company. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  are  you  sure  he  doe* 
not  remember  my  face  or  person  ? 

Maid.  Certain  of  it. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  vow  I  thought  so;  for 
though  we  spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet  his' 
fears  were  such  that  he  never  once  looked  up  during 
the  interview.  Indeed,  if  he  had,  my  bonnet  would 
have  kept  him  from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keeping  him 
in  his  mistake  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be 
seen,  and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a  girl 
ho  brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I  shall  per- 
haps make  an  acquaintance,  and  that's  no  small 
victory  gained  over  one  who  never  addresses  any 
but  the  wildest  of  our  sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is 
to  take  my  gentleman  off  his  guard,  and  like  an 
invisible  champion  of  romance,  examine  the  giant's 
force  before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  act  your  part, 
and  disguise  your  voice  so  that  he  may  mistake 
that,  as  he  has  already  mistaken  your  person? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I 
have  got  the  true  bar  cant — Did  your  honour  call  ? 
— Attend  the  Lion  there. — Pipes  and  tobacco  for 
the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has  been  outrageous  this 
half  hour. 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.     But  he's  here. 

[Exit  Maid. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  every  part  of  the' 
house.  I  have  scarce  a  moment's  repose.  If  I  go* 
to  the  best  room,  there  1  find  my  host  and  his 
story;  if  I  fly  to  the  gallery,  there  we  have  my 
hostess  with  her  courtesy  down  to  the  ground.  I 
have  at  last  got  a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for 
recollection.  [  Walks  and  mtises. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  you  call,  sir  ?  Did  your 
honour  call  ? 

Marlow  [mvsing].  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle,- 
she's  too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Did  your  honour  call  ? 

[She  still  places  herself  before  him,  he 
turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child.  [Musing.]  Besides,  from 
the  glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she  squints. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I'm  stwe,  sir^  I  heard  the  beli 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


209 


Mar  low.  No,  no.  \Mv^ing.]  I  have  pleased  my 
father,  however,  by  coming  down,  and  I'll  to-mor- 
row please  myiseif  by  returning. 

[  Taking  out  his  tablets,  and  perusing. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman 
called,  sir? 

Marlow.  I  tell  you  no. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  1  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir. 
We  have  such  a  parcel  of  servants  ! 

Marlow.  N(J,  no,  I  tell  you.  [Looks  full  in  her 
face.]  Yes,  child,  I  think  1  did  call.  1  wanted — 
1  wanted — 1  vow,  child,  you  are  vastly  handsome. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one 
ashamed. 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  malicious 
eye.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call.  Have  you 
got  any  of  your-^a — what  d'ye  call  it  in  the 
house? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  sir ;  we  have  been  out  of 
that  these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  I  find  to 
very  little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should  call  for  a 
taste,  just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the  nectar  of  your 
Ups ;  perhaps  1  might  be  disappointed  in  that  too. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Nec-tar!  nectar!  That's  a 
liquor  there's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French, 
I  suppose.     We  keep  no  French  wines  here,  sir. 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  assure  you. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  its  odd  I  should  not 
know  it.  We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in  this  house, 
and  I  have  lived  here  these  eighteen  years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years!  Why  one  would 
think,  child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you  was  born. 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  O!  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my 
age.  They  say  women  and  music  should  never 
be  dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance  you  can't  be 
much  above  forty.  [Approaching.]  Yet  nearer 
I  don't  think  so  much.  [Approaching.]  By 
coming  close  to  some  women,  they  look  younger 
still ;  but  when  :ve  come  very  close  indeed, 

[Attempting  to  kiss  her. 

Miss  Hardca  tie.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance. 
One  would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's  age 
as  they  do  'norses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

MarloWi  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  extremely 
ill.  If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance,  how  is  it 
possible  you  and  I  can  ever  be  acquainted? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  who  wants  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  you?  1  want  no  such  acqisaint- 
ance,  not  I.  I'm  sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss 
Hardcastle",  that  was  here  awhile  ago,  in  this  ob- 
stropalous  manner.  I'll  warrarrt  me,  before  her 
you  looked  dashed,  and  kept  bowing  to  the 
ground,  and  talked  for  all  the  world  as  if  you 
were  before  a  Justice  of  Peace. 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad,  she  has  hit  it,  sure 
enough!     [To  her.]    In  awe  of  her,  child?    Ha! 


ha!  ha!  A  mere  awkward  squinting  thing ;  no, 
no.  I  find  you  don't  know  me.  I  laughed  and 
rallied  her  a  little;  but  1  was  unwilling  to  be  too 
severe.     Noj  I  could  not  be  too  severe,  curse  me ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  O  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favour- 
ite, I  find,  among  the  ladies? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favourite.  And- 
yet,  hang  me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find  in  me  to 
follow.  At  the  ladies'  club  in  towiV  I'm  called 
their  agreeable  Rattle.  Rattle,  child;  is  riot  my 
real  name,  but  one  I'm  known  by.  My  name  is 
Solomons — Mr.  Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your  ser- 
vice; [Offering  to  salute  her. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Hold,  sir ;  you  are  introduc- 
ing me  to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And  you'ro 
so  great  a  favourite  there,  yoti  say  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Man- 
trap, Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of  Sligd, 
Mrs.  Langhoirns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  and 
your  humble  servant,  keep  up  the  spirit  of  the 
place. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then'  it  is  a  very  merry 
place,  I  suppose? 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  supp6r,  wine, 
and  old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle, 
ha!  ha!  ha! 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad !  I  don't  quite  like  this 
chit.  She  looks  kndwing,  methinks.  You  laugh, 
child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think 
what  time  they  all  have  for  minding  their  work  or 
their  family. 

Marlow  [aside].  All's  well ;  she  don't  laugh  at' 
me.     [To  her.]    Do  you  ever  work  child? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a 
screen  or  a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what  carr 
bear  witness  to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso !  then  you  must  show  me  your 
embroidery.  I  embroider  and  draw  patterns  ray- 
self  a  little.  If  you  want  a  judge  d"  your  work,  you 
must  apply  to  me.  [Seizing  her  hand. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  but  the  colours  do  not 
look  well  by  candle -light.  You  shall  see  all  in  the 
morning.  {Struggling. 

Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ?  Such 
beauty  fires  beyond  the  power  of  resistance. — 
Pshaw!  the  father  here?  My  old  luck:  I  never 
nicked  seven  that  I  did  not  throw  ames  ace  Ihree 
times  following.  [Exit  Marlow. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE;  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Hardcastle.  So,  madam.  So  I  find  this  is  youi* 
modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer,  that 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  only  adored 
at  humble  distance.  Kate,  Kate,  art  thoil  not 
ashamed  to  deceive  your  father  so  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa. 


aio 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


but  he's  still  the  modest  man  I  first  took  liim  for ; 
you'll  be  convinced  of  it  as  well  as  I. 

IlardcasUe.  By  the  hand  of  my  body  I  believe 
his  im[)udence  is  infectious!  Didn't  I  see  him 
seize  your  hand?  Didn't  I  see  him  haul  you 
about  like  a  milk-maid?  And  now  you  talk  of 
his  respect  and  his  modesty,  forsooth! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you 
<if  his  modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults  that 
will  pass  off  with  time,  and  the  virtues  that  will 
iiTii)rove  with  age,  I  hope  you'll  forgive  him. 

Hardcastle.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one 
run  mad !  I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced.  1  am 
convinced.  He  has  scarce  been  three  hours  in 
the  house,  and  he  has  already  encroached  on  all 
my  prerogatives.  You  may  like  his  impudence, 
and  call  it  modesty;  but  my  son-in-law,  madam, 
must  have  very  different  qualifications. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to 
convince  you. 

Hardcastle.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time, 
for  I  have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this  very 
hour. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Give  me  that  hour  then,  and 
I  hope  to  satisfy  you. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But 
I'll  have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  All  fair 
and  open,  do  you  mind  me. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever 
found  that  I  considered  your  commands  as  my 
pride ;  for  your  kindness  is  such,  that  my  duty  as 
yet  has  been  my  inchnation.  [^Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 
Enter  HASTINGS  and  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me :  Sir  Charles  Mar- 
low  expected  here  this  night!  Where  have  you 
had  your  information  1 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it.  I  just 
saw  his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in  which  he  tells 
him  he  intends  setting  out  a  few  hours  after  his 
son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must  be 
completed  before  he  arrives.  He  knows  me ;  and, 
should  he  find  me  here,  would  discover  my  name, 
and  perhaps  my  designs,  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe? 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to  Mar- 
low,  who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage.  In  the 
mean  time  I'll  go  to  prepare  matters  for  our  elope- 
ment. I  have  had  the  'Squire's  promise  of  a  fresh 
pair  of  horses ;  and  if  I  should  not  see  him  again, 
wiii  write  him  further  directions.  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  Well!  success  attend  you.    In 


the  mean  time  I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with  the  oW 
pretence  of  a  violent  passion  for  my  cousin. 

\Exit. 

Enter  MARLOW,  followed  by  a  Servant. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could  m'ean 
by  sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as  a  casket  to 
keep  for  him,  when  he  knows  the  only  place  1 
have  is  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door. 
Have  you  deposited  the  casket  with  the  landlady, 
as  I  ordered  you?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  own 
hands? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honour. 

Marlow.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did  she? 

Servant.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe 
enough;  she  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it?  and  she 
said  she  had  a  great  mind  to  make  me  give  an  ac- 
count of  myself  [Exit  Servant. 

Marlow.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  They're  safe,  how- 
ever. What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings  have 
we  got  amongst!  This  little  bar-maid  though 
runs  in  my  head  most  strangely,  and  drives  out 
the  absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of  the  family.  She's 
mine,  she  must  be  mine,  or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  Bless  me !  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  her 
that  I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.     Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits  too! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George!  Crown  me, 
shadow  me  with  laurels !  Well,  George,  after  all, 
we  modest  fellows  don't  want  for  success  among 
the  women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But  what 
success  has  your  honour's  modesty  been  crovsrned 
with  now,  that  it  grows  so  insolent  upon  us? 

Marlow.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting,  brisk, 
lovely,  little  thing,  that  runs  about  the  house  with 
a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle  ? 

Hastings.  Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Marlow.  She's  mine,  you  rogue  you.  Such 
fire,  such  motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips — but,  egad! 
she  would  not  let  me  kiss  them  though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  so  sure,  so  very  sure  of 
her? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing  me 
her  work  above  stairs,  and  I  am  to  approve  the 
pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go  about 
to  rob  a  woman  of  her  honour  ? 

Marlow.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  We  all  know  the 
honour  of  the  bar-maid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  intend 
to  rob  her,  take  my  word  for  it;  there's  nothing  in 
this  house  I  shan't  honestly  pay  for. 

Hastings.  I  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the  last 
man  in  the  world  that  would  attempt  to  corrupt  it. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


211 


Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of  the 
casket  I  sent  you  to  lock  up?  It's  in  safety  1 

Marhw.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  1  have 
taken  care  of  it.  But  how  could  you  think  the 
seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door  a  place  of  safe- 
ty? Ah!  numskull!  I  have  taken  better  precau- 
tions for   you   than  you  did    for   yourself 1 

have 

Hastings.     "What  1 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to  keep 
for  you. 

Hastings.     To  the  landlady ! 

Marlow.     The  landlady. 

Hastings.    You  did  ? 

Marlow.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable  for  its 
forthcoming,  you  know. 

Hastings.  YeSj  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a  wit- 
tess.  » 

Marlow.  Wasn't  I  right  1  I  believe  you'll  allow 
Jhat  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occasion^ 

Hastings  [aside].  He  must  not  see  my  uneasi- 
ness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted  though, 
methinks.     Sure  nothing  has  happened  7 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in  better 
spirits  in  all  my  life.  And  so  you  left  it  with  the 
landlady,  who,  no  doubt,  very  readily  undertook 
the  charge. 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily.  For  she  not  only 
kept  the  casket,  but,  through  her  great  precaution, 
was  going  to  keep  the  messenger  too.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hastings.  He!  he!  he!   They're  safe,  however. 

Marlow.  As  a  guinea  in  a  misers  purse. 

Hastings  [aside].  So  now  all  hopes  of  fortune 
are  at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off  without  it. 
[To him.]  Well,  Charles,  I'll  leave  you  to  your 
meditations  on  the  pretty  bar-maid,  and,  he !  he ! 
he !  may  you  be  as  successful  for  yourself  as  you 
have  been  for  me !  [Exit. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George:  I  ask  no  more, 
Halhalha! 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle.  J  ~}  longer  know  my  own  house. 
^is  turned  all  topsy-turvy.  His  servants  have  got 
erunk  already.  I'll  bear  it  no  longer;  and  yet, 
horn  my  respect  for  his  father,  I'll  be  calm.  [  To 
him.]  Mr.  Marlow,  your  servant.  I'm  your  very 
humble  servant.  [Bowing  low. 

Marloio.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  [Aside.] 
What's  to  be  the  wonder  now? 

Hardcastle.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible, 
sir,  that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  welcome 
than  your  father's  son,  sir.     I  hope  you  think  so? 

Marlow.  1  do  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't  want 
much  entreaty.  I  generally  make  my  father's  son 
welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hardcastle.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir. 
But  though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  conduct, 


that  of  your  servants  is  insufferable.  Their  man- 
ner of  drinking  is  setting  a  very  bad  example  in 
this  house,  1  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir,  that  is  no 
fault  of  mine.  If  they  don't  drink  as  they  ought, 
they  are  to  blame.  I  ordered  them  not  to  spare  the 
cellar.  1  did,  I  assure  you*  [  To  the  side-scene.] 
Here,  let  one  of  my  servants  come  up.  [  To  him.] 
My  positive  directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink 
myself,  they  should  make  up  for  my  deficiencies 
below. 

Hardcastle.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for  what 
they  do !  I'm  satisfied ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You  shall 
hear  from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter  SERVANT,  drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy!  Come  forward,  sirrah! 
What  were  my  orders  ?  Were  you  not  told  to  drink 
freely,  and  call  for  what  you  thought  fit,  for  the 
good  of  the  house  ? 

Hardcastle  [aside].  I  begin  to  lose  my  patience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honour,  liberty  and  Fleet- 
street  for  ever!  Though  I'm  but  a  servant,  I'm  as 
good  as  another  man.  I'll  drink  for  no  man  before 
supper,  sir,  damme !  Good  Uquor  will  sit  upon  a 
good  supper,  but  a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon — 
[hickuping] — upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Marlow.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fellow  is 
as  drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I  don't  know 
what  you'd  have  more,  unless  you'd  have  the  poor 
devil  soused  in  a.  beer-barrel. 

Hardcastle.  Zounds !  he'll  drive  me  distracted, 
if  I  contain  myself  any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow.  Sir ; 
I  have  submitted  to  your  insolence  for  more  than 
four  hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood  of  its  coming  to 
an  end.  I'm  now  resolved  to  be  master  here,  sir,  and 
I  desire  that  you  and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave 
my  house  directly. 

-  Marlow.    Leave  your  house ! Sure  you  jest, 

my  good  friend !  What  ?  when  I'm  doing  what  I 
can  to  please  you. 

Hardcastle.  1  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me ; 
so  I  desire  you'll  leave  my  hou^e. 

Marlow.'  Sure  you  can  not  be  serious  1  at  this 
time  o'  night,  and  such  a  night  ?  You  only  mean 
to  banter  me. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious!  and 
now  that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this  house 
is  mine,  sir  j  this  house  is  mine,  and  I  command 
you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow^  Ha!  ha!  ha!  A  puddle  in  a  storm.  I 
shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you.  [In  a  serious  tone.] 
This  your  house,  fellow !  It's  my  house.  This  is 
my  house.  Mine,  while  I  choose,  to  stay.  What 
right  have  you  to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir?  I 
never  met  witn  such  impudence,  curse  me ;  never 
in  my  whole  life  before. 

Hardcastle.    Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did. 


212 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


To  come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he  likes,  to 
turn  me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to  insult  the  famil}', 
to  order  his  servants  to  get  drunk,  and  then  to  tell 
me,  "  This  house  is  mine,  sir."  By  all  that's  im- 
pudent it  makes  me  laugh.  Ha !  ha!  ha!  Pray, 
Sir,  [bantering]  as  you  take  the  house,  what  think 
you  of  taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture?  There's  a 
pair  of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there's  a  fire-screen, 
and  here's  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed  bellows;  perhaps 
you  may  take  a  fancy  to  them. 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir ;  bring  me  your 
bill,  and  let's  have  no  more  words  about  it. 

Hardcastle,  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too.  What 
think  you  of  the  Rake's  Progress  for  your  own 
apartment  1 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say ;  and  I'll  leave 
you  and  your  infernal  house  directly. 

Hardcastle.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table  that 
you  may  see  your  face  in. 
Marlov?.  My  bill,  1  say. 

Hcrdcastle.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair  for  your 
own  particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty  meal. 

Marloio.  Zounds !  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say,  and 
let's  hear  no  more  on't. 

Hardcastle.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  expect  a  well- 
bred  modest  man  as  a  visiter  here,  but  now  I  find 
him  no  better  than  a  coxcomb  and  a  bully ;  but  he 
will  be  down  here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more 
of  it.  [Exit. 

Marlow.  How's  this!  Sure  I  have  not  mistaken 
the  house.  Every  thing  looks  like  an  inn ;  the 
servants  cry  coming;  the  attendance  is  awkward  ; 
the  bar  maid  too  to  attend  us.  But  she's  here,  and 
will  further  inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child. 
A  word  with  you. 

Enter  MISS  HARDCASTLE. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in 
a  hurry,  [aside.]  I  believe  he  begins  to  find  out 
his  mistake.  But  it's  too  soon  quite  to  undeceive 
him.  ' 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  question. 
What  are  you,  and  what  may  your  business  in  this 
house  be  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  relation  of  the  family,  sir. 

Marlow.  What,  a  poor  relation? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir;  a  poor  relation  ap- 
pointed to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the  guests 
want  nothing  in  my  power  to  give  them. 

Marlow.  That  is,  you  act  as  bar-maid  of  the  inn. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Inn !  O  la what  brought 

that  in  your  head?  One  of  the  best  families  in  the 
county  keep  an  inn — Ha!  ha!  ha!  old  Mr.  Hard- 
castle's  house  an  inn ! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house.  Is  this  Mr. 
Hardcastle's  house,  child  ? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  should 
it  ^7 


Marlow.  So  then,  all's  out,  and  I  have  been 
damnably  imposed  on.  O  confound  my  stupid 
head,  I  shall  be  laughed  at  over  the  whole  town.  I 
shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricature  in  all  the  print- 
shops.  The  Dullissivw-Maccaroni.  To  mis- 
take this  house  of  all  others  for  an  inn,  and  my 
father's  old  friend  for  an  innkeeper !  What  a  swag- 
gering puppy  must  he  take  me  for  ?  What  a  silly 
puppy  do  1  find  myself.  There,  again,  may  I  bo 
hang'd,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you  for  the  bar- 
maid. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  in  my  behaviour  to  put  me  on  a 
level  with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But  1 
was  in  for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could  not  help 
making  you  a  subscriber.  My  stupidity  saw  every 
thing  the  wrong  way.  I  mistook  your  assiduity 
for  assurance,  and  your  simplicity  for  allurement. 
But  it's  over — This  house  I  no  more  show  my 
face  in. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  no- 
thing to  disoblige  you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry 
to  atTront  any  gentleman  who  has  been  so  polite, 
and  said  so  many  civil  things  to  me.  I'm  sure  I 
should  be  sorry  [pretending  to  ciy]  if  he  left  the 
family  upon  my  account.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry 
people  said  any  thing  amiss,  since  I  have  no  fortune 
but  my  character. 

Marlow  [aside].  By  Heaven !  she  weeps.  This 
is  the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever  had  from  a 
modest  woman,  and  it  touches  me.  [To  her.] 
Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl;  you  are  the  only  part 
of  the  family  I  leave  with  reluctance.  But  to  be 
plain  with  you,  the  difference  of  our  birth,  fortune, 
and  education,  makes  an  honourable  connexion 
impossible;  and  I  can  never  harbour  a  thought  of 
seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my  honour,  of 
bringing  ruin  upon  one,  whose  only  fault  was  be- 
ing too  lovely. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [aside].  Generous  man!  1  now 
begin  to  admire  him..  [To  him.]  But  I  am  sure 
my  family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hardcastle's;  and 
though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great  misfortune  to  a 
contented  mind  ;  and,  until  this  moment,  I  never 
thought  that  it  was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  simplicity  ? 
Miss  Hardcastle.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  dis- 
tance from  one  that,  if  I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I 
would  give  it  all  to. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  simplicity  bewitches  me, 
so  that  if  I  stay,  I'm  undone.  I  must  make  one 
bold  effort,  and  leave  her.  [  To  her.]  Your  par- 
tiality in  my  favour,  my  dear,  touches  me  most  sen- 
sibly ;  and  were  I  to  live  for  myself  alone,  I  could 
easily  fix  my  choice.  But  I  owe  too  much  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  too  much  to  the  authority  ol 
a  father ;  so  that — I  can  scarcely  speak  it — it  affect* 
me.    Farewell.  [Exit, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


213 


Miss  Hardcastle.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit 
till  now.  He  shall  not  go,  if  I  have  power  or  art  to 
detain  him.  I'll  still  preserve  the  character  in 
which  I  stooped  to  conquer^  but  will  undeceive  my 
papa,  who,  perhaps,  may  laugh  him  out  of  his 
resolution.  {Exit. 

Enter  TONY,  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves  the  next 
time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She  has  got  the 
jewels  again,  that's  a  sure  thing;  but  she  believes 
it  was  all  a  mistake  of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But  my  dear  cousin,  sure  you 
won't  forsake  us  in  this  distress  7  If  she  in  the  least 
suspects  that  I  am  going  off,  I  shall  certainly  be 
locked  up,  or  sent  to  my  aunt  Pedigree's  which  is 
ten  times  worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are  damn- 
ed bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do?  I  have  got 
you  a  pair  of  horses  that  will  fly  like  Whistle- 
jacket;  and  I'm  sure  you  can't  say  but  I  have  court- 
ed you  nicely  before  her  face.  Here  she  comes, 
we  must  court  a  bit  or  two  more,  for  fear  she 
should  suspect  us. 

[  They  retire,  and  seem  to  fondle. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered 
to  be  sure.  But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take of  the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy,  however, 
till  they  are  fairly  married,  and  then  let  her  keep 
her  own  fortune.  But  what  do  I  see  7  fondling 
together  as  I'm  alive.  I  never  saw  Tony  so  spright- 
ly before.  Ah !  have  I  caught  you  my  pretty 
doves  7  What !  billing,  exchanging  stolen  glances 
and  broken  murmurs  7  Ah ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we  grumble 
a  little  now  and  then  to  be  sure.  But  there's  no 
love  lost  between  us. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony, 
upon  the  flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to  give  us 
more  of  his  company  at  home.  Indeed,  he  shan't 
leave  us  any  more.  It  won't  leave  us,  cousin  To- 
ny, will  it  7 

Tony.  O I  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd  sooner 
leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than  leave  you  when  you 
smile  upon  one  so.  Your  laugh  makes  you  so  be- 
coming. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin !  Who  can  help 
admiring  that  natural  humour,  that  pleasant,  broad, 
red,  thoughtless, — [patting  his  cheek]  ah !  it's  a 
Dold  face. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Pretty  innocence ! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin  Con's 
hazel  eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fingers,  that  she 
twists  this  way  and  that  over  the  haspicolls,  like  a 
parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  he  would  charm  the  bird 


from  the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before.  My 
boy  takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr.  Lumpkin,  ex- 
actly. The  jewels,  my  dear  Con,  shall  be  yours 
incontinently.  You  shall  have  them.  Isn't  he  a 
sweet  boy,  my  dear 7  You  shall  be  married  to- 
morrow, and  we'll  put  ofl^the  rest  of  his  education, 
like  Dr.  Drowsy' s  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 

Enter  DIGGORY. 

Dig  gory.  Where's  the  'Squire  7  I  have  got  a  let- 
ter for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads  all  my 
letters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into  your 
own  hands. 

Tony.  Who  does  it  come  from  7 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  o'  the 
letter  itself. 

Tony.  I  could  wish  to  know  though. 

[  Turning  the  letter  and  gazing  on  it. 

Miss  Neville  [aslde\.  Undone!  undone!  A  let- 
ter to  him  from  Hasungs.  I  know  the  hand.  If 
my  aunt  sees  it,  we  are  ruined  for  ever.  I'll  keep 
her  employed  a  little  if  I  can.  [  To  Mrs.  Hard- 
castle.'] But  I  have  not  told  you,  madam,  of  my 
cousin's  smart  answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow. 
We  so  laughed — You  must  know,  madam — This 
way  a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us. 

[  They  confer. 

Tony  [still  gazing].  A  damned  cramp  piece  of 
penmanship,  as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  I  can  read 
your  print  hand  very  well.  But  here  there  are 
such  handles,  and  shanks,  and  dashes,  that  one 
can  scarce  tell  the  head  from  the  tail.  "  To  An- 
thony Lumpkin,  esquire."  It's  very  odd,  I  can 
read  the  outside  of  my  letters,  where  my  own  name 
is,  well  enough.  But  when  I  come  to  open  it,  it's 
all buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard ;  for  the  in- 
side of  the  letter  is  always  the  cream  of  the  cor- 
respondence. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Very  well,  very 
well.  And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the  phi- 
losopher. 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam;  but  you  must  hear 
the  rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this  way,  or  he 
may  hear  us.  You'll  hear  how  he  puzzled  him 
again. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled 
now  himself,  methinks. 

Tony  [still  gazing].  A  damned  up  and  down 
hand,  as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor.  [Reading.] 
Dear  sir, — Ay,  that's  that.  Then  there's  an  M, 
and  a  T,  and  an  S,  but  whether  the  next  be  an 
izzard,  or  an  R,  confound  me,  I  can  not  tell. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  What's  that,  my  dear?  Can 
I  give  you  any  assistance  7 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it.  No- 
body reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I.    [  Twitch^ 


214 


GOLDSMITH  b  WORKS. 


ing  the  letter  from  him.]    Do  you  know  who  it 
is  from  1 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Ginger,  the 
feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is.  [Pretending  to 
read.]  Dear  'Squire,  hoping  that  your'e  in  health, 
as  I  am  at  this  present.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the  gentlemen  of  the 

Goose-green  quite  out  of  feather.     The  odds 

um odd  battle um— -long  fighting — um 

— here,  here,  it's  all  about  cocks  and  fighting;  it's 
of  no  consequence,  here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up. 
[  Thrusting  the  crumpled  letter  upon  him.] 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the  conse- 
quence in  the  world.  I  would  not  lose  the  rest  of 
it  for  a  guinea.  Here,  mother,  do  you  make  it 
out.     Of  no  consequence ! 

[Giving  Mrs.  Hardcastle  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  How's  this!  [Reads.]  *'  Dear 
'Squire,  I'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville,  with  a 
post-chaise  and  pair  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
but  I  find  my  horses  yet  unable  to  perform  the 
journey.  I  expect  you'll  assist  us  with  a  pair  of 
fresh  horses,  as  you  promised.  DispeUich  is  neces- 
sary, as  the  hag  (ay,  the  hag)  your  mother  will 
otherwitse  suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings."  Grant 
me  patience:  I  shall  run  distracted!  My  rage 
chokes  me. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  suspend 
your  resentment  for  a  few  moments,  and  not  im- 
pute to  me  any  impertinence,  or  sinister  design, 
that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [courtesying  very  low].  Fine 
spoken  madamj  you  are  most  miraculously  polite 
and  engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink  of  courtesy 
and  circumspection,  madam.  [Changing  her 
tone.]  And  you,  you  great  ill-fashioned  oaf,  with 
scarce  sense  enough  to  keep  your  mouth  shut : 
were  you,  too,  joined  against  me?  But  I'll  de- 
feat all  your  plots  in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  ma- 
dam, since  you  have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses 
ready,  it  would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So, 
if  you  please,  instead  of  running  away  with  your 
spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to  run  off  with 
me.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree  will  keep  you  se- 
cure, I'll  warrant  me.  You  too,  sir,  may  mount 
your  horse,  and  guard  us  upon  the  way.  Here, 
Thomas,  Roger,  Diggory !  I'll  show  you,  that  I  wish 
you  better  than  you  do  yourselves,  [Exit. 

Miss  Neville.  So  now  I'm  completely  ruined. 

Tony.  Ay,  that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  expected 
from  being  connected  with  such  a  stupid  fool, — and 
after  all  the  nods  and  signs  I  made  him  7 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your  own 
cleverness,  and  not  my  stupidity,  that  did  your 
busmess.  You  were  so  nice  and  so  busy  with  your 
Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens,  that  I  thought  you 
could  never  be  making  believe. 


Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant,  that 
you  have  shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed  us.  Was 
this  well  done,  young  gentleman  1 

Tony.  Here's  another.  Ask  miss  there,  who 
betrayed  you?  Ecod,  it  was  her  doing,  not  mine. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  So  I  have  been  finely  used  here  among 
you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven  into  ill-man 
ners,  despised,  insulted,  laughed  at. 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have  old  Bed- 
lam broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gentleman 
to  whom  we  all  owe  every  obligation. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him  7  a  mere  boy, 
an  idiot,  whose  ignorance  and  age  are  a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby,  that 
would  but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice 
enough  to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our  embar- 
rassments. 

Hastings.     An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mischief. 

Tony.  Baw !  dam'me,  but  I'll  fight  you  both, 
one  after  the  other with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resentment. 
But  your  conduct,  Mr,  Hastings,  requires  an  ex- 
planation :  you  knew  of  my  mistakes,  yet  would 
not  undeceive  me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own  dis- 
appointments, is  this  a  time  for  explanations?  It 
is  not  friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. . 

Marlow.     But,  sir 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept  on 
your  mistake,  till  it  was  too  late  to  undeceive  you. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get  ready 
immediately,  madam.  The  horses  are  putting  to. 
Yo5r  hat  and  things  are  in  the  next  room.  We 
are  to  go  thirty  miles  before  morning. 

[Exit  Servant 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  well ;  I'll  come  presently. 

Marlow  [to  Hastings],  Was  it  well  done,  sir, 
to  assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous  ?  To  hang  me 
out  for  the  scorn  of  all  my  acquaintance  ?  Depend 
upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  expect  an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're  upon 
that  subject,  to  deliver  what  I  intrusted  to  yourself, 
to  the  care  of  another,  sir  ? 

Miss  Neville.  Mr,  Hastings.  Mr.  Marlow. 
Why  will  you  increase  my  distress  by  this  ground- 
less dispute  ?  I  implore,  I  entreat  you 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Your  cloak,  madam.  My  mistress  is 
impatient.  [Exit  Servant, 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


215 


Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray  be  pacified.  If  I 
;save  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  apprehension. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves,  madam. 
The  horses  are  waiting. 

Miss  Neville.  O,  Mr.  Marlow,  if  you  knew 
what  a  scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies  before 
me,  I  am  sure  it  would  convert  your  resentment 
into  pity. 

Marlow.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety  of  pas- 
sions, that  I  don't  know  what  I  do.  Forgive  me, 
madam.  George,  forgive  me.  You  know  my 
hasty  temper,  and  should  not  exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is  my 
only  excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if  you 
have  that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think,  that  I  am 
sure  you  have,  your  constancy  for  three  years  will 
but  increase  the  happiness  of  our  future  connexion. 
If 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [within].  Miss  Neville.  Con- 
stance, why  Constance,  I  say. 

Miss  Neville.  I'm  coming.  Well,  constancy, 
remember,  constancy  is  the  word.  [Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart !  how  can  I  support  this  ? 
To  be  so  near  happiness,  and  such  happiness ! 

Marlow  [to  Tony],  You  see  now,  young  gen- 
tleman, the  effects  of  your  folly.  What  might  be 
amusement  to  you,  is  here  disappointment,  and 
even  distress. 

Tony  [from  a  reverie].  Ecod,  I  have  hit  it : 
It's  here.  Your  hands.  Yours  and  yours,  my 
poor  Sulky. — My  boots  there,  ho! — Meet  me  two 
hours  hence  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden ;  and  if 
you  don't  find  Tony  Lumpkin  a  more  good-na- 
tured fellow  than  you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you 
leave  to  take  my  best  horse,  and  Bet  Bouncer  into 
the  bargain.     Come  along.     My  boots,  ho ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 
Enter  HASTINGS  and  SERVANT. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss  Ne- 
ville drive  off,  you  say  1 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honour.  They  went  off  in 
a  post-coach,  and  the  young  'Squire  went  on  horse- 
back.    They're  thirty  miles  off  by  this  time. 

Hastings.  Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  arrived. 
He  and  the  old  gentleman  of  the  house  have  been 
laughing  at  Mr.  Marlow's  mistake  this  half  hour. 
They  are  coming  this  way. 

Hastings.  Then  I  must  not  be  seen.  So  now 
to  my  fruitless  appointment  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden.     This  is  about  the  time. 


Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  HARDCAOTLE. 

Hardcastle.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  peremptory  tone 
in  which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  commands ! 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I  sup- 
pose he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hardcastle.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  some- 
thing in  me  above  a  common  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook  you  for 
an  uncommon  innkeeper;  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to 
think  of  any  thing  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear  friend, 
this  union  of  our  families  will  nijike  our  personal 
friendships  hereditary,  and  though  my  daughter's 
fortune  is  but  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of  for- 
tune to  me  1  My  son  is  possessed  of  more  than  a 
competence  already,  and  can  want  nothing  but  a 
good  and  virtuous  girl  to  share  his  happiness,  and 
increase  it.  If  they  like  each  other,  as  you  say 
they  do 

Hardcastle.  If,  man !  I  tell  you  they  do  like  each 
other.     My  daughter  as  good  as  told  me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter  them- 
selves, you  know. 

Hardcastle.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the 
warmest  manner  myself;  and  here  he  comes  to  put 
you  out  of  your  i/s,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  I  come,  sir,  once  more,  to  ask  pardon 
for  my  strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce  reflect  on 
my  insolence  without  confusion. 

Hardcastle.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too 
gravely.  An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with  my 
daughter  will  set  all  to  rights  again.  She'll  never 
like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of  her  ap- 
probation. 

Hardcastle.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr. 
Marlow ;  if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have  something 
more  than  approbation  thereabouts.  You  take  me7 

Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  happiness, 

Hardcastle.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and 
know  what's  what  as  well  as  you  that  are  young- 
er. I  know  what  has  passed  between  you ;  but 
mum. 

Marlow^  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  between 
us  but  the  most  profound  respect  on  my  side,  and 
the  most  distant  reserve  on  hers.  You  don't  think 
sir,  that  my  impudence  has  been  passed  on  all  the 
rest  of  the  family '? 

Hardcastle.  Impudence  !  No,  I  don't  say  that — 
not  quite  impudence — though  girls  like  to  be  play- 
ed with,  and  rumpled  a  httle  too,  sometimes.  But 
she  has  told  no  tales,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  1  never  gave  her  the  slightest  cause. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  well,  I  like  modesty  in  its 
place  well  enough.    But  this  is  over-acting,  youngs 


»il6 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


gentleman.    You  may  be  open.    Your  father  and 

I  will  like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Marlow.  May  I  die,  sir,  if  I  ever 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you ;  and 

as  I'm  sure  you  like  her 

Marlow.  r)esar  sir — I  protest,  sir 

Hardcastle.     I  see  no  reason  why  you  should 

not  be  joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie  you. 

Marlow.  But  hear  me,  sir 

Hardcastle.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I 

admire  it;   every  moment's  delay  will  be  doing 

mischief,  so— r^ 


Marlow.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me  1  By  all 
that's  just  and  true,  I  never  gave  Miss  Hardcastle 
the  slightest  mark  of  my  attachment,  or  even  the 
most  distant  hint  to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We 
had  but  one  interview,  and  that  was  formal,  mod- 1  you  describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him  must  have 


Miss  Hardcastle.  As  most  professed  admirers 
do :  said  some  civil  things  of  my  face ;  talked  much 
of  his  want  of  merit,  and  the  greatness  of  mine  i 
mentioned  his  heart,  gave  a  short  tragedy  speech, 
and  ended  with  pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced  in- 
deed. I  know  his  conversation  among  women  to 
be  modest  and  submissive :  this  forward  canting 
ranting  manner  by  no  means  describe  him ;  and  I 
am  confident,  he  never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then,  what,  sir,  if  I  should 
convince  you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity?  if  you 
and  my  papa,  in  about  half  an  hour,  will  place 
yourselves  behind  that  screen,  you  shall  hear  him 
declare  his  passion  to  me  in  person. 

Sir  Charles.  Agreed.     And  if  I  find  him  what 


est,  and  uninteresting. 

Hardcastle  [aside].  This  fellow's  formal  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her  hand, 
or  made  auy  protestations  7 

Marlow.  As  Heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came  down 
in  obedience  to  your  commands ;  I  saw  the  lady 
without  emotion,  and  parted  without  reluctance.  I 
hope  you'll  exact  no  further  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor 
prevent  me  from  leaving  a  house  in  which  1  suffer 
so  many  mortifications.  {Exit. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of  sin- 
cerity with  which  he  parted. 

Hardcastle.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  deUbe- 
rate  intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and  honour 
upon  his  truth.  • 

Hardcastle.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I 
would  stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  MISS  HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer  j 
us  sincerely  and  without  reserve :  has  Mr.  Marlow 
made  you  any  professions  of  love  and  affection  1 

Miss  Hardcastle.  The  question  is  very  abrupt, 
sir !  But  since  you  require  unreserved  sincerity,  I 
think  he  has. 

Hardcastle  \to  Sir  Charles].  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you  and 
my  son  had  more  than  one  interview  7 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  several, 

Hardcastle  \to  Sir  Charles].  You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  But  did  he  profess  any  attach- 
ment? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  A  lasting  one. 

Sir  Charles.  Did  he  talk  of  love? 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Much,  sir. 

Sir  Charles.  Amazing !  and  all  this  formally. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Formally. 

Hardcastle.  Now,  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are 
satisfied. 


an  end.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  And  if  you  don't  find  him 
what  I  describe — I  fear  my  happiness  must  never 
have  a  beginning.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  CHANGES  TO  THE  BACK  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 
Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I,  to  wait  here 
for  a  fellow  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in  morti- 
fying me.  He  never  intended  to  be  punctual,  and 
I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do  I  see?  It  is  he! 
and  perhaps  with  news  of  my  Constance. 

Enter  TONY,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.     My  honest  'Squire!     I  now  find 
you  a  man  of  your  word.     This  looks  like  friend- 
hip. 

Tony,  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best  friend 
you  have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew  but  all.  This 
riding  by  night,  by  the  by,  is  cursedly  tiresome.  It 
has  shook  me  worse  than  the  basket  of  a  stage- 
coach. 

Hastings.  But  how?  where  did  you  leave  youi 
fellow-travellers?  Are  they  in  safety?  Are  they 
housed? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two  hours  and 
a  half  is  no  such  bad  driving.  The  poor  beasts 
have  smoked  for  it :  Rabbit  me,  ]>ut  I'd  rather  ride, 
forty  miles  after  a  fox  than  ten  with  such  varment. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left  the 
ladies?     I  die  with  impatience.  . 

Tony.  Left  them !  Why  where  should  I  leave 
them  but  where  I  found  them, 

Hastings.     This  is  a  riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this  then.  What's  that  goes 
round  the  house,  and  round  the  house,  and  never 
touches  the  house  ? 

Hastings.     I'm  still  astray, 

Tony.     Why,  that's  it,  mon.     I  have  led  them 


Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave,  madam  ?  astray.     By  jingo,  there's  not  a  pond  or  a  slougb 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONUUER. 


217 


within  five  miles  of  the  place  but  they  can  tell  the 
Caste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha!  ha !  ha !  1  understand:  you 
took  them  in  a  round,  while  they  supposed  them- 
selves going  forward,  and  so  you  have  at  last 
brought  them  home  again. 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them  down 
Feather -Bed-Lane,  where  we  stuck  fast  in  the 
mud. — 1  then  rattled  them  crack  over  the  stones  of 
Up-and-down  Hill. — I  then  introduced  them  to 
the  gibbet  on  Heavy-Tree  Heath;  and  from  that, 
with  a  circumbendibus,  1  fairly  lodged  them  in  the 
horse-pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 
Hastings.  But  no  accident,  I  hope  1 
Tony.  No,  no,  only  mother  is  confoundedly 
trightened.  She  thinks  herself  forty  miles  off. 
She's  sick  of  the  journey;  and  the  cattle  can 
scarce  crawl.  So  if  your  own  horses  be  ready, 
you  may  whip  off  with  cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound 
that  no  soul  here  can  budge  a  foot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be 
grateful ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble  'Squire. 
Just  now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and  run  me  through 
the  guts.  Damn  your  way  of  fighting,  I  say. 
After  we  take  a  knock  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
we  kiss  and  be  friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me 
through  the  guts,  then  I  should  be  dead,  and  you 
might  go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must 
hasten  to  relieve  Miss  Neville :  if  you  keep  the 
old  lady  employed,  I  promise  to  take  care  of  the 
young  one. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes.  Va- 
nish !  [Exit  Hastings.]  She's  got  from  the  pond, 
and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like  a  mermaid. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 


Mrs.Hardcastle.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed !  Shook! 
Battered  to  death.  I  shall  never  survive  it.  That 
last  jolt,  that  laid  us  against  the  quickset  hedge, 
has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own 
fiiult.  You  would  be  for  running  away  by  night, 
\^ithout  knowing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I  wish  we  were  at  home 
again.  I  never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short 
a  journey.  Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned  in  a 
ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to  a  jelly,  and 
a^1^|ast  to  lose  our  way.  Whereabouts  do  you  think 
we  are,  Tony'? 

Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  come  upon 
CrackskuU  Common,  about  forty  miles  from  home. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  O  lud!  O  lud!  The  most 
notorious  spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only  want 
a  robbery  to  make  a  complete  night  on't. 

T'ony.  Don't  be  afrain,  mamma,  don't  be 
afraid.  Two  of  the  five  that  kept  here  are  hanged, 
and  the  other  three  may  not  find  us.     Don't  be  you. 


afraid. — Is  that  a  man  that's  galloping  behind  us? 
No;  it's  only  a  tree.— Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill 
me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  a  black  hat 
moving  behind  the  thicket? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.     Oh,  death ! 

Tony.  No;  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be  afraid, 
mamma,  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see  a 
man  coming  towards  us.  Ah !  I'm  sure  on't.  If 
he  perceives  us  we  are  undone. 

Tony  [a^de].  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's  un- 
lucky, come  to  take  one  of  his  night  walks.  [  To 
her].  Ah !  it's  a  highwayman  with  pistols  as  long 
as  my  arm.     A  damn'd  ill- looking  fellow. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Good  Heaven  defend  us !  He 
approaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that  thicket,  and 
leave  me  to  manage  him.  If  there  be  any  danger, 
I'll  cough,  and  cry  hem.  When  I  cough,  be  sure 
to  keep  close. 

[Mrs.  Hardcastle  hides  behind  a  tree  in 
the  back  scene. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hardcastle.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of 
people  in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that  you?  I 
did  not  expect  you  so  soon  back.  Are  your  mo- 
ther and  her  charge  in  safety  ? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedigree's. 
Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Ah,  death  I  I 
find  there's  danger. 

Hardcastle.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours;  sure 
that's  too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds  make 
short  journeys,  as  they  say.     Hem. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Sure  he'll  do 
the  dear  boy  no  harm. 

Hardcastle.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here;  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came. 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir.  I  was 
saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours  was  very  good 
going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure  it  was.  Hem.  1 
have  got  a  sort  of  cold  by  being  out  in  the  air. 
We'll  go  in  if  you  please.     Hem. 

Hardcastle.  But  if  you  talked  to  yourself  you 
did  not  answer  yourself  I'm  certain  I  heard  two 
voices,  and  am  resolved  [raising  his  voice]  to  find 
the  other  out. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [from  behind].  Oh !  he's 
coming  to  find  me  out.     Oh ! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  7 
Hem.  I'll  lay  down  my  life  for  the  trutii — hem — 
I'll  tell  you  all,  sir.  [Detaining  him. 

Hardcastle.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained.  I 
insist  on  seeing.     It's  in  vain  to  expect  I'll  believe 


S18 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Mrs.  Hardcastle  [running  forward  from  be- 
hind]. O  lutl !  he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  dar- 
ling! Here,  good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon 
me.  Take  my  money,  my  hfe,  but  spare  that  young 
gentleman ;  spare  my  child,  if  you  have  any  mercy. 
Hardcastle.  My  wife,  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  come  7  or  what  does  she  mean  7 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [kneeling].  Take  compassion 
on  us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our  money, 
our  watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare  our  lives.  We 
will  never  bring  you  to  justice,  indeed  've  won't, 
good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hardcastle.  1  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her 
senses.     What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive! 
My  fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear,  could 
have  expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this  frightful 
place,  so  far  from  home?  What  has  brought  you 
to  follow  us  7 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lostyour 
wits  7  So  far  from  home,  when  you  are  within  for- 
ty yards  of  your  own  door!  [To  him.]  This  is 
one  of  your  old  tricks,  you  graceless  rogue  you, 
[  To  her.]  Don't  you  know  the  gate  and  the  mul- 
berry tree;  and  don't  you  remember  the  horse- 
pond,  my  dear  7 

Mrs.  HardcoMle.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the 
horse-pond  as  long  as  1  live ;  I  have  caught  my 
death  in  it.  [  To  Tony.]  And  is  it  to  you,  you 
graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this 7  I'll  teach  you  to 
abuse  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says  you  have 
spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take  the  fruits  on't. 
Mrs.  Hardcastle.  I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off  the  Stage.     Exit. 
Hardcastle.   There's  morality,  however,  in  his 
reply.  "  [Exit. 

Enter  HASTINGS  and  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Constance,  why  will  you 
deliberate  thus?  If  we  delay  a  moment,  all  is  lost  for 
ever.  Pluck  up  a  little  resolution,  and  we  shall 
soon  be  out  of  the  reach  of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Neville.  I  find  it  impossible.  My  spirits  are 
so  sunk  with  the  agitations  I  have  suffered,  that  I 
am  unable  to  face  any  new  danger.  Two  or  three 
years'  patience  will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 

Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse  than 
inconstancy.  Let  us  fly,  my  charmer.  Let  us 
date  our  happiness  from  this  very  moment.  Perish 
fortune !  Love  and  content  will  increase  what  we 
possess  beyond  a  monarch's  revenue.  Let  me  pre- 
vail. 

Miss  Neville.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no.  Prudence 
once  more  comes  to  my  relief,  and  I  will  obey  its 
dictates.  In  the  moment  of  passion,  fortune  may 
be  despised,  but  it  ever  produces  a  lasting  repent- 
ance. I'm  resolved  to  apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's 
compassion  and  justice  for  redress. 


Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he  haa 
not  the  power  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and  upon 
that  I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you  per- 
sist, I  must  reluctantly  obey  you.          [Exeunt 

SCENE 'CHANGES. 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES  MARLOW  and  MISS  HARD. 
CASTLE. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in !  If  what 
you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find  a  guilty  son.  If 
what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall  then  lose  one  that,  of 
all  others,  I  most  wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  I  am  proud  of  your  approba- 
tion ;  and  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place  your- 
selves as  I  directed,  you  shall  hear  his  explicit  de- 
clarations.   But  he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father  and  keep  him  to 
the  appointment.  [Exit  Sir  Charles. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  Though  prepared  for  setting  out,  I 
come  once  more  to  take  leave ;  nor  did  I  till  this 
moment,  know  the  pain  I  feel  in  the  separation. 

Miss  Hardcastle  [in  her  own  natural  manner]. 
I  believe  these  sufferings  can  not  be  very  great,  sir, 
which  you  can  so  easily  remove.  A  day  or  two 
longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen  your  uneasiness,  by 
showing  the  little  value  of  what  you  think  proper 
to  regret. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  girl  every  moment  im- 
proves upon  me.  [  To  her.]  It  must  not  be,  madam. 
I  have  already  trifled  too  long  with  my  heart.  My 
very  pride  begins  to  submit  to  my  passion.  The 
disparity  of  education  and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a 
parent,  and  the  contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to 
lose  their  weight ;  and  nothing  can  restore  me  to 
myself  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Then  go,  sir:  I'll  urge  nothing 
more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family  be  as  good 
as  hers  you  came  down  to  visit,  and  my  education, 
I  hope,  not  inferior,  what  are  these  advantages 
without  equal  affluence  7  I  must  remain  contented 
with  the  slight  approbation  of  imputed  merit ;  I 
must  have  only  the  mockery  of  your  addresses, 
while  all  your  serious  aims  are  fixed  on  fortune. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE  and  SIR  CHARLES  MARLOW 

from  behind.  ^^ 

Sir  Charles.  Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hardcastle.  Ay,  ay  ;  make  no  noise.  I'll  en- 
gage my  Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  Heavens!  madam,  fortune  was 
ever  my  smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty  at 
first  caught  my  eye,  for  who  could  see  that  without 
emotion  7  But  every  moment  that  I  converse  with 
you,  steals  in  some  new  grace,  heightens  the  pic- 
ture, and  gives  it  stronger  expression.    AVhat  at 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONaUER. 


•2111 


first  seemed  rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined 
simplicity.  What  seemed  forward  assurance,  now 
strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous  innocence 
and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean?  He  amazes  me ! 

Hardcastle.  I  told  you  how  it  would  be.  Hush! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay,  madam, 
and  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of  my  father's  dis- 
cernment, when  he  sees  you,  to  doubt  his  approba- 
tion. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not, 
can  not  detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could  suffer 
a  connexion  in  which  there  is  the  smallest  room 
for  repentance  7  Do  you  think  I  would  take  the 
mean  advantage  of  a  transient  passion  to  load  you 
with  confusion?  Do  you  think  1  could  ever  relish 
that  happiness  which  was  acquired  by  lessening 
yours? 

Marlow.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have  no  hap- 
piness but  what's  in  your  power  to  grant  me !  Nor 
shall  1  ever  feel  repentance  but  in  not  having  seen 
your  merits  before.  I  will  stay  even  contrary  to 
your  wishes;  and  though  you  should  persist  to 
shun  me,  I  will  make  my  respectful  assiduities 
atone  for  the  levity  of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  de- 
sist. As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it  end,  in 
indifference.  I  might  have  given  an  hour  or  two 
to  levity;  but  seriously,  Mr.  Marlow,  do  you  think 
I  could  ever  submit  to  a  connexion  where  I  must 
appear  mercenary,  and  you  imprudent  ?  Do  you 
think  I  could  ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses 
of  a  secure  admirer? 

Marlow  [kneeling].  Does  this  look  like  securi- 
ty ?  Does  this  look  like  confidence  ?  No,  madam, 
every  moment  that  shows  me  your  merit,  only 
serves  to  increase  my  diffidence  and  confusion. 
Here  let  me  continue 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer.  Charles, 
Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived  me !  Is  this  your 
indifference,  your  uninteresting  conversation  ? 

Hardcastle.  Your  cold  contempt;  your  formal 
interview!   What  have  you  to  say  now ? 

Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement!  What  can 
it  mean  ? 

Hardcastle.  It  means  that  you  can  say  and  un- 
say things  at  pleasure  :  that  you  can  address  a  lady 
in  private,  and  deny  it  in  public :  that  you  have 
one  story  for  us,  and  another  for  my  daughter. 

4fh,rloxD.  Daughter ! — This  lady  your  daughter? 

Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter:  my 
Kate ;  whose  else  should  she  be  ? 

Marlow.     Oh,  the  devil ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical 
tall  squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me 
for ;  \courtcsylng\  she  that  you  addresi^ed  as  the 
mild,  modest,  sentimental  man  of  gravity,  and  the 
bold,  forward,  agreeable  Rattle  of  the  ladies'  club. 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 


Marlow.  Zounds,  there's  no  bearing  this ;  it'jj 
worse  than  death ! 

Miss  Hardcastle.  In  which  of  your  characters, 
sir,  will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ?  As  the 
faltering  gentleman,  with  looks  on  the  ground,  that 
speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and  hates  hypocrisy;  or 
the  loud  confident  creature,  that  keeps  it  up  with 
Mrs.  Mantrap,  and  old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till 
three  in  the  morning? — Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Marlow.  O,  curse  on  iny  noisy  head  !  I  never 
attempted  to  be  impudent  yet  that  I  was  not  taken 
down  !  I  must  be  gone. 

Hardcastle.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you 
shall  not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I  am  re- 
joiced to  find  it.  You  shall  not,  sir,  I  tell  you.  I 
know  she'll  forgive  you.  Won't  you  forgive  hira, 
Kate  ?  We'll  all  forgive  you.  Take  courage,  man. 
[  They  retire,  she  tormenting  him  to  the 

back  scene. 
Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE,  TONY. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let 
them  go,  I  care  not. 

Hardcastle.     Who  gone  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her  gen- 
tleman, Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He  who  came 
down  with  our  modest  visiter  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George  Hast- 
ings ?  As  worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and  the  girl 
could  not  have  made  a  more  prudent  choice. 

Hardcastle.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm 
proud  of  the  connexion. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away 
the  lady,  he  has  not  taken  her  fortune ;  that  re- 
mains in  this  family  to  console  us  for  her  loss. 

Hardcastle.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be  so 
mercenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 

Hardcastle.  But  you  know  if  your  son,  when  of 
age,  refuses  to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  fortune 
is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Mrs,  Hardcastle.    Ay,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and 
she  has  not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  refusal. 
Enter  HASTINGS  and  MISS  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle  [aside].  What,  returned  so 
soon !  I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings  [to  Hardcastle].  For  my  late  attempt 
to  fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my  present  confusion 
be  my  punishment.  We  are  now  come  back,  to 
appeal  from  your  justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her 
father's  consent  I  first  paid  her  my  addrtsscs,  and 
our  passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  ycvillc.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been 
obliged  to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid  oppres- 
sion. In  an  hour  of  levity.  1  was  ready  even  tc 
give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my  choice  :  but  I'm 
now  recovered  from  the  delusion,  and  hope  frojn 
your  tenderness  what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearc 
connexion. 


220 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Mrs.  Uardcastle.  Pshaw,  pshaw;  this  is  all  but 
the  whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hardcastle.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come  hither, 
Tony,  boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's  hand  whom 
I  now  offer  you. 

Tony.  What  signifies  my  refusing  ?  You  know 
I  can't  refuse  her  till  I'm  of  age,  father. 

Hardcastle.  While  I  thought  concealing  your 
age,  boy,  was  likely  to  conduce  to  your  improve- 
ment, I  concurred  with  your  mother's  desire  to  keep 
it  secret.  But  since  I  find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong 
use,  I  must  now  declare  you  have  been  of  age  these 
three  months, 

Tony.  Of  age !  Am  I  of  age,  father  1 

Hardcastle.  Above  three  months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll  make  of 
my  liberty.  [Taking  Miss  Neville's  hand.']  Wit- 
ness all  men  by  these  presents,  that  I,  Anthony 
Lumpkin,  esquire,  of  blank  place,  refuse  you, 
Constantia  Neville,  spinster,  of  no  place  at  all,  for 
my  true  and  lawful  wife.  So  Constance  Neville 
may  marry  vi^hom  she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin 
is  his  own  man  again. 

Sir  Charles.     O  brave 'Squire  ! 

Hastings.    My  worthy  friend. 

Mrs.  Hardcastle.    My  undutiful  offspring ! 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you  joy 
sincerely.  And  could  I  prevail  upon  my  little  ty- 
rant here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I  should  be  the  hap- 
piest man  alive,  if  you  would  return  me  the  favour. 

Hastings  \to  Miss  Hardcastle].  Come,  madam, 
you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last  scene  of  all 
your  contrivances.  I  know  you  like  him,  I'm  sure 
Jie  loves  you,  and  you  must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hardcastle  [joining  their  hands].  And  I  say 
^o  too.  And,  Mr,  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good 
a  wife  as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't  believe  you'll 
ever  repent  your  bargain.  So  now  to  supper.  To- 
morrow we  shall  gather  all  the  poor  of  the  parish 
about  us,  and  the  mistakes  of  the  night  shall  be 
crowned  with  a  merry  morning :  so,  boy,  take  her ; 
and  as  you  have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my 
wish  is,  that  you  may  never  be  mistaken  in  the 
^fe.  [Exeunt  omnes. 


EPILOGUE,  BY  DR.  GOLDSMITH, 

RPOKEN  BY  MRS,  BULKLEY,  IN  THE  CHARACTER  OF 

MISS  HARDCASTLE. 

Well,  having  stoop'd  to  conquer  with  success, 
And  gain'd  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 
Still,  as  a  bar-maid,  I  could  wish  it  too. 
As  I  have  conquer'd  him  to  conquer  you: 
And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution. 
That  pretty  bar-maids  have  done  execution. 
Our  life  is  all  a  play,  composed  to  please, 
"  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances." 


The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid, 
Harmless  and  young,  of  every  thing  afraid; 
Blushes  when  hired,  and  with  unmeaning  actioiv 
"  I  hopes  as  how  to  give  you  satisfaction." 
Her  second  act  displays  a  Uvelier  scene — 
The  unblushing  bar-maid  of  a  country  inn, 
Who  whisks  about  the  house,  at  market  caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the 

waiters. 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she  soars, 
The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  conTiowseitr*. 
On  'squires  and  cits  she  there  displays  her  arts. 
And  on  the  gridiron  broils  her  lovers'  hearts — 
And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 
E'en  common-council  men  forget  to  eat. 
The  fourth  acts  shows  her  wedded  to  the  'squire, 
And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 
Pretends  to  taste,  at  operas  cries  caro ! 
And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson  for  Che  Faro: 
Doats  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride 
Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheapside: 
Ogles  and  lears  with  artificial  skill. 
Till,  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 
She  sits  all  night  at  cards,  and  ogles  at  spadille. 
Such,  through  our  lives  the  eventful  history — 
The  fifth  and  last  act  still  remains  for  me. 
The  bar-maid  now  for  your  protection  prays. 
Turns  female  Barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bays. 


EPILOGUE,* 

To  he  spoken  in  the  character  of  Tony  Lnimpkin, 

BY  J.  CRADOCK,  ESQ. 

Well — now  all's  ended — and  my  comrades  gone, 
Pray  what  becomes  of  mother's  nonly  son? 
A  hopeful  blade!  in  town  I'll  fix  my  station. 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation : 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her, 
Off — in  a  crack — I'll  carry  big  Bet  Bouncer. 

Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a-year ! 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In  London — 'gad,  they've  some  regard  to  spirit. 
I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs  to  all  she  meets ; 
Then  hoiks  to  jigs  and  pastimes,  every  night — 
Not  to  the  plays — they  say  it  a' n't  polite ; 
To  Sadler's  Wells,  perhaps,  or  operas  go,    4||h 
And  once,  by  chance,  to  the  roratorio. 
Thus  here  and  there,  for  ever  up  and  down, 
We'll  set  the  fashions  too  to  half  the  town;  f 

And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regard, 
Buy  pictures  like  the  great,  ten  pounds  a-yard : 
Zounds!  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry  say 
We  know  what's  damn'd  genteel  as  well  as  they 


■  This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken. 


AN  ORATOtelO. 


THE  PERSONS. 

First  Jewish  Prophet. 
Second  Jewish  Prophet. 

ISRAELITISH  WoMAN. 

First  Chaldean  Priest. 
Second  Chaldean  Priest. 
Chaldean  "Woman. 
Chorus  op  Youths  and  Virgins. 

Scene. — The  Banks  op  the  River  Euphrates, 
near  Babylon. 


ACT  1. 
first  prophet. 

recitative. 
Ye  captive  tribes,  that  hourly  work  and  weep 
Where  flows  Euphrates  murmuring  to  the  deep, 
Suspend  your  woes  awhile,  the  task  suspend,/ 
And  turn  to  God,  your  father  and  your  friend. 
Insulted,  chain'd,  and  all  the  world  our  foe, 
Our  God  alone  is  all  we  boast  below. 

AIR. 
FIRST  PROPHET. 
Our  God  is  all  we  boast  below, 

To  him  we  turn  our  eyes ; 
And  every  added  weight  of  woe 
Shall  make  our  homage  rise. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
And  though  no  temple  richly  dressed. 

Nor  sacrifice  are  here ; 
We'll  make  his  temple  in  our  breast. 
And  offer  up  a  tear. 

[The  first  Stanza  repeated  by  the  CHORUS. 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 

recitative. 
That  strain  once  more;  it  bids  remembrance  rise, 
And  biings  my  long-lost  country  to  mine  eyes. 
Ye  fields  of  Sharon,  dressed  in  flowery  pride. 
Ye  plains  where  Kedron  rolls  its  glassy  tide. 
Ye  hills  of  Lebanon,  with  cedars  crown'd. 
Ye  Gilead  groves,  that  fling  perfumes  around, 
How  sweet  those  groves,  that  plain  how  wondrous 

fair, 
How  doubly  sweet  when  Heateii  was  with  us 

there! 


air. 
O  memory,  thou  fond  deceiver, 

Still  importunate  and  vain ; 
To  former  joys  recurring  ever. 

And  turning  all  the  past  to  pain. 

Hence  intruder  most  distressing. 
Seek  the  happy  and  the  free : 

The  wretch  who  wants  each  other  blessing, 
Ever  wants  a  friend  in  thee. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

recitative. 
Yet  why  complain  7   What  though  by  bonds  con- 
fined. 
Should  bonds  repress  the  vigour  of  the  mind? 
Have  we  not  cause  for  triumph,  when  we  see 
Ourselves  alone  from  idol  worship  free  1 
Are  not  this  very  morn  those  feasts  begun 
Where  prostrate  error  hails  the  rising  sun  7 
Do  not  our  tyrant  lords  this  day  ordain 
For  superstitious  rites  and  mirth  profane  ? 
And  should  we  mourn  1  Should  coward  virtue  fly, 
When  vaunting  folly  lifts  her  head  on  high  7 
No;  rather  let  us  triumph  still  the  more, 
And  as  our  fortune  sinks,  our  spirits  soar. 

AIR. 

The  triumphs  that  on  vice  attend 
Shall  ever  in  confusion  end ; 
The  good  man  suffers  but  to  gain. 
And  every  virtue  springs  from  pain : 
As  aromatic  plants  bestow 
No  spicy  fragrance  while  they  grow ; 
But  crush'd,  or  trodden  to  the  ground,. 
Diffuse  their  balmy  sweets  around. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  hush,  my  sons,  our  tyrant  lords  are  near, 

The  sounds  of  barbarous  pleasure  strike  mineeaff 

Triumphant  music  floats  along  the  vale. 

Near,  nearer  still,  it  gathers  on  the  gale ; 

The  growing  sound  their  swift  approach  declares 

Desist,  my  sons,  nor  mix  the  strain  with  theirs. 

Enter  CHALDEAN  PRIESTS  attended. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

AIR. 

Come  on,  my  companions,  the  triumph  display, 
Let  rapture  the  minutes  employ 


322 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


The  sun  calls  us  out  on  this  festival  day, 
And  our  monarch  partakes  in  the  joy. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 
Like  the  sun,  our  great  monarch  all  rapture  sup- 
plies, 
Both  similar  blessings  bestow ; 
The  sun  with  his  splendour  illumines  the  sides, 
And  our  monarch  enUvens  below. 

AIR. 
CHALDEAN  WOMAN. 

Haste,  ye  sprightly  sons  of  pleasure, 
Love  presents  the  fairest  treasure, 
Leave  all  other  joys  for  me. 

A.  CHALDEAN  ATTENDANT. 
Or  rather,  love's  delights  despising. 
Haste  to  raptures  ever  rising, 
Wine  shall  bless  the  brave  and  free. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
Wine  and  beauty  thus  inviting, 
Each  to  different  joys  e:^citing, 
Whither  shall  my  choice  incline  1 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

I'll  waste  no  longer  thought  in  choosing, 
But,  neither  this  nor  that  refusing, 
I'll  make  them  both  together  mine. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence,  when  joy  should  brighten  o'er  the 

land. 
This  sullen  gloom  in  Judah's  captive  band? 
Ye  sons  of  Judah,  why  the  lute  unstrungi 
Or  why  those  harps  on  yonder  willows  hung? 
Come,  take  the  lyre,  and  pour  the  strain  along. 
The  day  demands  it;  sing  us  Sion's  song. 
Dismiss  your  griefs,  and  join  our  warbling  choir, 
For  who  like  you  can  wake  the  sleeping  lyre? 


Every  moment  as  it  flows. 
Some  peculiar  pleasure  owes. 
Come  then,  providently  wise. 
Seize  the  debtor  as  it  flies. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

Think  not  to-morrow  can  repay 
The  debt  of  pleasure  lost  to-day, 
Alas !  to-morrow's  richest  store 
Can  but  pay  its  proper  score. 

SECOND  PROPHET 

RECITATIVE. 

Chain'd  as  we  are,  the  scorn  of  all  mankind, 
fo  want,  to  toil,  and  every  ill  consign'd. 


Is  this  a  time  to  bid  us  raise  the  strain. 

Or  mix  in  rites  that  Heaven  regards  with  pain? 

No,  never.     May  this  hand  forget  each  art 

That  wakes  to  finest  joys  the  human  heart, 

Ere  I  forget  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 

Or  join  to  sounds  profane  its  sacred  mirth ! 

SECOND  PRIEST. 
Rebellious  slaves!  if  soft  persuasion  fail. 
More  formidable  terrors  shall  prevail. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

Why,  let  them  come,  one  good  remains  to  cheer- 
We  fear  the  Lord,  and  scorn  all  other  fear. 

[Exeunt  Chaldeans. 

CHORUS  OF  ISRAELITES. 
Can  chains  or  tortures  bend  the  mind 
On  God's  supporting  breast  recUned? 
Stand  fast,  and  let  our  tyrants  see 
That  fortitude  is  victory.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  IL 

ISRAELITES  and  CILA.LDEANS,  as  before. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 

O  peace  of  mind,  angelic  guest. 
Thou  soft  companion  of  the  breast, 

Dispense  thy  balmy  store ! 
Wing  all  our  tlioughts  to  reach  the  skieii, 
Till  earth  receding  from  our  eyes. 

Shall  vanish  as  we  soar. 

FIRST  PROPHET 
RECITATIVE. 

No  more.  Too  long  has  justice  been  delay'd, 
The  king's  commands  must  fully  be  obey'd ; 
Compliance  with  his  will  your  peace  secures, 
Praise  but  our  gods,  and  every  good  is  yours. 
But  if,  rebellious  to  his  high  command, 
You  spurn  the  favours  offer'd  from  his  hand 
Think,  timely  think,  what  terrors  are  behind; 
Reflect,  nor  tempt  to  'rage  the  royal  mind. 


Fierce  is  the  tempest  howling 
Along  the  furrow'd  main. 

And  fierce  the  whirlwind  rolling 
0'6r  Afric's  sandy  plain. 

But  storms  that  fly 

To  rend  the  sky. 
Every  ill  presaging. 

Less  dreadful  show 

To  worlds  below 
Than  angry  monarch's  ragiftg. 


ORATORIO. 


229 


ISRAELTTISH  WOMAN. 

RECITATIVE. 

Ah  me !  what  angry  terrors  round  us  grow, 
How  shrinks  my  soul  to  meet  the  threaten'd  blow ! 
Ye  prophets,  skill' d  in  Heaven's  eternal  truth, 
Forgive  my  sex's  fears,  forgive  my  youth ! 
Ah !  let  us  one,  one  little  hour  obey ; 
To-morrovir's  tears  may  wash  the  stain  away 


Fatigued  with  life,  yet  loth  to  part, 

On  hope  the  wretch  relies ; 
And  every  blow  that  sinks  the  heart 

Bids  the  deluder  rise. 
Hope,  like  the  taper's  gleamy  light, 

Adorns  the  wretch's  way ; 
And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a  brighter  ray. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

Why  this  delay  1    At  length  for  joy  prepare. 
I  read  your  looks,  and  see  compliance  there. 
Come  on,  and  bid  the  warbling  rapture  rise. 
Our  monarch's  fame  the  noblest  theme  suppUes. 
Begin,  ye  captive  bands,  and  strike  the  lyre, 
The  time,  the  theme,  the  place,  and  all  conspire. 

CHALDEAN  WOMAN- 


See  the  ruddy  morning  smiling. 
Hear  the  grove  to  bliss  beguiling ; 
Zephyrs  through  the  woodland  playing, 
Streams  along  the  valley  straying. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 
While  these  a  constant  revel  keep, 
Shall  reason  only  teach  to  weep  7 
Hence,  intruder !  we'll  pursue 
Nature,  a  better  guide  than  you. 

SECOND  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  hold!  see,  foremost  of  the  captive  choir, 
The  master-prophet  grasps  his  full-toned  lyre. 
Mark  where  he  sits  with  executing  art, 
Feels  for  each  tone,  and  speeds  it  to  the  heart ; 
See  how  prophetic  rapture  J&Us  his  form, 
Awful  as  clouds  that  nurse  the  growing  storm. 
And  now  his  voice,  accordant  to  the  string, 
Prepares  our  monarch's  victories  to  sing. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

AIR. 

Prom  north,  from  south,  from  east,  from  west, 

Conspiring  nations  come ; 
Tremble,  thou  vice-polluted  breast ; 

Blasphemers,  all  be  dumb. 


The  tempest  gathers  all  around, 

On  Babylon  it  lies ; 
Down  with  her !  down,  down  to  the  ground 

She  sinks,  she  groans,  she  dies. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 
Down  with  her.  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust, 

Before  yon  setting  sun  ; 
Serve  her  as  she  hath  served  the  just ! 

Tis  fix'd — It  shall  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

No  more !  when  slaves  thus  insolent  presume, 
The  king  himself  shall  judge,  and  fix  their  doom. 
Unthinking  wretches !  have  not  you,  and  all, 
Beheld  our  power  in  Zedekiah's  fall  7 
To  yonder  gloomy  dungeon  turn  your  eyes ; 
See  where  dethroned  your  captive  monarch  lies. 
Deprived  of  sight,  and  rankUng  in  his  chain ; 
See  where  he  mv)urns  his  friends  and  children  slain. 
Yet  know,  ye  slaves,  that  still  remain  behind 
More  ponderous  chains,  and  dungeons  more  con- 
fined. 

CHORUS   OF   ALL. 

Arise,  all  potent  ruler,  rise. 

And  vindicate  thy  people's  cause ; 

Till  every  tongue  in  every  land 
Shall  oifer  up  unfeign'd  applause. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

RECITATIVE. 
FIRST  PRIEST. 

Yes,  my  companions.  Heaven's  decrees  are  pass*^ 

And  our  fix'd  empire  shall  for  ever  last; 

In  vain  the  madd'ning  prophet  threatens  woe, 

In  vain  rebellion  aims  her  secret  blow ; 

Still  shall  our  name  and  growing  power  be  spread, 

And  still  our  justice  crush  the  traitor's  head. 


Coeval  with  man 
Our  empire  began, 
And  never  shall  fall 
Till  ruin  shakes  all. 
When  ruin  shakes  all. 
Then  shall  Babylon  fall. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

'Tis  thus  the  proud  triumphant  rear  the  head, 
A  little  while,  and  all  their  power  is  fled. 
But,  ha !  what  means  yon  sadly  plaintive  train, 
That  onward  slowly  bends  along  the  plain"? 


224 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


And  now,  behold,  to  yonder  bank  they  bear 
A  pallid  corse,  and  rest  the  body  there. 
Alas !  too  well  mine  eyes  indignant  trace 
The  last  remains  of  Judah's  royal  race. 
Fall'n  is  our  King,  and  all  our  fears  are  o'er, 
Unhappy  Zedekiah  is  no  more. 


Ye  wretches  who  by  fortune's  hate 

In  want  and  sorrow  groan, 
Come  ponder  his  severer  fate, 

And  learn  to  bless  your  own. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 
Vou  vain,  whom  youth  and  pleasure  guide, 

Awhile  the  bliss  suspend ; 
Like  yours,  his  life  began  in  pride, 

Like  his,  your  lives  shall  end. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Behold  his  wretched  corse  with  sorrow  worn, 
His  squalid  Hmbs  by  ponderous  fetters  torn ; 
Those  eyeless  orbs  that  shock  with  ghastly  glare, 
Those  unbecoming  rags,  that  matted  hair ! 
And  shall  not  Heaven  for  this  avenge  the  foe, 
Grasp  the  red  bolt,  and  lay  the  guilty  low  1 
How  long,  how  long.  Almighty  God  of  all, 
Shall  wrath  vindictive  threaten  ere  it  fall ! 

ISRAELITISH  WOMAN. 


As  panting  flies  the  hunted  hind. 
Where  brooks  refreshing  stray ; 

And  rivers  through  the  valley  wind, 
That  stop  the  hunter's  way. 

Thus  we,  O  Lord,  alike  distressed. 

For  streams  of  mercy  long ; 
Streams  which  cheer  the  sore  oppressed. 

And  overwhelm  the  strong. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

But  whence  that  shout  7     Good  heavens    amaze- 
ment all ! 
See  yonder  tower  just  nodding  to  the  fall : 
Behold,  an  army  covers  all  the  ground, 
'Tis  Cyrus  here  that  pours  destruction  round : — 
And  now  behold  the  battlements  recline — 
O  God  of  hosts,  the  victory  is  thine ! 

CHORUS  OF  CAPTIVES. 
Down  with  them,  Lord,  to  lick  the  dust ; 
Thy  vengeance  be  begun  ; 


Serve  them  as  they  have  served  the  just, 
And  let  thy  will  be  done. 

FIRST  PRIEST. 

RECITATIVE. 

All,  all  is  lost.     The  Syrian  army  fails, 
Cyrus,  the  conqueror  of  the  world,  prevails. 
The  ruin  smokes,  the  torrent  pours  along, — 
How  low  the  proud,  how  feeble  are  the  strong ! 
Save  us,  O  Lord !  to  Thee,  though  late,  we  pray; 
And  give  repentance  but  an  hour's  delay. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  PRIE.ST 

AIR. 

O  happy,  who  in  happy  hour 

To  God  their  praise  bestow, 
And  own  his  all-consuming  power 

Before  they  feel  the  blow ! 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Now,  now's  our  time !  ye  wretches  bold  and  blind, 
Brave  but  to  God,  and  cowards  to  mankind, 
Ye  seek  in  vain  the  Lord  unsought  before. 
Your  wealth,  your  lives,  your  kingdom   are  no 
more. 

AIR. 

O  Lucifer,  thou  son  of  morn. 

Of  Heaven  alike  and  man  the  foe ; 

Heaven,  men  and  all. 

Now  press  thy  fall, 
And  sink  thee  lowest  of  the  low. 

FIRST  PROPHET. 

O  Babylon,  how  art  thou  fallen ! 
Thy  fall  more  dreadful  from  delay ! 

Thy  streets  forlorn 

To  wilds  shall  turn, 
Where  toads  shall  pant,  and  vultures  prey. 

SECOND  PROPHET. 

RECITATIVE. 

Such  be  her  fate.     But  hark !  how  from  afar 
The  clarion's  note  proclaims  the  finish'd  war! 
Our  great  restorer,  Cyrus,  is  at  hand, 
And  this  way  leads  his  formidable  band. 
Give,  give  your  songs  of  Sion  to  the  wind, 
And  hail  the  benefactor  of  mankind ; 
IJ.e  comes  pursuant  to  divine  decree. 
To  chain  the  strong,  and  set  the  captive  free 

CHORUS    OF   YOUTHS. 

Rise  to  transports  past  expressing, 

Sweeter  by  remember'd  woes ; 
Cyrus  comes  our  wrongs  redressing, 

Comes  to  give  the  world  repose. 


ORATORIO. 


CHORUS   OP   VIRGINS. 


Cyrus  comes,  the  world  redressing, 
Love  and  pleasure  in  his  train; 

Comes  to  heighten  every  blessing, 
Comes  to  soften  every  pain. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 


Hail  to  him  with  mercy  reigning, 
Skill'd  in  every  peaceful  art  j 


Who  from  bonds  our  limbs  unchaining 
Only  binds  the  willing  heart. 


THE   LAST   CHORUS. 


But  chief  to  thee,  our  God,  defender,  friend. 
Let  praise  be  given  to  ail  eternity ; 

O  Thou,  without  beginning,  ';vithout  end, 
Let  Us  and  all  begin,  and  end,  in  Thee. 


IB 


^tefaccestji  anti  ©tittctein. 


THE  PREFACE 

TO  DR.  BROOKES'S  NEW  AND  ACCURATE  SYSTEM  OF 

NATURAL  HISTORY. 

[Published  in  1753.] 

Of  all  the  studies  which  have  employed  the  in- 
dustrious or  amused  the  idle,  perhaps  natural  his- 
tory deserves  the  preference :  other  sciences  gene- 
rally terminate  in  doubt,  or  rest  in  bare  specula- 
tion ;  but  here  every  step  is  marked  with  certainty  ; 
and,  while  a  description  of  the  objects  around  us 
teaches  to  supply  our  wants,  it  satisfies  our  cu- 
riosity. 

The  multitude  of  nature's  productions,  how- 
ever, seems  at  first  to  bewilder  the  inquirer,  rather 
than  excite  his  attention ;  the  various  wonders  of 
the  animal,  vegetable,  or  mineral  world,  seem  to 
exceed  all  powers  of  computation,  and  the  science 
appears  barren  from  its  amazing  fertility.  But  a 
nearer  acquaintance  with  this  study,  by  giving 
method  to  our  researches,  points  out  a  similitude 
in  many  objects  which  at  first  appeared  different; 
the  mind  by  degrees  rises  to  consider  the  things 
before  it  in  general  lights,  till  at  length  it  finds  na- 
ture, in  almost  every  instance,  acting  with  her 
usual  simplicity. 

Among  the  number  of  philosophers  who,  un- 
daunted by  their  supposed  variety,  have  attempted 
to  give  a  description  of  the  productions  of  nature, 
Aristotle  deserves  the  first  place.  This  great  phi- 
losopher, was  furnished,  by  his  pupil  Alexander, 
with  all  that  the  then  known  world  could  produce 
to  complete  his  design.  By  such  parts  of  his  work 
as  have  escaped  the  wreck  of  time,  it  appears,  that 
he  understood  nature  more  clearly,  and  in  a  more 
comprehensive  manner,  than  even  the  present 
age,  enlightened  as  it  is  with  so  many  later  dis- 
coveries, can  boast.  His  design  appears  vast,  and 
his  knowledge  extensive;  he  only  considers  things 
in  general  lights,  and  leaves  every  subject  when  it 
becomes  too  minute  or  remote  to  be  useful.  In  his 
History  of  Animals,  he  first  describes  man,  and 
makes  him  a  standard  with  which  to  compare  the 
deviations  in  every  more  imperfect  kind  that  is  to 
follow.  But  if  he  has  excelled  in  the  history  of 
each,  he,  together  with  Pliny  and  Theophrastus, 
has  failed  in  the  exactness  of  their  descriptions. 


There  are  many  creatures,  described  by  those  nato 
ralists  of  antiquity,  which  are  so  imperfectly  cha- 
racterized, that  it  is  impossible  to  tell  to  what  ani- 
mal now  subsisting  we  can  refer  the  description. 
This  is  an  unpardonable  neglect,  and  alone  suffi- 
cient to  depreciate  their  merits ;  but  their  creduli- 
ty, and  the  mutilations  they  have  suffered  by  time, 
have  rendered  them  still  less  useful,  and  justify 
each  subsequent  attempt  to  improve  what  they 
have  left  behind.  The  most  laborious,  as  well  as 
the  most  voluminous  naturalist  among  the  mo- 
derns, is  Aldrovandus.  He  was  furnighed  with 
every  recjuisite  for  making  an  extensive  body  of 
natural  history.  He  was  learned  and  rich,  and 
during  the  course  of  a  long  life,  indefatigable  and 
accurate.  But  his  works  are  insupportably  tedious 
and  disgusting,  filled  with  unnecessary  quotations 
and  unimportant  digressions.  Whatever  learning 
he  had  he  was  willing  should  be  known,  and  un- 
wearied himself,  he  supposed  his  readers  could 
never  tire :  in  short,  he  appears  a  useful  assistant 
to  those  who  would  compile  a  body  of  natural  his- 
tory, but  is  utterly  unsuited  to  such  as  only  wish 
to  read  it  with  profit  and  delight. 

Gesner  and  Jonston,  willing  to  abridge  the  vo- 
luminous productions  of  Aldrovandus,  have  at- 
tempted to  reduce  natural  history  into  method,  but 
their  efforts  have  been  so  incomplete  as  scarcely  to 
deserve  mentioning.  Their  attempts  were  improv- 
ed upon,  some  time  after,  by  Mr.  Ray,  whose  me- 
thod we  have  adopted  in  the  history  of  quadrupeds*, 
birds,  and  fishes,  which  is  to  follow.  No  systema- 
tical writer  has  been  more  happy  than  he  in  reduc- 
ing natural  history  into  a  form,  at  once  the  shortest, 
yet  most  comprehensive. 

The  subsequent  attempts  of  Mr.  Klein  and  Lin- 
naeus, it  is  true,  have  had  their  admirers,  but,  as 
all  methods  of  classing  the  productions  of  nature 
are  calculated  merely  to  ease  the  memory  and  en- 
lighten the  mind,  that  writer  who  answers  such 
ends  with  brevity  and  perspicuity,  is  most  worthy 
of  regard.  And,  in  this  respect,  Mr.  Ray  undoubt- 
edly remains  still  without  a  rival :  he  was  sensible 
that  no  accurate  idea  could  be  formed  from  a  mere 
distribution  of  animals  in  particular  classes;  he 
has  therefore  ranged  them  according  to  their  most 
obvious  qualities;  and,  content  with  brevity  in  his 
distribution,  has  employed  accuracy  only  in  the 
particular  description  of  every  animal.     This  in 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


227 


tentional  inaccuracy  only  in  the  general  system  of 
Ray,  Klein  aiid  Linnseus  have  tindertaken  to 
amend ;  and  thus  by  multiplying  divisions,  instead 
«f  impressing  the  mind  with  distinct  ideas,  they 
only  serv6  to  confound  it,  making  the  larlguage  of 
the  science  more  difficult  than  even  the  science  it- 
self. 

All  order  whatsoever  is  to  be  used  for  the  sake 
of  brevity  and  perspicuity }  we  have  therefore  fol- 
lowed that  of  Mr.  Ray  in  preference  to  the  rest, 
whose  method  of  classing  animals,  though  not  so 
accurate,  perhaps,  is  yet  more  obvious,  and  being 
shorter,  is  more  easily  remembered.  In  his  life- 
time he  published  his  "  Synopsis  Methodica  Gluad- 
rupedum  et  Serpentini  Generis,  "  and,  after  his 
death,  there  came  out  a  posthumous  work  under  the 
care  of  Dr.  Derham,  which,  as  the  title-page  in- 
forms us,  was  revised  and  perfected  before  his 
death.  Both  the  one  and  the  other  have  their 
merits ;  but  as  he  wrote  currente  calamo,  for  sub- 
sistence, they  are  consequently  replete  with  errorSj 
and  though"  his  manner  of  treating  natural  history 
be  preferable  to  that  of  all  others,  yet  there  was 
\  still  room  for  a  new  work,  that  might  at  once  retain 
his  excellencies,  and  supply  his  deficiencies. 

As  to  the  natural  history  of  insects,  it  has  not 
been  so  long  or  so  greatly  cultivated  as  other  parts 
of  this  science.  Our  own  countryman  Moufett  is 
the  first  of  any  note  that  I  have  met  with  who  has 
treated  this  subject  with  success.  However,  it 
was  not  till  lately  that  it  was  reduced  to  a  regular 
system,  which  might  be,  in  a  great  measure,  owing 
to  the  seeming  insignificancy  of  the  animals  them- 
selves, even  though  they  were  always  looked  upon 
as  of  great  use  in  medicine ;  and  upon  that  account 
only  have  been  taken  notice  of  by  many  medical 
writers.  Thus  Dioscorides  has  treated  of  their 
use  in  physic ;  and  it  must  be  owned,  some  of  them 
have  been  well  worth  observation  on  this  account. 
There  were  not  wanting  also  tliose  who  long  since 
had  thoughts  of  reducing  this  kind  of  knowledge 
to  a  regular  form,  among  whom  was  Mr.  Ray, 
who  was  discouraged  by  thedifiiculty  attending  it : 
this  study  has  been  pursued  of  late,  however,  with 
diligence  and  success.  Reaumur  and  Swammer- 
dam  have  principally  distinguished  themselves  on 
this  account  j  and  their  respective  treatises  plainly 
show,  that  they  did  not  spend  their  labour  in  vain. 
Since  their  time,  several  authors  have  published 
their  systems,  among  whom  is  Linnaeus,  whose 
method  being  generally  esteemed,  I  have  thought 

I  proper  to  adopt.  He  has  classed  them  in  a  very 
regular  manner,  though  he  says  but  little  of  the 
insects  themselves.     However,  1  have  endeavoured 

t  to  supply  that  defect  from  other  parts  of  his  works, 
and  from  other  authors  who  have  written  upon 

:   this  subject ;  by  which  means,  it  is  hoped,  the  curi- 

f  osity  of  such  as  delight  in  these  studies  will  be  in 


some  measure  satisfied.  Such  of  them  as  have 
been  more  generally  admired,  have  been  longest  in- 
sisted upon,  and  particularly  caterpillars  and  but- 
terflies, relative  to  which,  perhaps,  there  is  the 
largest  catalogue  that  has  ever  appeared  in  the 
EngUsh  language; 

Mr.  Edwards  and  Mr.  Buffbn,  one  in  the  His- 
tory of  Birds,  the  other  of  Gluadrupeds,  have  un- 
doubtedly deserved  highly  of  the  pubUc,  as  far  as 
their  labours  have  extended  ;  but  as  they  have 
hitherto  cultivated  but  a  small  part  in  the  wide  field 
of  natural  history,  a  comprehensive  system  in  this 
most  pleasing  science  has  been  hitherto  wanting. 
Nor  is  it  a  little  surprising,  when  every  oihet 
branch  of  literature  has  been  of  late  cultivated  with 
so  much  success  among  us,  how  this  most  interest- 
ing department  should  have  been  neglected.  It 
has  been  long  obvious  that  Aristotle  was  incom- 
plete, and  Phny  credulous,  Aldrovandus  too  prohx,- 
and  Linnaeus  too  short,  to  afford  the  proper  enter- 
tainment ;  yet  we  have  had  no  attempts  to  supply 
their  defects,  or  to  give  a  history  of  nature  at  once' 
complete  and  concise,  calculated  at  once  to  please' 
and  improve. 

How  far  the  author  of  the  present  performancer 
has  obviated  the  wants  of  the  public  in  these  re- 
spects, is  left  to  the  world  to  determine ;  this  much,- 
however,  he  may  without  vanity  assert,  that  wheth- 
er the  system  here  presented  be  approved  or  not,- 
he  has  left  the  science  in  a  better  state  than  he 
found  it.  He  has  consulted  every  author  whom  ho 
imagined  might  give  him  new  and  authentic  infor- 
mation, and  painfully  searched  through  heaps  of 
lumber  to  detect  falsehood  ;  so  that  many  parts  ot 
the  following  work  have  exhausted  much  labour  in 
the  execution,  though  they  may  discover  little  to' 
the  superficial  observer. 

Nor  have  I  neglected  any  opportunity  that  offer- 
ed of  conversing  upon  these  subjects  with  travel- 
lers, upon  whose  judgments  and  veracity  I  could 
rely.  Thus  comparing  accurate  narrations  with 
what  has  been  already  written,  and  following 
either,  as  the  circumstances  or  credibility  of  the 
witness  led  me  to  believe.  But  I  have  had  one 
advantage  over  almost  all  former  naturalists,  name- 
ly, that  of  having  visited  a  variety  of  countries  my- 
self, and  examined  the  productions  of  each  upon? 
the  spot.  Whatever  America  or  the  known  parts- 
of  Africa  have  produced  to  excite  curiosity,  has- 
been  carefully  observed  by  me,  and  compared  with 
the  accounts  of  others.  By  this  I  have  made  some 
improvements  that  will  appear  in  their  place,  and' 
have  been  less  liable  to  be  imposed  upon  by  the 
hearsay  relations  of  creduUty. 

A  complete,  cheap,  and  commodious  body  of 
natural  history  being  wanted  in  our  language,  it 
was  these  advantages  which  prompted  me  to  this 
undertaking.     Such,  therefore,  as  choose  to  range 


228 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


in  the  delightful  fields  of  nature,  will,  1  flatter  my 
self,  here  find  a  proper  guide  ;  and  those  who  have 
a  design  to  furnish  a  cabinet,  will  find  copious  in 
structions.  With  one  of  these  volumes  in  his 
hand,  a  spectator  may  go  through  the  largest  mu 
seum,  the  British  not  excepted,  see  nature  through 
all  her  varieties,  and  compare  her  usual  operations 
with  those  wanton  productions  in  which  she  seems 
to  sport  with  human  sagacity.  I  have  been  spar- 
ing, however,  in  the  description  of  the  deviations 
from  the  usual  course  of  production ;  first,  because 
such  are  almost  infinite,  and  the  natural  historian, 
who  should  spend  his  time  in  describing  deformed 
nature,  would  be  as  absurd  as  the  statuary,  who 
should  fix  upon  a  deformed  man  from  whom  to 
take  his  model  of  perfection. 

But  I  would  not  raise  expectations  in  the  reader 
which  it  may  not  be  in  my  power  to  satisfy :  he 
who  takes  up  a  book  of  science  must  not  expect  to 
acquire  knowledge  at  the  same  easy  rate  that  a 
reader  of  romance  does  entertainment ;  on  the  con- 
trary, all  sciences,  and  natural  history  among  the 
rest,  have  a  language  and  a  manner  of  treatment 
peculiar  to  themselves;  and  he  who  attempts  to 
dress  them  in  borrowed  or  foreign  ornaments,  is 
every  whit  as  uselessly  employed  as  the  German 
apothecary  we  are  told  of,  who  turned  the  whole 
dispensatory  into  verse.  It  will  be  sufficient  for 
mej  if  the  following  system  is  found  as  pleasijig  as 
the  nature  of  the  subject  will  bear,  neither  obscured 
by  an  unnecessary  ostentation  of  science,  nor 
lengthened  out  by  an  afl^ected  eagerness  after  need- 
less embellishment. 

The  description  of  every  object  will  be  found  as 
clear  and  concise  as  possil^le,  the  design  not  being 
to  amuse  the  ear  with  well-turned  periods,  or  the 
imagination  with  borrowed  ornaments,  but  to  im- 
press the  mind  with  the  simplest  views  of  nature. 
To  answer  this  end  more  distinctly,  a  picture  of 
such  animals  is  given  as  we  are  least  acquainted 
with.  All  that  is  intended  by  this  is,  only  to  guide 
the  inquirer  with  more  certainty  to  the  object  itself, 
as  it  is  to  be  found  in  nature.  I  never  would  ad- 
vise a  student  to  apply  to  any  science,  either  anato- 
my, physic,  or  natural  history,  by  looking  on  pic- 
tures only;  they  may  serve  to  direct  him  more 
readily  to  the  objects  intended,  but  he  must  by  no 
means  suppose  himself  possessed  of  adequate  and 
distinct  ideas,  till  he  has  viewed  the  things  them- 
selves, and  not  their  representations. 

Copper-plates,  therefore,  moderately  well  done, 
answer  the  learner's  purpose  every  whit  as  well  as 
those  which  can  not  be  purchased  but  at  a  vast  ex- 
pense ;  they  serve  to  guide  us  to  the  archetypes  in 
nature,  and  this  is  all  that  the  finest  picture  should 
be  permitted  to  do,  for  nature  herself  ought  al- 
ways tx>  be  examined  by  the  learner  before  he  has 
done. 


INTRODUCTION 

TO   A  NEW 

HISTORY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

[Intended  to  have  been  published  in  twelve  volumes,  octavo, 
by  J.  Newberry,  1764.] 


TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

Experience  every  day  convinces  us,  that  no 
part  of  learning  affords  so  much  wisdom  upon  such 
easy  terms  as  history.  Our  advances  in  most  other 
studies  are  slow  and  disgusting,  acquired  with  ef- 
fort, and  retained  with  difficulty;  but  in  a  well- 
written  history,  every  step  we  proceed  only  serves 
to  increase  our  ardour  :  we  profit  by  the  experience 
of  others,  without  sharing  their  toils  or  misfortunes; 
and  in  this  part  of  knowledge,  in  a  more  particular 
manner,  study  is  but  relaxatioc 

Of  all  histories,  however,  that  which  is  not  con- 
fined to  any  particular  reign  or  country,  but  which 
extends  to  the  transactions  of  all  mankind,  is  the 
most  useful  and  entertaining.  As  in  geography 
we  can  have  no  just  idea  of  the  situation  of  one 
country,  without  knowing  that  of  others ;  so  in  his- 
tory it  is  in  some  measure  necessary  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  the  whole  thoroughly  to  comprehend 
a  part.  A  knowledge  of  universal  history  is  there- 
fore highly  useful,  nor  is  it  less  entertaining.  Ta- 
citus complains,  that  the  transactions  of  a  few 
reigns  could  not  afford  him  a  sufficient  stock  of  ma-' 
terials  to  please  or  interest  the  reader ;  but  here  that^ 
objection  is  entirely  removed;  a  History  of  thOj 
World  presents  the  most  striking  events,  with  the 
greatest  variety. 

These  are  a  part  of  the  many  advantages  which 
universal  history  has  over  all  others,  and  which 
have  encouraged  so  many  writers  to  attempt  com- 
piling works  of  this  kind  among  the  ancients, 
well  as  the  moderns.  Each  invited  by  the  manifest 
utility  of  the  design,  yet  many  of  them  faiUng 
through  the  great  and  unforeseen  difficulties  of  the 
undertaking ;  the  barrenness  of  events  in  the  early 
periods  of  history,  and  their  fertility  in  modem 
times,  equally  serving  to  increase  their  embarrass- 
ments. In  recounting  the  transactions  of  remote 
ntiquity,  there  is  such  a  defect  of  materials,  that 
the  willingness  of  mankind  to  supply  the  chasm  has 
given  birth  to  falsehood,  and  invited  conjecture. 
The  farther  we  look  back  into  those  distant  pe- 
riods, all  the  objects  seem  to  become  more  (*scure, 
or  are  totally  lost,  by  a  sort  of  perspective  diminu- 
tion. In  this  case,  therefore,  when  the  eye  of  truth 
could  no  longer  discern  clearly,  fancy  undertook  to 
form  the  picture;  and  fables  were  invented  where 
truths  were  wanting.    For  this  reason,  we  have 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


declined  enlarging  on  such  disquisitions,  not  for 
want  of  materials,  which  offered  themselves  at 
every  step  of  our  progress,  but  because  we  thought 
♦hem  not  worth  discussing.  Neither  have  we  en- 
cumbered the  beginning  of  our  work  with  the  va- 
rious opinions  of  the  heathen  philosophers  con- 
cerning the  creation,  which  may  be  found  in  most 
of  our  systems  of  theology,  and  belong  more  pro- 
perly to  the  divine  than  the  historian.  Sensible 
how  liable  we  are  to  redundancy  in  this  first  part 
of  our  design,  it  has  been  our  endeavour  to  unfold 
ancient  history  with  all  possible  conciseness ;  and, 
solicitous  to  improve  the  reader's  stock  of  know- 
ledge, we  have  been  indifferent  as  to  the  display 
of  our  own.  We  have  not  stopped  to  discuss  or 
confute  all  the  absurd  conjectures  men  of  specula- 
tion have  thrown  in  our  way.  We  at  first  had  even 
determined  not  to  deform  the  page  of  truth  with 
the  names  of  those,  whose  labours  had  only  been 
calculated  to  encumber  it  with  fiction  and  vain 
speculation.  However,  we  have  thought  proper, 
upon  second  thoughts,  slightly  to  mention  them 
and  their  opinions,  quoting  the  author  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  page,  so  that  the  reader,  who  is  curious 
about  such  particularities,  may  know  where  to  have 
recourse  for  fuller  information. 

As,  in  the  early  part  of  history,  a  want  of  real 
facts  hath  induced  many  to  spin  out  the  little  that 
was  known  withr'conjecture,  so  in  the  modern  part, 
the  superfluity  of  trifling  anecdotes  was  equally  apt 
to  introduce  confusion.  In  one  case,  history  has 
been  rendered  tedious,  from  our  want  of  knowing 
the  truth ;  in  the  other,  from  knowing  too  much  of 
truth  not  worth  our  notice.  Every  year  that  is 
added  to  the  age  of  the  world,  serves  to  lengthen 
the  thread  of  its  history;  so  that,  to  give  this  branch 
of  learning  a  just  length  in  the  circle  of  human 
pursuits,  it  is  necessary  to  abridge  several  of  the 
least  important  facts.  It  is  true,  we  often  at  pre- 
sent see  the  annals  of  a  single  reign,  or  even  the 
transactions  of  a  single  year,  occupying  folios :  but 
can  the  writers  of  such  tedious  journals  ever  hope 
to  reach  posterity,  or  do  they  think  that  our  de- 
scendants, whose  attention  will  naturally  be  turned 
to  their  own  concerns,  can  exhaust  so  much  time 
in  the  examination  of  ours  ?  A  plan  of  general  his- 
tory, rendered  too  extensive,  deters  us  from  a  study 
that  is  perhaps,  of  all  others,  the  most  useful,  by 
rendering  it  too  laborious ;  and,  instead  of  alluring 
our  curiosity,  excites  our  despair.  Writers  are  un- 
pardonable who  convert  our  amusement  into  la- 
bour, and  divest  knowledge  of  one  of  its  most 
pleasing  allurements.  The  ancients  have  repre- 
sented history  under  the  figure  of  a  woman,  easy, 
graceful,  and  inviting :  but  we  have  seen  her  in  our 
days  converted,  like  the  virgin  of  Nabis,  into  an 
instrument  of  torture. 

How  far  we  have  retrenched  these  excesses,  and 
uteered  between  the  opposites  of  exuberance  and 


abridgment,  the  judicious  are  left  to  determine. 
We  here  ofier  the  public  a  History  of  mankind, 
from  the  earliest  accounts  of  time  to  the  present 
age,  in  twelve  volumes,  which,  upon  mature  de- 
liberation, appeared  to  us  the  proper  mean.  It  has 
been  our  endeavour  to  give  every  fact  its  full  scope ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  to  retrench  all  disgusting 
superfluity,  to  give  every  object  the  due  proportion 
it  ought  to  maintain  in  the  general  picture  of  man- 
kind, without  crowding  the  canvass.  We  hope, 
therefore,  that  the  reader  will  here  see  the  revolu- 
tions of  empires  without  confusion,  and  trace  arts 
and  laws  from  one  kingdom  to  another,  without 
losing  his  interest  in  the  narrative  of  their  other 
transactions.  To  attain  these  ends  with  greater 
certainty  of  success,  we  have  taken  care,  in  some 
measure,  to  banish  that  late,  and  we  may  add 
Gothic,  practice,  of  using  a  multiplicity  of  notes ; 
a  thing  as  much  unknown  to  the  ancient  histo- 
rians, as  it  is  disgusting  in  the  moderns.  Balzac 
somewhere  calls  vain  erudition  the  baggage  of  an- 
tiquity; might  we  in  turn  be  permitted  to  make  an 
apophthegm,  we  would  call  notes  the  baggage  of  a 
bad  writer.  It  certainly  argues  a  defect  of  method, 
or  a  want  of  perspicuity,  when  an  author  is  thus 
obliged  to  write  notes  upon  his  own  works;  and  it 
may  assuredly  be  said,  that  whoever  undertakes  to 
write  a  comment  upon  himself,  will  for  ever  remain 
without  a  rival  his  own  commentator.  We  have, 
therefore,  lopped  off  such  excrescences,  though  not 
to  any  degree  of  affectation ;  as  sometimes  an  ac- 
knowledged blemish  may  be  admitted  into  works 
of  skill,  either  to  cover  a  greater  defect,  or  to  take 
a  nearer  course  to  beauty.  Having  mentioned  the 
danger  of  affectation,  it  may  be  proper  to  observe, 
that  as  this,  of  all  defects,  is  most  apt  to  insinuate 
itself  into  such  a  work,  we  have,  therefore,  been 
upon  our  guard  against  it.  Innovation,  in  a  per- 
formance of  this  nature,  should  by  no  means  be  at- 
tempted :  those  names  and  spellings  which  have 
been  used  in  our  language  for  time  immemorial, 
ought  to  continue  unaltered ;  for,  like  states,  they 
acquire  a  sort  of  jiis  diuturnce  possessionis,  as  the 
civilians  express  it,  however  unjust  their  original 
claims  might  have  been. 

With  respect  to  chronology  and  geography,  the 
one  of  which  fixes  actions  to  time,  while  the  other 
assigns  them  to  place,  we  have  followed  the  most 
approved  methods  among  the  moderns.  All  that 
was  requisite  in  this,  was  to  preserve  one  system 
of  each  invariably,  and  permit  such  as  chose  to 
adopt  the  plans  of  others  to  rectify  our  deviations 
to  their  own  standard.  If  actions  and  things  are 
made  to  preserve  their  due  distances  of  time  and 
place  mutually  with  respect  to  each  other,  it  matters 
little  as  to  the  duration  of  them  all  with  respect  to 
eternity,  or  their  situation  with  regard  to  the  uni- 
i  verse. 

Thus  much  we  have  thought  proper  to  premise 


230 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


concerning  a  work  which,  however  executed,  has 
cost  much  labour  and  great  expense.  Had  we  for 
our  judges  the  unbiassed  and  the  judicious  alone, 
few  words  would  have  served,  or  even  silence 
would  have  been  our  best  address ;  but  when  it  is 
considered  we  have  laboured  for  the  public,  that 
miscellaneous  being,  at  variance  within  itself,  from 
the  differing  influence  of  pride,  prejudice,  or  inca- 
pacity; a  public  already  sated  with  attempts  of 
this  nature,  and  in  a  manner  unwilling  to  find  out 
merit  till  forced  upon  its  notice,  we  hope  to  be 
pardoned  for  thus  endeavouring  to  show  where  it 
is  presumed  we  have  had  a  superiority.  A  His- 
tory of  the  World  to  the  present  time,  at  once  satis- 
factory and  succinct,  calculated  rather  for  use  than 
curiosity,  to  be  read  rather  than  consulted,  seeking  | 
applause  from  the  reader's  feelings,  not  from  his  \ 
ignorance  of  learning,  or  affectation  of  being! 
thought  learned,  a  history  that  may  be  purchased 
at  an  easy  expense,  yet  that  omits  nothing  mate- 
rial, delivered  in  a  style  correct,  yet  familiar,  was 
wanting  in  our  language,  and  though,  sensible  of 
our  own  insufficiency,  this  defect  we  have  attempted 
to  supply.  Whatever  reception  the  present  age  or 
posterity  may  give  this  work,  we  rest  satisfied  vvith 
our  own  endeavours  to  deserve  a  kind  one.  The 
completion  of  our  design  has  for  some  years  taken 
up  all  the  time  we  could  spare  from  other  occupa- 
tions, of  less  importance  indeed  to  the  public,  but 
probably  more  advantageous  to  ourselves.  We  are 
unwilling,  therefore,  to  dismiss  this  subject  without 
observing,  that  the  labour  of  so  great  a  part  of  life 
should,  at  least,  be  examined  with  candour,  and 
not  carelessly  confounded  in  that  multiplicity  of 
daily  publications,  which  are  conceived  without 
effort,  are  produced  without  praise,  and  sink  with- 
out censure. 


THE  PREFACE 

TO  THE 

ROMAN  HISTORY. 

BY  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

[First  printed  in  the  year  1769.] 
Ther»  are  some  subjects  on  which  a  writer 
must  decline  all  attempts  to  acquire  fame,  satisfied 
with  being  t)bscurely  useful.  After  such  a  num- 
ber of  Roman  Histories,  in  almost  all  languages, 
ancient  and  modern,  it  would  be  but  imposture  to 
pretend  new  discoveries,  or  to  expect  to  offer  any 
thing  in  a  work  of  this  kind,  which  has  not  been 
often  anticipated  by  others.  The  facts  which  it 
relates  have  been  a  hundred  times  repeated,  and 
every  occurrence  has  been  so  variously  considered 
that  learning  can  scarcely  find  a  new  anecdote,  or 
genius  give  novelty  to  the  old.  I  hope,  therefore, 
for  the  reader's  indulgence,  if,  in  the  following  at 
tempt,  it  shall  appear,  that  nay  only  aim  was  to 


supply  a  concise,  plain,  and  unaffected  narrative 
of  the  rise  and  decUne  of  a  well-known  empire.  I 
was  contented  to  make  such  a  book  as  could  not 
fail  of  being  serviceable,  though  of  all  others  the 
most  unlikely  to  promote  the  reputation  of  the 
writer.  Instead,  therefore,  of  pressing  forward 
among  the  ambitious,  I  only  claim  the  merit  of 
knowing  my  own  strength,  and  falling  back  among 
the  hindmost  ranks,  with  conscious  inferiority. 

I  am  not  ignorant,  however,  that  it  would  be  no 
difficult  task  to  pursue  the  same  art  by  which 
many  dull  men,  every  day,  acquire  a  reputation  in 
history :  such  might  easily  be  attained,  by  fixing 
on  some  obscure  period  to  write  upon,  where  much 
seeming  erudition  might  be  displayed,  almost  un- 
known, because  not  worth  remembering ;  and  many 
maxims  in  politics  might  be  advanced,  entirely 
new,  because  altogether  false.  But  1  have  pur- 
sued a  contrary  method,  choosing  the  most  noted 
period  in  history,  and  offering  no  remarks  but  such 
as  I  thought  strictly  true. 

The  reasons  of  my  choice  were,  that  we  had  no 
history  of  this  splendid  period  in  our  language  but 
what  was  either  too  voluminous  for  common  use, 
or  too  meanly  written  to  please.  Catrou  and 
Rouille's  history,  in  six  volumes  folio,  translated 
into  our  language  by  Bundy,  is  entirely  unsuited 
to  the  time  and  expense  mankind  usually  choose 
to  bestow  upon  this  subject.  RoUin  and  his  con- 
tinuator  Crevier,  making  nearly  thirty  volumes  oc- 
tavo, seem  to  labour  under  the  same  imputation ; 
as  hkiewise  Hooke,  who  has  spent  three  quartos 
upon  the  Republic  alone,  the  rest  of  his  under- 
taking remaining  unfinished.*  There  only,  there- 
fore, remained  the  history  by  Echard,  in  five  vo- 
lumes octavo,  whose  plan  and  mine  seem  to  coin- 
cide; and,  had  his  execution  been  equal  to  his  de 
sign,  it  had  precluded  the  present  undertaking. 
But  the  truth  is,  it  is  so  poorly  written,  the  facts  sc 
crowded,  the  narration  so  spiritless,  and  the  charac- 
ters so  indistinctly  marked,  that  the  most  ardent 
curiosity  must  cool  in  the  perusal;  and  the  noblest 
transactions  that  ever  warmed  the  human  heart, 
as  described  by  him,  must  cease  to  interest. 

1  have  endeavoured,  therefore,  in  the  present 
work,  or  rather  compilation,  to  obviate  the  incon^ 
veniences  arising  from  the  exuberance  of  the  for- 
mer, as  v/ell  as  from  the  unpl^santness  of  the 
latter.  It  was  supposed,  that  two  volumes  might 
be  made  to  comprise  all  that  was  requisite  to  be 
known,  or  pleasing  to  be  read,  by  such  as  only  ex- 
amined history  to  prepare  them  for  more  important 
studies.  Too  much  time  may  be  given  even  to 
laudable  pursuits,  and  there  is  none  more  apt  than 


*  Mr.  Hooke's  three  quartos  above  mentioned  reach  only 
to  the  end  of  the  Galhc  war.  A  fourth  volume,  to  the  end  of 
the  Republic,  was  afterwards  published  in  1771.  Dr.  Gold 
smith's  preface  was  written  in  1769.  Mr.  Hooke's  quartg 
edition  has  been  republished  in  eleven  volumes  octavo. 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


S31 


this  to  allure  the  student  from  the  necessary  branch- 
es of  learning,  and,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  entirely 
to  engross  his  industry.  What  is  here  offered, 
therefore,  may  be  sufficient  for  all,  except  such 
who  make  history  the  peculiar  business  of  their 
lives :  to  such,  the  most  tedious  narrative  will  seem 
but  an  abridgment,  as  they  measure  the  merits  of 
a  work,  rather  by  the  quantity  than  the  quality  of 
its  contents :  others,  however,  who  think  more  so- 
berly, will  agree,  that  in  so  extensive  a  field  as  that 
of  the  transactions  of  Rome,  more  judgment  may 
be  shown  by  selecting  what  is  important  than  by 
adding  what  is  obscure. 

The  history  of  this  empire  has  been  extended  to 
six  volumes  folio;  and  I  aver,  that,  with  very  little 
learning,  it  might  be  increased  to  sixteen  more ; 
but  what  would  this  be,  but  to  load  the  subject 
with  unimportant  facts,  and  so  to  weaken  the  nar- 
ration, that,  like  the  empire  described,  it  must 
necessarily  sink  beneath  the  weight  of  its  own 
acquisitions. 

But  while  I  thus  endeavoured  to  avoid  prolixity, 
it  was  found  no  easy  matter  to  prevent  crowding 
the  facts,  and  to  give  every  narrative  its  proper 
play.  In  reality,  no  art  can  contrive  to  avoid  op- 
posite defects;  he  who  indulges  in  minute  particu- 
larities will  be  often  languid ;  and  he  who  studies 
conciseness  will  as  frequently  be  dry  and  unenter- 
taining.  As  it  was  my  aim  to  comprise  as  much 
as  possible  in  the  smallest  compass,  it  is  feared  the 
worji  will  often  be  subject  to  the  latter  imputation ; 
but  it  was  impossible  to  furnish  the  public  with  a 
cheap  Roman  History  in  two  volumes  octavo,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  give  all  that  warmth  to  the 
narrative,  all  those  colourings  to  the  description, 
which  works  of  twenty  times  the  bulk  have  room 
to  exhibit.  I  shall  be  fully  satisfied,  therefore,  if 
it  furnishes  an  interest  sufficient  to  allure  the 
reader  to  the  end;  and  this  is  a  claim  to  which  few 
abridgments  can  justly  make  pretensions. 

To  these  objections  there  are  some  who  may 
add,  that  I  have  rejected  many  of  the  modern  im- 
provements in  Roman  History,  and  that  every 
character  is  left  in  full  possession  of  that  fame  or 
infamy  which  it  obtained  from  its  contemporaries, 
or  those  who  wrote  immediately  after. 

I  acknowledge  the  charge,  for  it  appears  now  too 
late  to  rejudge  the  virtues  or  the  vices  of  those 
anen,  who  were  but  very  incompletely  known  even 
to  their  own  historians.  The  Romans,  perhaps, 
upon  many  occasions,  formed  wrong  ideas  of  vir- 
tue; but  they  were  by  no  means  so  ignorant  or 
abandoned  in  general,  as  not  to  give  to  their  bright- 
est characters  the  greatest  share  of  their  applause; 
and  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  fair  to  try  Pagan 
actions  by  the  standard  of  Christian  morality. 

But  whatever  may  be  my  execution  of  this 
work,  I  have  very  little  doubt  about  the  success  of 
the  undertaking :  the  subject  is  the  noblest  that  ever 


employed  human  attention;  and,  instead  of  re- 
quiring a  writer's  aid,  will  even  support  him  with 
his  splendour.  The  Empire  of  the  "World,  rising 
from  the  meanest  origin,  and  growing  great  by  a 
strict  veneration  for  religion,  and  an  implicit  con- 
fidence in  its  commanders ;  continually  changing 
the  mode,  but  seldom  the  spirit  of  its  government; 
being  a  constitution,  in  which  the  military  power, 
whether  under  the  name  of  citizens  or  soldiers,  al- 
most always  prevailed ;  adopting  all  the  improve- 
ments of  other  nations  with  the  most  indefatigable 
industry,  and  submitting  to  be  taught  by  those 
whom  it  afterwards  subdued — this  is  a  picture 
that  must  affect  us,  however  it  be  disposed ;  these 
materials  must  have  their  value,  under  the  hand 
of  the  meanest  workman. 


THE  PREFACE 

TO   THE 

HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND 

BY   DR.  GOLDSMITH. 
[First  printed  in  1771.] 

From  the  favourable  reception  given  to  my 
abridgment  of  Roman  History,  published  some 
time  since,  several  friends,  and  others  whose  busi- 
ness leads  them  to  consult  the  wants  of  the  public, 
have  been  induced  to  suppose,  that  an  English 
History,  written  on  the  same  plan,  would  be  ac- 
ceptable. 

It  was  their  opinion,  that  we  still  wanted  a  work 
of  this  kind,  where  the  narrative,  though  very  con- 
cise, is  not  totally  without  interest,  and  the  facts, 
though  crowded,  are  yet  distinctly  seen. 

The  business  of  abridging  the  works  of  others 
has  hitherto  fallen  to  the  lot  of  very  dull  men ;  and 
the  art  of  blotting,  which  an  eminent  critic  calls  the 
most  difficult  of  all  others,  has  been  u.sually  prac- 
tised by  those  who  found  themselves  unable  to 
write.  Hence  our  abridgments  are  generally  more 
tedious  than  the  works  from  which  they  pretend  to 
relieve  us;  and  they  have  effectually  embarrassed 
that  road  which  they  laboured  to  shorten. 

As  the  present  compiler  starts  with  such  humble 
competitors,  it  will  scarcely  be  thought  vanity  in 
him  if  he  boasts  himself  their  superior.  Of  the 
many  abridgments  of  our  ovvri  history,  hitherto 
pubUshed,  none  seems  possessed  of  any  share  of 
merit  or  reputation ;  some  have  been  written  in 
dialogue,  or  merely  in  the  stiffness  of  an  index,  and 
some  to  answer  the  purposes  of  a  party.  A  very 
small  share  of  taste,  therefore,  was  sufficient  to 
keep  the  compiler  from  the  defects  of  the  one,  and 
a  very  small  share  of  philosophy  from  the  misrepre- 
sentations of  the  other. 

It  is  not  easy,  however,  to  satisfy  the  different 
expectations  of  piankirjjjl  in  a  work  of  this  kind, 


333 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


calculated  for  every  apprehension,  and  on  which 
all  are  consequently  capable  of  forming  some  judg 
ment.  Some  may  say  that  it  is  too  long  to  pass 
under  the  denomination  of  an  abridgment;  and 
others,  that  it  is  too  dry  to  be  admitted  as  a  history; 
it  may  be  objected,  that  reflection  is  almost  entirely 
banished  to  make  room  for  facts,  and  yet,  that 
many  facts  are  wholly  omitted,  which  might  be 
necessary  to  be  known.  It  must  be  confessed,  that 
all  those  objections  are  partly  true ;  for  it  is  impos- 
sible in  the  same  work  at  once  to  attain  contrary 
advantages.  The  compiler,  who  is  stinted  in  room, 
must  often  sacrifice  interest  to  brevity ;  and  on  the 
other  hand,  while  he  endeavours  to  amuse,  must 
frequently  transgress  the  limits  to  which  his  plan 
should  confine  him.  Thus,  all  such  as  desire  only 
amusement  may  be  disgusted  with  his  brevity ;  and 
such  as  seek  for  information  may  object  to  his  dis- 
placing facts  for  empty  description. 

To  attain  the  greatest  number  of  advantages 
with  the  fewest  inconveniences,  is  all  that  can  be 
attained  in  an  abridgment,  the  name  of  which  im- 
pUes  imperfection.  It  will  be  sufficient,  therefore, 
to  satisfy  the  writer's  wishes,  if  the  present  work 
be  found  a  plain,  unaflfected  narrative  of  facts,  with 
just  ornament  enough  to  keep  attention  awake, 
and  with  reflection  barely  sufficient  to  set  the  read- 
er upon  thinking.  Very  moderate  abilities  were 
equal  to  such  an  undertaking,  and  it  is  hoped  the 
performance  will  satisfy  such  as  take  up  books  to 
be  informed  or  amused,  without  much  considering 
who  the  writer  is,  or  envying  any  success  he  may 
have  had  in  a  former  compilation. 

As  the  present  publication  is  designed  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  intend  to  lay  a  foundation  for 
future  study,  or  desire  to  refresh  their  memories 
upon  the  old,  or  who  think  a  moderate  share  of  his- 
tory sufficient  for  the  purposes  of  Ufe,  recourse  has 
been  had  only  to  those  authors  which  are  best 
known,  and  those  facts  only  have  been  selected 
which  are  allowed  on  all  hands  to  b^rue.  Were 
an  epitome  of  history  the  field  for  displaying  erudi- 
tion, the  author  could  show  that  he  has  read  many 
books  which  others  have  neglected,  and  that  he  also 
could  advance  many  anecdotes  which  are  at  present 
very  little  known.  But  it  must  be  remembered, 
that  all  these  minute  recoveries  could  be  inserted 
only  to  the  exclusion  of  more  material  facts,  which 
it  would  he  unpardonable  to  omit.  He  foregoes, 
therefore,  the  petty  ambition  of  being  thought  a  read- 
er of  forgotten  books ;  his  aim  being  not  to  add  to 
our  present  stock  of  history,  but  to  contract  it. 

The  books  which  have  been  used  in  this  abridge 
ment  are  chiefly  Rapin,  Carte,  Smollett,  and 
Hume,  They  have  each  their  peculiar  admirers, 
in  proportion  as  the  reader  is  studious  of  historical 
antiquities,  fond  of  minute  anecdote,  a  warm  par- 
tisan or  a  deliberate  reasoner.  Of  these  I  have 
particularly  taken  Hume  for  my  guide,  as  far  as  he 


goes ;  and  it  is  but  justice  to  say,  that  wherever 
was  obliged  to  abridge  his  work,  I  did  it  with  re- 
luctance, as  I  scarcely  cut  out  a  single  line  that  did 
not  contain  a  beauty. 

But  though  I  must  warmly  subscribe  to  the  learn- 
ing, elegance,  and  depth  of  Mr,  Hume's  history, 
yet  I  can  not  entirely  acquiesce  in  his  principles. 
With  regard  to  religion,  he  seems  desirous  of  play- 
ing a  double  part,  of  appearing  to  some  readers  as 
if  he  reverenced,  and  to  others  as  if  he  ridiculed  it. 
He  seems  sensible  of  the  political  necessity  of  religion 
in  every  state ;  but  at  the  same  time,  he  would  every 
where  insinuate  that  it  owes  its  authority  to  no 
higher  an  origin.  Thus  he  weakens  its  influence, 
while  he  contends  for  its  utility  ;  and  vainly  hopes, 
that  while  free-thinkers  shall  applaud  his  scepti- 
cism, real  believers  will  reverence  him  for  his  zeal. 

In  his  opinions  respecting  government,  perhaps 
also  he  may  sometimes  be  reprehensible ;  but  in  a 
country  like  ours,  where  mutual  contention  con- 
tributes to  the  security  of  the  constitution,  it  will 
be  impossible  for  an  historian  who  attempts  to 
have  any  opinion  to  satisfy  all  parties.  It  is  not 
yet  decided  in  politics,  whether  the  diminution  of 
kingly  power  in  England  tends  to  increase  the 
happiness  or  the  freedom  of  the  people.  For  my 
own  part,  from  seeing  the  bad  effects  of  the  tyran- 
ny of  the  great  in  those  republican  states  that  pre- 
tend to  be  free,  I  can  not  help  wishing  that  our 
monarchs  may  still  be  allowed  to  enjoy  the  power 
of  controlling  the  encroachments  of  the  great  at 
home. 

A  king  may  easily  be  restrained  from  doing 
wrong,  as  he  is  but  one  man;  but  if  a  number  of 
the  great  are  permitted  to  divide  all  authority,  who 
can  punish  them  if  they  abuse  it?  Upon  this  princi- 
ple, therefore,  and  not  from  empty  notions  of  divine 
or  hereditary  right,  some  may  think  I  have  leaned 
towards  monarchy.  But  as,  in  the  things  1  have 
hitherto  written,  1  have  neither  allured  the  vanity 
of  the  great  by  flattery,  nor  satisfied  the  malignity 
of  the  vulgar  by  scandal,  as  I  have  endeavoured  to 
get  an  honest  reputation  by  liberal  pursuits,  it  is 
hoped  the  reader  will  admit  my  impartiality. 


THE  PREFACE 

TO  A 

HISTORY  OF  THE  EARTH 

AND 

ANIMATED  NATURE. 

BY  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

[First  printed  in  the  year  1774.] 

Natural  History,  considered  in  its  utmost  ex- 
tent, comprehends  two  objects.  First,  that  of  dis- 
covering, ascertaining,  and  naming  all  the  various 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


233 


productions  of  nature.     Secondly,  that  of  describ- 1  history  may,  in  some  measure,  be  compared  to 


ing  the  properties,  manners,  and  relations,  which 
they  bear  to  us,  and  to  each  other.  The  first, 
which  is  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  science,  is 
systematical,  dry,  mechanical,  and  incomplete.  The 
second  is  more  amusing,  exhibits  new  pictures  to 
the  imagination,  and  improves  our  relish  for  exist- 
ence, by  widening  the  prospect  of  nature  around 
us. 

Both,  however,  are  necessary  to  those  who  would 
understand  this  pleasing  science  in  its  utmost  ex- 
tent. The  first  care  of  every  inquirer,  no  doubt, 
should  be,  to  see,  to  visit,  and  examine  every  ob- 
ject, before  he  pretends  to  inspect  its  habitudes  or 
its  history.  From  seeing  and  observing  the  thing 
itself,  he  is  most  naturally  led  to  speculate  upon 
its  uses,  its  delights,  or  its  inconveniences. 

Numberless  obstructions,  however,  are  found  in 
this  part  of  his  pursuit,  that  frustrate  his  diligence 
and  retard  his  curiosity.  The  objects  in  nature 
are  so  many,  and  even  those  of  the  same  kind  are 
exhibited  in  such  a  variety  of  forms,  that  the  in- 
quirer finds  himself  lost  in  the  exuberance  before 
him,  and,  like  a  man  who  attempts  to  count  the 
stars  unassisted  by  art,  his  powers  are  all  distracted 
in  barren  superfluity. 

To  remedy  this  embarrassment,  artificial  systems 
have  been  devised,  which,  grouping  into  masses 
those  parts  of  nature  more  nearly  resembling  each 
other,  refer  the  inquirer  for  the  name  of  the  single 
object  he  desires  to  know,  to  some  one  of  those 
general  distributions  where  it  is  to  be  found  by  fur- 
ther examination.  If,  for  instance,  a  man  should 
in  his  walks  meet  with  an  animal,  the  name,  and 
consequently  the  history  of  which  he  desires  to 
know,  he  is  taught  by  systematic  writers  of  natural 
history  to  examine  its  most  obvious  qualities,  wheth- 
er a  quadruped,  a  bird,  a  fish,  or  an  insect.  Having 
determined  it,  for  explanation  sake,  to  be  an  insect, 
he  examines  whether  it  has  wings;  if  he  finds  it 
possessed  of  these,  he  is  taught  to  examine  whether 
it  has  two  or  four;  if  possessed  of  four,  he  is  taught 
to  observe,  whether  the  two  upper  wings  are  of  a 
shelly  hardness,  and  serve  as  cases  to  those  under 
them ;  if  he  finds  the  wings  composed  in  this  man- 
ner, he  is  then  taught  to  pronounce,  that  this  in- 
sect is  one  of  the  beetle  kind  :  of  the  beetle  kind 
there  are  tkree  different  classes,  distinguished  from 
each  other  by  their  feelers ;  he  examines  the  insect 
before  him,  and  finds  that  the  feelers  are  elevated 
o»  knobbed  at  the  ends ;  of  beetles,  with  feelers 
thus  formed,  there  are  ten  kinds,  and  among  those, 
he  is  taught  to  look  for  the  precise  name  of  that 
which  is  before  him.  If,  for  instance,  the  knob  be 
divided  at  the  ends,  and  the  belly  be  streaked  with 
white,  it  is  no  other  than  the  Dor  or  the  May-bug, 
an  animal,  the  noxious  qualities  of  which  give  it  a 
very  distinguished  rank  in  the  history  of  the  insect 
creation.     In  this  manner,  a  system  of  natural 


dictionary  of  words.  Both  are  solely  intended  to 
explain  the  names  of  things;  but  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  in  the  dictionary  of  words,  we  are  led 
from  the  name  of  the  thing  to  its  definition,  where- 
as, in  the  system  of  natural  history,  we  are  led 
from  the  definition  to  find  out  the  name. 

Such  are  the  efibrts  of  writers,  who  have  com- 
posed their  works  with  great  labour  and  ingenuity, 
to  direct  the  learner  in  his  progress  through  na- 
ture, and  to  inform  him  of  the  name  of  every  ani- 
mal, plant,  or  fossil  substance,  that  he  happens  to 
meet  with;  but  it  would  be  only  deceiving  the 
reader  to  conceal  the  truth,  which  is,  that  books 
alone  can  never  teach  him  this  art  in  perfection ; 
and  the  solitary  student  can  never  succeed.  With- 
out a  master,  and  a  previous  knowledge  of  mam 
of  the  objects  in  nature,  his  book  will  only  serve  t( 
confound  and  disgust  him.  Few  of  the  individual 
plants  or  animals  that  he  may  happen  to  meet 
with  are  in  that  precise  state  of  health,  or  that  ex- 
act period  of  vegetation,  whence  their  descriptions 
were  taken.  Perhaps  he  meets  the  plant  onlj 
with  leaves,  but  the  systematic  writer  has  describee 
it  in  flower.  Perhaps  he  meets  the  bird  before  ii 
has  moulted  its  first  feathers,  while  the  systematic 
description  was  made  in  the  state  of  full  perfection. 
He  thus  ranges  without  an  instructor,  confused 
and  with  sickening  curiosity,  from  subject  to  sub- 
ject, till  at  last  he  gives  up  the  pursuit  in  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  his  disappointments.  Some  practice, 
therefore,  much  instruction,  and  diligent  reading, 
are  requisite  to  make  a  ready  and  expert  natural- 
ist, who  shall  be  able,  even  by  the  iu  Ip  of  a  sys- 
tem, to  find  out  the  name  of  every  object  he  meets 
with.  But  when  this  tedious,  though  requisite 
part  of  study  is  attained,  nothing  but  delight  and 
variety  attend  the  rest  of  hisjouq3ey.  Wherever 
he  travels,  like  a  man  in  a  country  where  he  hat 
many  friends,  he  meets  with  nothing  but  acquaint- 
ances and  allurements  in  all  the  stages  of  his  way. 
The  mere  uninformed  spectator  passes  on  in  gloomy 
solitude,  but  the  naturalist,  in  every  plant,  in  every 
insect,  and  every  pebble,  finds  something  to  enter- 
tain his  curiosity,  and  excite  his  speculation. 

Hence  it  appears,  that  a  system  may  be  con- 
sidered as  a  dictionary  in  the  study  of  nature.  The 
ancients,  however,  who  have  all  written  most  de- 
lightfully on  this  subject,  seem  entirely  to  have  re- 
jected those  humble  and  mechanical  helps  of  sci- 
ence. They  contented  themselves  with  seizing 
upon  the  great  outUnes  of  history ;  and  passing  over 
what  was  common,  as  not  worth  the  detail,  they 
only  dwelt  upon  what  was  new,  great,  and  sur- 
prising, and  sometimes  even  warmed  the  imagina- 
tion at  the  expense  of  truth.  Suo  i  of  th^  moderns 
as  revived  this  science  in  Europe,  undertook  the 
task  more  methodically,  though  not  in  a  manner 
so  pleasing.     Aldrovandus,  Gesner,  and  Jonston, 


234 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


seemed  desirous  of  uniting  the  entertaining  and 
rich  descriptions  of  the  ancients  with  the  dry  and 
systematic  arrangement  of  which  they  were  the 
first  projectors.  This  attempt,  however,  was  ex- 
tremely imperfect,  as  the  great  variety  of  nature 
was,  as  yet,  but  very  inadequately  known.  Never- 
theless, by  attempting  to  carry  on  both  objects  at 
once ;  first,  of  directing  us  to  the  name  of  the  thing, 
and  then  giving  the  detail  of  its  history,  they  drew 
out  their  works  into  a  tedious  and  unreasonable 
length;  and  thus  mixing  incompatible  aims,  they 
have  left  their  labours  rather  to  be  occasionally 
consulted,  than  read  with  delight  by  posterity. 

The  later  moderns,  with  that  good  sense  which 
they  have  carried  into  every  other  part  of  science, 
have  taken  a  different  method  in  cultivating  na- 
tural history.  They  have  been  content  to  give, 
not  only  the  brevity,  but  also  the  dry  and  disgusting 
air  of  a  dictionary  to  their  systems.  Ray,  Klein, 
Brisson,  and  Linnseus,  have  had  only  one  aim, 
that  of  pointing  out  the  object  in  nature,  of  discov- 
ering its  name,  and  where  it  was  to  be  found  in 
those  authors  that  treated  of  it  in  a  more  prolix  and 
satisfactory  manner.  Thus,  natural  history,  at 
present,  is  carried  on  in  two  distinct  and  separate 
channels,  the  one  serving  to  lead  us  to  the  thing, 
the  other  conveying  the  history  of  the  thing,  as 
supposing  it  already  known. 

The  following  natural  history  is  written  with 
only  such  an  attention  to  system  as  serves  to  re- 
move the  reader's  embarrassments,  and  allure  him 
to  proceed.  It  can  make  no  pretensions  in  direct- 
ing him  to  the  name  of  every  object  he  meets  with; 
that  belongs  to  works  of  a  very  different  kind,  and 
written  with  very  different  aims.  It  will  fully 
answer  my  design,  if  the  reader,  being  already 
possessed  of  the  name  of  any  animal,  shall  find 
here  a  short,  thoi%h  satisfactory  history  of  its  habi- 
tudes, its  subsistence,  its  manners,  its  friendships, 
and  hostilities.  My  aim  has  been  to  carry  on  just 
as  much  method  as  was  sufficient  to  shorten  my 
descriptions  by  generalizing  them,  and  never  to 
follow  order  where  the  art  of  writing,  which  is  but 
another  name  for  good  sense,  informed  me  that  it 
would  only  contribute  to  the  reader's  embarrass 
ment. 

Still,  however,  the  reader  will  perceive,  that  I 
have  formed  a  kind  of  system  in  the  history  ot 
every  part  of  animated  nature,  directing  myself  by 
the  great  and  obvious  distinctions  that  she  herself 
seems  to  have  made,  which,  though  too  few  to 
point  exactly  to  the  name,  are  yet  sufficient  to  il- 
luminate the  subject,  and  remove  the  reader's  per- 
plexity. M.  Buflbn,  indeed,  who  has  brought 
greater  talents  to  this  part  of  learning  than  any 
other  man,  has  almost  entirely  rejected  method  in 
classing  quadrupeds.  This,  with  great  deference 
to  such  a  character,  appears  to  me  running  into  the 
opposite  extreme;  and,  as  some  moderns  have  of 


late  spent  much  time,  great  pains,  and  some  leariv  • 
ing,  all  to  very  Uttle  purpose,  in  systematic  arrange- 
ment, he  seems  so  much  disgusted  by  their  trifling, 
but  ostentatious  efforts,  that  he  describes  his  ani- 
mals almost  in  the  order  they  happen  to  come  be- 
fore him. 

This  want  of  method  seems  to  be  a  fault,  but  he 
can  lose  little  by  a  criticism  which  every  dull  man 
can  make,  or  by  an  error  in  arrangement,  from 
which  the  dullest  are  the  most  usually  free. 

In  other  respects,  as  far  as  this  able  philosopher 
has  gone,  I  have  taken  him  for  my  guide.  The 
warmth  of  his  style,  and  the  brilliancy  of  his  imagi- 
nation, are  inimitable.  Leaving  him,  therefore, 
without  a  rival  in  these,  and  only  availing  myself 
of  his  information,  I  have  been  content  to  describe 
things  in  my  own  way,  and  though  many  of  the 
materials  are  taken  from  him,  yet  I  have  added,  re- 
trenched, and  altered,  as  I  thought  proper.  It  was 
my  intention,  at  one  time,  whenever  I  differed 
from  him,  to  have  mentioned  it  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page;  but  this  occurred  so  often,  that  I  soon 
found  it  would  look  like  envy,  and  might,  perhaps, 
convict  me  of  those  very  errors  which  I  was  want- 
ing to  lay  upon  him. 

I  have,  therefore,  as  being  every  way  his  debtor, 
concealed  my  dissent,  where  my  opinion  was  differ- 
ent ;  but  wherever  I  borrow  from  him,  I  take  care 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page  to  express  my  obliga- 
tions. But,  though  my  obligations  to  this  writer 
are  many,  they  extend  but  to  the  smallest  part  of 
the  work,  as  he  has  hitherto  completed  only  the 
history  of  quadrupeds.  I  was,  therefore,  left  to 
my  reading  alone,  to  make  out  the  history  of  birds, 
fishes,  and  insects,  of  which  the  arrangement  was 
so  difficult,  and  the  necessary  information  so  wide- 
ly diffused,  and  so  obscurely  related  when  found, 
that  it  proved  by  much  the  most  laborious  part  of 
the  undertaking.  Thus,  having  made  use  of  M. 
Buffon's  lights  in  the  first  part  of  this  work,  I  may, 
with  some  share  of  confidence,  recommend  it  to  the 
public.  But  what  shall  I  say  of  that  part,  where 
I  have  been  entirely  left  without  his  assistance  1 
As  I  would  affect  neither  modesty  nor  confidence, 
it  will  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  my  reading  upon 
this  part  of  the  subject  has  been  very  extensive; 
and  that  I  have  taxed  my  scanty  circumstanc<;s  in 
procuring  books,  which  are  on  this  subject,  of  all 
others,  the  most  expensive.  In  consequence  of 
this  industry,  I  here  offer  a  work  to  the  public,  oi' 
a  kind  which  has  never  been  attempted  in  ours,  oi 
any  other  modern  language  that  I  know  of.  The 
ancients,  indeed,  and  PUny  in  particular,  have  an- 
ticipated me  in  the  present  manner  of  treating  na- 
tural liistory.  Like  those  historians  who  described 
the  events  of  a  campaign,  they  have  not  conde- 
scended to  give  the  private  particulars  of  every  in- 
dividual that  formed  the  army;  they  were  content 
with  characterising  the  generals,  and  describing 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


23d 


their  operations,  while  they  left  it  to  meaner  hands 
to  carry  the  muster-roll.  I  have  followed  their 
manner,  rejecting  the  numerous  fables  which  they 
adopted,  and  adding  the  improvements  of  the  mod- 
erns, which  are  so  numerous,  that  they  actually 
make  up  the  bulk  of  natural  history. 

The  deHght  which  I  found  in  reading  Pliny, 
first  inspired  me  with  the  idea  of  a  work  of  this 
nature.  Having  a  taste  rather  classical  than  sci- 
entific, and  having  but  little  employed  myself  in 
turning  over  the  dry  labours  of  modern  system- 
makers,  my  earliest  intention  was  to  translate  this 
agreeable  writer,  and,  by  the  help  of  a  commentary, 
to  make  my  work  as  amusing  as  I  could.  Let  us 
dignify  natural  history  ever  so  much  with  the 
grave  appellation  of  a  useful  science,  yet  still  we 
must  confess,  that  it  is  the  occupation  of  the  idle 
and  the  speculative,  more  than  of  the  ambitious 
part  of  mankind.  My  intention  was  to  treat  what 
I  then  conceived  to  be  an  idle  subject,  in  an  idle 
manner ;  and  not  to  hedge  round  plain  and  simple 
narrative  with  hard  words,  accumulated  distinc 
tions,  ostentatious  learning,  and  disquisitions  that 
produced  no  conviction.  Upon  the  appearance, 
however,  of  M.  BufFon's  work,  I  dropped  my 
former  plan  and  adopted  the  present,  being  con- 
vinced by  his  manner,  that  the  best  imitation  of 
the  ancients  was  to  write  from  our  own  feelings, 
and  to  imitate  nature. 

It  will  be  my  chief  pride,  therefore,  if  this  work 
may  he  found  an  innocent  amusement  for  tho?e 
who  have  nothing  else  to  employ  them,  or  who  re- 
quire a  relaxation  from  labour.     Professed  natu-  i 
ralists  will,  no  doubt,  find  it  superficial ;  and  vet  1  ■ 
should  hope,  that  even  these  will  discover  hints  ' 
and  remarks,  gleaned  from  various  reading,   not  | 
wholly  trite  or  elementary  ;  I  would  wish  for  their  i 
approbation.     But  my  chief  ambition  is  to  drag  up 
the  obscure  >»nd  gloomy  learning  of  the  cell  to 
open  inspe^:J%»n ;  to  strip  it  from  its  garb  of  aus- 
terity, and  »osaow  the  beauties  of -that  form,  which 
only  tb«  >nimsirious  and  the  inquisitive  have  been 
h»th'*yV  xirmitted  to  approach. 


PREFACE 


TO  THE 


•^eAUTIES  OF  ENGLISH  POETRY. 

[First  printed  in  the  year  1767.] 

My  bookseller  having  informed  me  that  there 
vas  no  collection  of  English  Poetry  among  us,  of 
Any  estimation,  I  thought  a  few  hours  spent  in 
making  a  proper  selection  would  not  be  ill  be- 
•rtowed. 

Compilations  of  this  kind  are  chiefly  designed 
«>r  such  as  either  want  leisure,  skill,  or  fortune,  to 


choose  for  themselves ;  for  persons  whose  profes- 
sions turn  them  to  different  pursuits,  or  who,  not 
yet  arrived  at  sufficient  maturity,  require  a  guide  ^^ 
to  direct  their  application.  To  our  youth,  particu- 
larly, a  publication  of  this  sort  may  be  useful; 
since,  if  compiled  with  any  share  of  judgment,  it 
may  at  once  unite  precept  and  example,  show  them 
what  is  beautiful,  and  inform  them  why  it  is  so ; 
I  therefore  offer  this,  to  the  best  of  my  judgment, 
as  the  best  collection  that  has  as  yet  appeared; 
though,  as  tastes  are  various,  numbers  will  be  of  a 
very  different  opinion.  Many,  perhaps,  may  wish 
to  see  it  in  the  poems  of  their  favourite  authors, 
others  may  wish  that  I  had  selected  from  works  less 
generally  read,  and  others  still  may  wish  that  I  had 
selected  from  their  own.  But  my  design  was  to 
give  a  useful,  unaffected  compilation  ;  one  that 
might  tend  to  advance  the  reader's  taste,  and  not  *^ 
impress  him  with  exalted  ideas  of  mine.  Nothing 
is  so  common,  and  yet  so  absurd,  as  affectation  in  ^^^ 
criticism.  The  desire  of  being  thought  to  have  a 
more  discerning  taste  than  others,  has  often  led 
writers  to  labour  after  error,  and  to  be  foremost  in 
promoting  deformity. 

In  this  compilation,  I  run  but  few  risks  of  that 
kind ;  every  poem  here  is  well  known,  and  possessed, 
or  the  pubUc  has  been  long  mistaken,  of  peculiar 
merit ;  every  poem  has,  as  Aristotle  expresses  it,  a  ^ 
beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  in  which,  how- 
ever trifling  the  rule  may  seem,  most  of  the  poetry 
in  our  language  is  deficient.  I  claim  no  merit  in 
the  choice,  as  it  was  obvious,  for  in  all  languages 
best  productions  are  most  easily  found.  As  to  the  >^ 
short  introductory  criticisms  to  each  poem,  they 
are  rather  designed  for  boys  than  men ;  for  it  will 
be  seen  that  I  dechned  all  refinement,  satisfied 
with  being  obvious  and  sincere.  In  short,  if  this 
work  be  useful  in  schools,  or  amusing  in  the  closet, 
the  merit  all  belongs  to*  others ;  I  have  nothing  to 
boast,  and  at  best  can  expect,  not  applause  but 
pardon. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 

This  seems  to  be  Mr.  Pope's  most  finished  pro- 
duction, and  is,  perhaps,  the  most  perfect  in  oui 
language.  It  exhibits  stronger  powers  of  imagi- 
nation, more  harmony  of  numbers,  and  a  greater 
knowledge  of  the  world  than  any  other  of  this 
poet's  works ;  and  it  is  probable,  if  our  country 
were  called  upon  to  show  a  specimen  of  their 
genius  to  foreigners,  this  would  be  the  work  fixed 
upon. 

IL  PENSEROSO. 

I  have  heard  a  very  judicious  critic  say,  that  he 
had  a  higher  idea  of  Milton's  stvle  in  poetry,  froni 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  two  following  poems,  than  from  his  Paradise 
Lost.  It  is  certain,  the  imagination  shown  in 
them  is  correct  and  strong.  The  introduction  to 
both  in  irregular  measure  is  borrowed  from  the 
Italians,  and  hurts  an  English  ear. 

AN  ELEGY, 

WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD. 

This  is  a  very  fine  poem,  but  overloaded  with 
epithet.  The  heroic  measure,  with  alternate 
rhyme,  is  very  properly  adapted  to  the  solemnity  of 
the  subject,  as  it  is  the  slowest  movement  that  our 
language  admits  of, ,  The  latter  part  of  the  poem 
is  pathetic  and  interesting. 

LONDON, 

IN  IMITATION  OF   THE  THIRD  SATIRE  OF  JUVENAL. 

This  poem  of  Mr,  Johnson's  is  the  best  imita- 
tion of  the  original  that  has  appeared  in  our  lan- 
guage, being  possessed  of  all  the  force  and  satirical 
resentment  of  Juvenal.  Imitation  gives  us  a  much 
truer  idea  of  the  ancients  than  even  translation 
could  do. 

THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS, 

IN  IMITATION  OF   SPENSER. 

This  poem  is  one  of  those  happinesses  in  which 
a  poet  excels  himself,  as  there  is  nothing  in  all 
Shenstone  which  any  way  approaches  it  in  merit ; 
and,  though  I  dislike  the  imitations  of  our  old 
English  poets  in  general,  yet,  on  this  minute  sub- 
ject, the  antiquity  of  the  style  produces  a  very 
ludicrous  solemnity. 

COOPER'S  HILL. 

This  poem  by  Denham,  though  it  may  have 
been  exceeded  by  later  attempts  in  description,  yet 
deserves  the  highest  applause,  as  it  far  surpasses 
all  that  went  before  it;  the  concluding  part, 
though  a  little  too  much  crowded,  is  very  masterly. 

ELOISA  TO  ABELARD. 

The  harmony  of  numbers  in  this  poem  is  very 
fine.  It  is  rather  drawn  out  to  too  tedious  a 
length,  although  the  pas^ons  vary  with  great 
judgment.  It  may  be  considered  as  superior  to 
any  thing  in  the  epistolary  way ;  and  the  many 
translations  which  have  been  made  of  it  into  the 
modern  languages,  are  in  some  measure  a  proof  of 
this. 

AN  EPISTLE  FROM  MR.  PHILIPS 

TO  THE 

EARL  OF  DORSET. 

The  opening  of  this  poem  is  incomparably  fine. 
The  latter  part  is  tedious  and  trifling. 


A  LETTER  FROM  ITALY 

TO  THE 

RIGHT  HONOURABLE  CHARLES 
LORD  HALIFAX,  1701. 

Few  poems  have  done  more  honour  to  English 
genius  than  this.  There  is  in  it  a  strain  of  politi- 
cal thinking  that  was,  at  that  time,  new  in  our 
poetry.  Had  the  harmony  of  this  been  equal  to 
that  of  Pope's  versification,  it  would  be  incontesta- 
bly  the  finest  poem  in  our  language ;  but  there  is 
a  dryness  in  the  numbers,  which  greatly  lessens 
the  pleasure  excited  both  by  the  poet's  judgment 
and  imagination. 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;  or,  THE 
POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

AN  ODE  IN  HONOUR  OF  ST..  CECILIA'S  DAY. 

This  ode  has  been  more  applauded,  perhaps, 
than  it  has  been  felt;  however,  it  is  a  very  fine  one, 
and  gives  its  beauties  rather  at  a  third  or  fourth, 
than  at  a  first  perusal. 

ODE  FOR  MUSIC   ON  ST.  CECILIA'S 
DAY. 

This  ode  has  by  many  been  thouglit  equal  to 
the  former.  As  it  is  a  repetition  of.  Dry  den's  man- 
ner, it  is  so  far  inferior  to  him.  The  whole  hint 
of  Orpheus,  with  many  of  the  lines,  has  been 
taken  from  an  obscure  Ode  upon  Music,  published 
in  Tate's  Miscellanies. 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  WEEK, 

IN  SIX  PASTORALS. 

These  are  Mr.  Gay's  principal  performance. 
They  were  originally  intended,  I  suppose,  as  a 
burlesque  on  those  of  Phillips ;  but  perhaps,  with- 
out designing  it,  he  has  hit  the  true  spirit  of  pasto- 
ral poetry.  In  fact  he  more  resembles  Theocritus 
than  any  other  English  pastoral  writer  whatsoever. 
There  runs  through  the  whole  a  strain  of  rustic 
pleasantry,  which  should  ever  distinguish  this  spe- 
cies of  composition ;  but  how  far  the  antiquated 
expressions  used  here  may  contribute  to  the  hu- 
mour, I  will  not  determine ;  for  my  own  part,  I 
could  wish  the  simplicity  were  preserved,  without 
recurring  to  such  obsolete  antiquity  for  the  manner 
of  expressing  it. 

MAC  FLECKNOE. 

The  severity  of  this  satire,  and  the  excellence  of 
its  versification,  give  it  a  distinguished  rank  in  this 
species  of  composition.  At  present,  an  ordinary 
reader  would  scarcely  suppose  that  Shadwell,  who 
is  here  meant  by  Mac  Flecknoe,  was  worth  being 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


237 


chastised;  and  that  Dryden,  descending  to  such 
game,  was  hke  an  eagle  stooping  to  catch  flies. 

The  truth  however  is,  Shadwell  at  one  time  held 
divided  reputation  with  this  great  poet.  Every  age 
produces  its  fashionable  dunces,  who,  by  following 
the  transient  topic  or  humour  of  the  day,  supply 
talkative  ignorance  with  materials  for  conversation. 

ON  POETRY.— A  Rhapsody. 

Here  follows  one  of  the  best  versified  poems  in 
our  language,  and  the  most  masterly  production  of 
its  author.  The  severity  with  which  Walpole  is 
here  treated,  was  in  consequence  of  that  minister's 
having  refused  to  provide  for  Swift  in  England, 
when  applied  to  for  that  purpose,  in  the  year  1725 
(If  I  remember  right).  The  severity  of  a  poet, 
however,  gave  Walpole  very  little  uneasiness.  A 
man  whose  schemes,  like  this  minister's,  seldom 
extended  beyond  the  exigency  of  the  year,  but  little 
regarded  the  contempt  of  posterity. 

OF  THE  USE  OF  RICHES. 

This  poem,  as  Mr.  Pope  tells  us  himself,  cost 
much  attention  and  labour;  and  from  the  easiness 
that  appears  in  it,  one  would  be  apt  to  think  as 
much. 

FROM  THE  DISPENSARY.— Canto  VI. 

This  sixth  canto  of  the  Dispensary,  by  Dr. 
Garth,  has  more  merit  than  the  whole  preceding 
part  of  the  poem,  and,  as  I  am  told,  in  the  first  edi- 
tion of  this  work,  it  is  more  correct  than  as  here 
exhibited ;  but  that  edition  I  have  not  been  able  to 
find.  The  praises  bestowed  on  this  poem  are  more 
than  have  been  given  to  any  other ;  but  our  appro- 
bation at  present  is  cooler,  for  it  owed  part  of  its 
fame  to  party. 

SELIM;  OR,  THE  SHEPHERD'S  MORAL. 

The  following  eclogues,  written  by  Mr.  Collins, 
are  very  pretty ;  the  images,  it  must  be  owned,  are 
not  very  local ;  for  the  pastoral  subject  could  not 
well  admit  of  it.  The  description  of  Asiatic  mag- 
nificence and  manners  is  a  subject  as  yet  unat- 
tempted  among  us,  and,  I  believe,  capable  of  fur- 
nishing a  great  variety  of  poetical  imagery. 

THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 

This  is  reckoned  the  best  parody  of  Milton  in 
our  language :  it  has  been  a  hundred  times  imi- 
tated without  success.  T  he  truth  is,  the  first  thing 
in  this  way  must  preclude  all  future  attempts ;  for 
nothing  is  so  easy  as  to  burlesque  any  man's  man- 
ner, when  we  are  once  showed  the  way. 

A  PIPE  OF  TOBACCO. 

IN  IMITATION  OF  SIX  SEVERAL  AUTHORS. 

Mr.  Hawkins  Browne,  the  author  of  these,  as  I 


am  told,  had  no  good  original  manner  of  his  own, 
yet  we  see  how  well  he  succeeds  when  he  turns  an 
imitator;  for  the  following  are  rather  imitations 
than  ridiculous  parodies. 

A  NIGHT  PIECE  ON  DEATH. 

The  great  fault  of  this  piece,  written  by  Dr. 
Parnell,  is,  that  it  is  in  eight  syllable  lines,  very 
improper  for  the  solemnity  of  the  subject ;  other- 
wise, the  poem  is  natural,  and  the  reflections  just. 

A  FAIRY  TALE.    By  Dr.  Parnell. 

Never  was  the  old  manner  of  speaking  more  hap- 
pily applied,  or  a  tale  better  told,  than  this. 

PALEMON  AND  LAVINIA. 

Mr.  Thomson,  though  in  general  a  verbose  and 
affected  poet,  has  told  this  story  with  unusual  sim- 
plicity :  it  is  rather  given  here  for  being  much  es- 
teemed by  the  public  than  by  the  editor. 

THE  BASTARD. 

Almost  all  things  written  from  the  heart,  as  this 
certainly  was,  have  some  merit.  The  poet  here 
describes  sorrows  and  misfortunes  which  were  by 
no  means  imaginary ;  and  thus  there  runs  a  truth 
of  thinking  through  this  poem,  without  which  it 
would  be  of  little  value,  as  Savage  is,  in  other  re- 
spects, but  an  indifferent  poet. 

THE  POET  AND  HIS  PATRON. 

Mr.  Moore  was  a  poet  that  never  had  justice 
done  him  while  living ;  there  are  few  of  the  mo- 
derns have  a  more  correct  taste,  or  a  more  pleasing 
manner  of  expressing  their  thoughts.  It  was  upon 
these  fables  he  chiefly  founded  his  reputation,  yet 
they  are  by  no  means  his  best  production. 

AN  EPISTLE  TO  A  LADY. 

This  little  poem,  by  Mr.  Nugent,  is  very  pleas- 
ing. The  easiness  of  the  poetry,  and  the  justice 
of  the  thoughts,  constitute  its  principal  beauty. 

HANS  CARVEL. 

This  bagatelle,  for  which,  by  the  by,  Mr.  Prior 
has  got  his  greatest  reputation,  was  a  tale  told  in  all 
the  old  Italian  collections  of  jests,  andborro\yed  from 
thence  by  Fontaine.  It  had  been  translated  once 
or  twice  before  into  English,  yet  was  never  re- 
garded till  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Prior.  A 
strong  instance  how  much  every  thing  is  improved 
in  the  hands  of  a  man  of  genius. 

BAUCIS  AND  PHILEMON. 

This  poem  is  very  fine,  and,  though  in  the  same 
strain  with  the  preceding,  is  yet  superior. 


238 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  WARWICK, 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR,  ADDISON. 

This  elegy  (  by  Mr.  Tickell )  is  one  of  the  finest 
in  our  language :  there  is  so  little  new  that  can  be 
said  upon  the  death  of  a  friend,  after  the  complaints 
of  Ovid  and  the  Latin  Italians  in  this  way,  that 
one  is  surprised  to  see  so  much  novelty  in  this  to 
strike  us,  and  so  much  interest  to  affect. 

COLIN  AND  LUCY.— A  Ballad. 

Through  all  Tickell's  Works  there  is  a  strain 
of  ballad-thinking,  if  I  may  so  express  it ;  and  in 
this  professed  ballad  he  seems  to  have  surpassed 
himself.  It  is,  perhaps,  the  best  in  our  language 
in  this  way. 

THE  TEARS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

This  ode,  by  Dr.  Smollett,  does  rather  more 
honour  to  the  author's  feelings  than  his  taste.  The 
mechanical  part,  with  regard  to  numbers  and  lan- 
guage, is  not  so  perfect  as  so  short  a  work  as  this 
requires;  but  the  pathetic  it  contains,  particularly 
in  the  last  stanza  but  one,  is  exquisitely  fine. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  LORD  PRO- 
TECTOR. 

Our  poetry  was  not  quite  harmonized  in  Wal- 
ler's time;  so  that  this,  which  would  be  now  look- 
ed upon  as  a  slovenly  sort  of  versification,  was, 
with  respect  to  the  times  in  which  it  was  written, 
almost  a  prodigy  of  harmony.  A  modern  reader 
will  chiefly  be  struck  with  the  strength  of  think- 
ing, and  the  turn  of  the  compliments  bestowed  up- 
on the  usurper.  Every  body  has  heard  the  answer 
our  poet  made  Charles  11.  who  asked  him  how  his 
poem  upon  Cromwell  came  to  be  finer  than  his 
panegyric  upon  himself 7  "Your  Majesty,"  re- 
plies Waller,  "knows  that  poets  always  succeed 
best  in  fiction. ' ' 

THE  STORY  OF  PHCEBUS  AND 
DAPHNE,  APPLIED. 

The  French  claim  this  as  belonging  to  them. 
To  whomsoever  it  belongs,  the  thought  is  finely 
turned. 

NIGHT  THOUGHTS.    By  Dr.  Young. 

These  seem  to  be  the  best  of  the  collection;  from 
whence  only  the  first  two  are  taken.  They  are 
gpoken  of  differently,  either  with  exaggerated  ap- 
plause or  contempt,  as  the  reader's  disposition  is 
cither  turned  to  mirth  or  melancholy. 

SATIRE  I. 

Young's  Satires  were  in  higher  reputation  when 
published  than  they  stand  in  at  present.  He  seems 


fonder  of  dazzling  than  pleasing ;  of  raising  our  ad* 
miration  for  his  wit  than  our  dislike  of  the  follies 
he  ridicules. 

A  PASTORAL  BALLAD. 

The  ballads  of  Mr.  Shenstone  are  chiefly  com- 
mended for  the  natural  simplicity  of  the  thought^ 
and  the  harmony  of  the  versification.  However, 
they  are  not  excellent  in  either. 

PHCEBE.— A  Pastoral 

TUls,  by  Dr.  Byron,  is  a  better  effort  than  the 
preceding. 

A  SONG. 

"Despairing  beside  a  clear  stream. " 
This,  by  Mr.  Rowe,  is  better  than  any  thing  of 
the  kind  in  our  language. 

AN  ESSAY  ON  POETRY. 

This  work,  by  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  is  en- 
rolled among  our  great  English  productions.  The 
precepts  are  sensible,  the  poetry  not  indifferent, 
but  it  has  been  praised  more  than  it  deserves. 

CADENAS  AND  VANESSA. 

This  is  thought  one  of  Dr.  Swift's  correctest 
pieces ;  its  chief  merit,  indeed,  is  the  elegant  ease 
with  which  a  story,  but  ill  conceived  in  itself,  is 
told. 

ALMA;  OR,   THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE 
MIND. 

UavroL  yiXai,  kai  tuvitci.  xuv/f,  Ka.i  TroMTH  to  (Ji.nS'tr 
YldLVTO.  yup  i^  ctKoyav  tan  tu  yiyvo/Aiva.. 
What  Prior  meant  by  this  poem  I  can't  under- 
stand :  by  the  Greek  motto  to  it,  one  would  think  it 
was  either  to  laugh  at  the  subject  or  his  reader. 
There  are  some  parts  of  it  very  fine;  and  let  them, 
save  the  badness  of  the  rest. 


PREFACE 

TO 

A  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS, 

FOR  YOUNG  LADIES, 

DEVOTIONAL,  MORAL,  AND  ENTERTAINING. 

[First  Printed  in  the  year  1767.] 

Dr.  Fordyce's  excellent  Sermons  for  Young 
Women  in  some  measure  gave  rise  to  the  follow- 
ing compilation.  In  that  work,  where  he  so  judi 
ciously  points  out  all  the  defects  of  female  conduce 
to  remedy  them,  and  all  the  proper  studies  whici 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


they  should  pursue,  with  a  view  to  improvement^ 
poetry  is  one  to  which  he  particularly  would  at- 
tach them.  He  only  objects  to  the  danger  of  pur- 
suing this  charming  study  through  all  the  immo- 
raUties  and  false  pictures  of  happiness  with  which 
it  abounds,  and  thus  becoming  the  martyr  of  inno- 
cent curiosity. 

In  the  following  compilation,  care  has  been  taken 
to  select  not  only  such  pieces  as  innocence  may 
read  without  a  blush,  but  such  as  will  even  tend 
to  strengthen  that  innocence.  In  this  little  work, 
a  lady  may  find  the  most  exquisite  pleasure,  while 
she  is  at  the  same  time  learning  the  duties  of  life; 
and,  while  she  courts  only  entertainment,  be  de- 
ceived into  wisdom.  Indeed,  this  would  be  too 
great  a  boast  in  the  preface  to  any  original  work; 
but  here  it  can  be  made  with  safety,  as  every  poem 
in  the  following  collection  would  singly  have  pro- 
cured an  author  great  reputation. 

They  are  divided  into  Devotional,  Moral,  and 
Entertaining^  thus  comprehending  the  three  great 
duties  of  life;  that  which  we  owe  to  God,  to  our 
neighbour,  and  to  ourselves. 

In  the  first  part,  it  must  be  confessed,  our  Eng- 
lish poets  have  n(jt  very  much  excelled.  In  that 
department,  namely,  the  praise  of  our  Maker,  by 
which  poetry  began,  and  from  which  it  deviated 
by  time,  we  are  most  faultily  deficient.  There  are 
one  or  two,  however,  particularly  the  Deity,  by 
Mr.  Boyse;  a  poem,  when  it  first  came  out,  that 
lay  for  some  time  neglected,  till  introduced  to  pub- 
lic notice  by  Mr.  Hervey  and  Mr.  Fielding.  In 
it  the  reader  will  perceive  many  striking  pictures, 
and  perhaps  glow  with  a  part  of  that  gratitude 
which  seems  to  have  inspired  the  writer. 

In  the  moral  part  I  am  more  copious,  from  the 
same  reason,  because  our  language  contains  a  large 
number  of  the  kind.  Voltaire,  talking  of  our  poets, 
gives  them  the  preference  in  moral  pieces  to  those 
of.any  other  nation ;  and  indeed  no  poets  have  bet- 
ter settled  the  bounds  of  duty,  or  more  precisely 
determined  the  rules  for  conduct  in  life  than  ours. 
In  this  department,  the  fair  reader  will  find  the 
Muse  has  been  solicitous  to  guide  her,  not  with 
the  allurements  of  a  syren,  but  the  integrity  of  a 
friend. 

In  the  entertaining  part,  my  greatest  difficulty 
was  what  to  reject.  The  materials  lay  in  such 
plenty,  that  I  was  bewildered  in  my  choice :  in  this 
case,  then,  I  was  solely  determined  by  the  tenden- 
cy of  the  poem :  and  where  I  found  one,  hov/ever 
well  executed,  that  seemed  in  the  least  tending  to 
distort  the  judgment,  or  inflame  the  imagination, 
it  was  excluded  without  mercy.  I  have  here  and 
there,  indeed,  when  one  of  particular  beauty  offer- 
ed with  a  few  blemishes,  lopped  off  the  defects 
and  thus,  like  the  tyrant  who  fitted  all  strangers  to 
the  bed  he  had  prepared  for  them,  I  have  inserted 
bome,  by  first  adapting  them  to  my  plan :  we  only 


differ  in  this,  that  he  mutilated  with  a  bad  design, 
I  from  motives  of  a  contrary  nature. 

It  will  be  easier  to  condemn  a  compilation  of  this 
kind,  than  to  prove  its  inutility.  While  young  la- 
dies are  readers,  and  while  their  guardians  are  so- 
licitous that  they  shall  only  read  the  best  books, 
there  can  be  no  danger  of  a  work  of  this  kind  be- 
ing disagreeable.  It  offers,  in  a  very  small  com- 
pass, the  very  flowers  of  our  poetry,  and  that  of  a 
kind  adapted  to  the  sex  supposed  to  be  its  readers. 
Poetry  is  an  art  which  no  young  lady  can  or  ought 
to  be  wholly  ignorant  of.  The  pleasure  which  it 
gives,  and  indeed  the  necessity  of  knowing  enough 
of  it  to  mix  in  modern  conversation,  will  evince  the 
usefulness  of  my  design,  which  is  to  supply  the 
highest  and  the  most  innocent  entertainment  at  the 
smallest  expense ;  as  the  poems  in  this  collection, 
if  sold  singly,  would  amount  to  ten  times  the  price 
of  what  I  am  able  to  afford  the  present. 


CRITICISM  ON 
MASSEY'S  TRANSLATION 

OF  THE 

FASTI  OF  OVID. 

[Published  in  the  year  1757.] 

It  was  no  bad  remark  of  a  celebrated  French 
lady,*  that  a  bad  translator  was  Uke  an  ignorant 
footman,  whose  blundering  messages  disgraced  his 
master  by  the  awkwardness  of  the  delivery,  and 
frequently  turned  compliment  into  abuse,  and 
politeness  into  rusticity.  We  can  not  indeed  see 
an  ancient  elegant  writer  mangled  and  misrepre- 
sented by  the  doers  into  English,  without  some 
degree  of  indignation ;  and  are  heartily  sorry  that 
our  poor  friend  Ovid  should  send  his  sacred  kalen- 
dar  to  us  by  the  hands  of  Mr.  William  Massey, 
who,  like  the  valet,  seems  to  have  entirely  forgot 
his  master's  message,  and  substituted  another  in 
its  room  very  unlike  it.  Mr.  Massey  observes  in 
his  preface,  with  great  truth,  that  it  is  strange  that 
this  most  elaborate  and  learned  of  all  Ovid's  works 
should  be  so  much  neglected  by  our  English  transla- 
tors; and  that  it  should  be  so  little  reader  regarded, 
whilst  hisTristia,  Epistles,  and  Metamorphoses,  are 
in  almost  every  schoolboy's  hands.  "All  the  critics, 
in  general,"  says  he,  "speak  of  this  part  of  Ovid's 
writings  with  a  particular  applause ;  yet  1  know 
not  by  what  unhappy  fate  there  has  not  been  that 
use  made  thereof,  which  would  be  more  beneficial, 
in  many  respects,  to  young  students  of  the  Latin 
tongue,  than  any  other  of  this  poet's  works.  For 
though  Pantheons,  and  other  books  that  treat  of 


'  Madame  La  Fayett*. 


240 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  Roman  mythology,  may  be  usefully  put  into 
the  hands  of  young  proficients  in  the  Latin  tongue, 
yet  the  richest  fund  of  that  sort  of  learning  is  here 
to  be  found  in  the  Fasti.  I  am  not  without  hopes, 
therefore,  that  by  thus  making  this  book  more  fa- 
miliar and  easy,  in  this  dress,  to  English  readers, 
it  will  the  more  readily  gain  admittance  into  our 
public  schools;  and  that  those  who  become  better 
acquainted  therewith,  will  find  it  an  agreeable  and 
instructive  companion,  well  stored  with  recondite 
learning.  I  persuade  myself  also,  that  the  notes 
which  I  have  added  to  my  version  will  be  of  ad- 
vantage, not  only  to  the  mere  English  reader,  but 
likewise  to  such  as  endeavour  to  improve  them- 
selves in  the  knowledge  of  the  Roman  language. 

"As  the  Latin  proverb  says,  Jacta  est  alea; 
and  my  performance  must  take  its  chance,  as  those 
of  other  poetic  adventurers  have  done  before  me. 
I  am  very  sensible,  that  I  have  fallen  in  many 
places  far  below  my  original;  and  no  wonder,  as  I 
had  to  copy  after  so  fertile  and  polite  a  genius  as 
Ovid's;  who,  as  my  Lord  Orrery,  somewhere  in 
Dean  Swift's  Life,  humorously  observes,  could 
make  an  instructive  song  out  of  an  old  almanack. 

•'That  my  translation  is  more  diffuse,  and  not 
brought  within  the  same  number  of  verses  contain- 
ed in  my  original,  is  owing  to  two  reasons ;  firstly, 
because  of  the  concise  and  expensive  nature  of  the 
Latin  tongue,  which  it  is  very  difficult  (at  least  I 
find  it  so)  to  keep  to  strictly,  in  our  language;  and 
secondly,  I  took  the  liberty,  sometimes  to  expatiate 
a  little  upon  my  subject,  rather  than  leave  it  in 
obscurity,  or  unintelligible  to  my  English  readers, 
being  indififerent  whether  they  may  call  it  transla- 
tion or  paraphrase;  for,  in  short,  I,  had  this  one 
design  most  particularly  in  view,  that  these  Roman 
Fasti  might  have  a  way  opened  for  their  entrance 
into  our  grammar-schools." 

What  use  this  translation  may  be  of  to  gram- 
mar-schools, we  can  not  pretend  to  guess,  unless, 
by  way  of  foil,  to  give  the  boys  a  higher  opinion  of 
the  beauty  of  the  original  by  the  deformity  of  so 
bad  a  copy.  But  let  our  readers  judge  of  Mr. 
Massey's  performance  by  the  following  specimen. 
For  the  better  determination  of  its  merit,  we  shall 
subjoin  the  origineJ  of  every  quotation. 

"  The  calends  of  each  month  throughout  the  year, 

Are  under  Juno's  kind  peculiar  care ; 

But  on  the  ides,  a  white  lamb  from  the  field, 

A  grateful  sacrifice,  to  Jove  is  kill'd; 

But  o'er  the  nones  no  guardian  god  presides; 

And  the  next  day  to  calends,  nones,  and  ides, 

Is  inauspicious  deem'd ;  for  on  those  days 

The  Romans  suflfered  losses  many  ways; 

And  from  those  dire  events,  in  hapless  war, 

Those  days  unlucky  nominated  are." 

Vindicat  Ausonias  Junonis  cura  kalendas: 
Idibus  alba  Jovi  grandior  agna  cadit. 


Nonarum  tutela  Deo  caret.    Omnibus  istis 

(Ne  fallere  cave)  proximus  Ater  erit. 
Omen  ab  eventu  est :  illis  nam  Roma  diebua 

Damna  sub  adverse  tristia  Marte  tulit. 

Ovid's  address  to  Janus,  than  which  in  the  ori- 
ginal scarce  any  thing  can  be  more  poetical,  is  thus 
familiarized  into  something  much  worse  than  prose 
by  the  translator  • — 

"  Say,  Janus,  say,  why  we  begin  the  year 
In  winter'?  sure  the  spring  is  better  far: 
All  things  are  then  renew'd ;  a  youthful  dress 
Adorns  the  flowers,  and  beautifies  the  trees; 
New  swelling  buds  appear  upon  the  vine. 
And  apple-blossoms  round  the  orchard  shine; 
Birds  fill  the  air  with  the  harmonious  lay, 
And  lambkins  in  the  meadows  frisk  and  play; 
The  swallow  then  forsakes  her  wint'ry  rest. 
And  in  the  chimney  chatt'ring  makes  her  nest;  , 
The  fields  are  then  renew'd,  the  ploughman's  care; 
Mayn't  this  be  call'd  renewing  of  the  year? 
To  my  Ipng  questions  Janus  brief  repUed, 
And  his  whole  answer  to  two  verses  tied. 
The  winter  tropic  ends  the  solar  race. 
Which  is  begun  again  from  the  same  place ; 
And  to  explain  more  fully  what  you  crave, 
The  sun  and  year  the  same  beginning  have. 
But  why  on  new-year's  day,  said  I  again, 
Are  suits  commenced  in  courts?    The  reason'* 

plain, 
Replied  the  god ;  that  business  may  be  done, 
And  active  labour  emulate  the  sun. 
With  business  is  the  year  auspiciously  begun ; 
But  every  artist,  soon  as  he  was  tried 
To  work  a  little,  lays  his  work  aside. 
Then  I ;  but  further,  father  Janus,  say. 
When  to  the  gods  we  our  devotions  pay, 
Why  wine  and  incense  first  to  thee  are  given? 
Because,  said  he,  I  keep  the  gates  of  heaven; 
That  when  you  the  immortal  powers  address, 
By  me  to  them  you  may  have  free  access. 
But  why  on  new-year's  day  are  presents  made, 
And  more  than  common  salutations  paid? 
Then,  leaning  on  his  staflT,  the  god  replies, 
In  all  beginnings  there  an  omen  lies ; 
From  the  first  word,  we  guess  the  whole  design, 
And  augurs,  from  the  first-seen  bird,  divine ; 
The  gods  attend  to  every  mortal's  prayer, 
Their  ears  and  temples  always  open  are." 

Die,  age,  frigoribus  quare  novus  incipit  annusi 

Qui  melius  per  ver  incipiendus  erat? 
Omnia  tunc  florent :  tunc  est  nova  temporifl  aetaa* 

Et  nova  de  gravido  pabnite  gemma  lumeU 
Et  modo  formatis  amicitur  vitibus  arbos: 

Prodit  et  in  sunrmium  seminis  herba  solum: 
Et  tepidum  volucres  concentibus  aera  mulcent: 

Ludit  et  in  pratis,  luxuriatque  pecua. 
Turn  blandi  soles;  ignotaque  prodit  hirundo; 

Et  luteum  celsa  sub  trabe  fingit  opus. 
Tum  patitur  cultus  ager,  et  renovatur  aratro. 

HsBc  anni  novitas  jure  vocanda  fiiit. 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


841 


Quaesieram  multis :  non  multis  ille  moratus, 

Contulit  in  versus  sic  sua  verba  duos. 
Bruma  novi  prima  est,  veterisque  novissima  soils: 

Principium  capiunt  Phoebus  et  annus  idem. 
Post  ea  mirabar,  cur  non  sine  litibus  esset 

Prima  dies.    Causam  [)ercipe,  Janus  ait. 
■fempora  commisi  nascentia  rebus  agendis; 

Totus  ab  auspicio  ne  foret  anus  iners. 
iuisque  suas  artesob  idem  delibat  agendo: 

Nee  plus  quam  si>litum  testiflcatur  opus. 
Mox  ego;  cur,  quamvis  aliorura  numina  placem, 

Jane,  tibi  priino  thura  merumque  fero"? 
Ut  per  me  possis  aditum,  qui  limina  servo, 

Ad  quoscunque  velim  prorsus,  habere  deos 
At  cur  lasta  tuis  dicunlur  verba  kalendis; 

Et  damus  alternas  accipimusque  preces? 
Tum  deus  incumbens  baculo,  quern  dextra  gerebat; 

Omnia  principiis,  inquit,  inesse  solent. 
Ad  priraam  vocem  timidas  adverlitis  aures: 

Et  visum  primum  consulit  augur  avem. 
Templa  patent  auresque  deum ;  iiec  lingua  caducas 

Concipit  ulla  preces ;  dictaque  pondus  habent. 

Is  there  a  possibility  that  any  thing  can  be  more 
different  from  Ovid  in  Latin  than  this  Ovid  in 
English?  Quam  sibi  dispar !  The  translation  is 
indeed  beneath  all  criticism.  But  let  us  see  what 
Mr.  Massey  can  do  with  the  sublime  and  more 
animated  parts  of  the  performance,  where  the  sub- 
ject might  have  given  him  room  to  show  his  skill, 
and  the  example  of  his  author  stirred  up  the  fire 
of  poetry  in  his  breast,  if  he  had  any  in  it.  To- 
wards the  end  of  the  second  book  of  the  Fasti, 
Ovid  has  introduced  the  most  tender  and  interest- 
ing story  of  Lucretia.  The  original  is  inimitable. 
Let  us  see  what  Mr.  Massey  has  made  of  it  in  his 
translation.  After  he  has  described  Tarquin  re- 
turning from  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  Lucretia, 
he  proceeds  thus : 

"  The  near  approach  of  day  the  cock  declared 
By  his  shrill  voice,  when  they  again  repair'd 
Back  to  the  camp ;  but  Sextus  there  could  find 
Nor  peace  nor  ease  for  his  distempered  mind ; 
A  spreading  fire  does  in  his  bosom  burn, 
Fain  would  he  to  the  absent  fair  return ; 
The  image  of  Lucretia  fills  his  breast, 
Thus  at  her  wheel  she  sat !  and  thus  was  dress'd ! 
What  sparkling  eyes,  what  pleasure  in  her  look ! 

i     How  just  her  speech,  and  how  divinely  spoke! 
Like  as  the  waves,  raised  by  a  boisterous  wind, 
Sink  by  degrees,  but  leave  a  swell  behind : 
So,  though  by  absence  lessen'd  was  his  fire, 
There  still  remain'd  the  kindlings  of  desire; 
Unruly  lust  from  hence  began  to  rise, 
Which  how  to  gratify  he  must  devise; 
All  on  a  rack,  and  stung  with  mad  designs, 
He  reason  to  his  passion  quite  resigns ; 
Whatever' s  th'  event,  said  he,  I'll  try  my  fat6, 
Suspense  in  all  things  is  a  wretched  state ; 
Let  some  assistant  god,  or  chance,  attend, 
All  bold  attempts  they  usually  befriend : 
■    This  way,  said  he,  I  to  the  Gabii  trod ; 
Then  girding  on  his  sword,  away  he  rode. 


The  day  was  spent,  the  sun  was  nearly  set, 
When  he  arrived  before  Collatia's  gate; 
Like  as  a!  friend,  but  with  a  sly  intent. 
To  CoUatinus'  house  he  boldly  went; 
There  he  a  kind  reception  met  within 
From  fair  Lucretia,  for  they  were  akin. 
What  ignorance  attends  the  human  mind! 
How  oft  we  are  to  our  misfortunes  blind  ! 
Thoughtless  of  harm,  she  made  a  handsome  feast^' 
And  o'er  a  cheerful  glass  regaled  her  guest 
With  lively  chat ;  and  then  to  bed  they  went ; 
But  Tarquin  still  pursued  his  vile  mtent; 
All  dark,  about  the  dead  of  night  he  rose, 
Arid  softly  to  Lucretia's  chamber  goes ; 
His  naked  sword  he  carried  in  his  hand. 
That  what  he  could  not  win  he  might  command? 
With  rapture  on  her  bed  himself  he  threw. 
And  as  approaching  to  her  lips  he  drew, 
Dear  cousin,  ah,  my  dearest  life,  he  said, 
'Tis  I,  'tis  Tarquin  ;  why  are  you  afraid? 
Trembling  with  fear,  she  not  a  word  could  say, 
Her  spirits  fled,  she  fainted  quite  away ; 
Like  as  a  lamb  beneath  a  wolf's  rude  paws, 
Appall'd  and  stunn'd,  her  breath  she  hardly  draws',' 
What  can  she  do  ?  resistance  would  be  vain, 
She  a  weak  woman,  he  a  vigorous  man. 
Should  she  cry  out  ?  his  naked  sword  was  by; 
One  scream,  said  he,  and  you  this  instant  die : 
Would  she  escape  7  his  hands  lay  on  her  breast, 
Now  first  by  hands  of  any  stranger  press'd : 
The  lover  urged  by  threats,  rewards,  and  prayers ;■ 
But  neither  prayers,  rewards,  nor  threats,  she 

hears : 
Will  you  not  yield  ?  he  cries ;  then  know  my  will — ■' 
When  these  my  warm  desires  have  had  their  fill. 
By  your  dead  corpse  I'll  kill  and  lay  a  slave, 
And  in  that  posture  both  together  leave ; 
Then  feign  myself  a  witness  of  your  shame, 
And  fix  a  lasting  blemish  on  your  fame. 
Her  mind  the  fears  of  blemished  fame  control, 
And  shake  the  resolutions  of  her  soul ; 
But  of  thy  conquest,  Tarquin,  never  boast. 
Graining  that  fort,  thou  hast  a  kingdom  lost ; 
Vengeance  thy  complicated  guilt  attends. 
Which  both  in  thine,  and  fam'ly's  ruin  ends. 
With  rising  day  the  sad  Lucretia  rose. 
Her  inward  grief  her  outward  habit  shows; 
Mournful  she  sat  in  tears,  and  all  alone, 
As  if  she'd  lost  her  only  darUng  son ; 
Then  for  her  husband  and  her  father  sent, 
Who  Ardea  left  in  haste  to  know  th'  intent; 
Who,  when  they  saw  her  all  in  mourning  dress'd 
To  know  the  occasion  of  her  grief,  request; 
Whose  funeral  she  mourn'd  desired  to  know, 
Or  why  she  had  put  on  those  robes  of  woe? 
She  long  conceal'd  the  melancholy  cause. 
While  from  her  eyes  a  briny  fountain  flow^s : 
Her  aged  sire,  and  tender  husband  strive 
To  heal  her  grief,  and  words  of  comfort  give* 


249 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


If  et  dread  some  fatal  consequence  to  hear, 
And  begg'd  she  would  the  cruel  cause  declare." 

Jam  dederat  cantum  lucis  praenuncius  ales 

Cum  referunt  juvenes  in  sua  castra  pedem. 
Carpitur  attonitos  absentis  imaghte  sensua 

Ille :  recordanti  plura  magisqire  placent. 
Sic  sedit :  sic  culta  fuit :  sic  stamina  nevit : 

Neglectae  collo  sic  jacuere  comae; 
Hoe  habuit  vultus :  hie  illi  verba  fuere : 

Hie  decor,  hcec  facies,  hie  color  oris  erat. 
Ut  solet  a  magno  fluctus  languescere  flatu ; 

Sed  tamen  a  vento,  qui  fuit  ante,  tumet: 
Sic,  quamvis  aberat  placitae  praesentia  formae, 

Quern  dederat  praesens  forma,  manebat  amor. 
Ardet ;  et  injusti  stimulis  agitatus  amoris 

Comparat  indigno  vimque  dolumque  toro. 
Exitus  in  dubio  est :  audebimus  ultima,  dixit : 

Viderit,  audentis  forsne  deusne  juvet. 
Cepimus  audendo  Gabios  quoque.    Talia  fatus 

Ense  latus  cingit :  tergaque  pressit  equi. 
Accipit  aBrata  juvenem  Collatia  porta: 

Condere  jam.  vultus  sole  parante  suos. 
Hostis,  ut  hospes,  init  penetralia  Collatina : 

Comiter  excipitur:  sanguine  junctus  erat. 
Quantum  aninjis  eiToris  inest !  parat  inscia  rerum 

Infelix  epulas  hostibus  ilia  suis. 
Functus  erat  dapibus :  poscunt  sua  tempora  somni, 

Nox  erat ;  et  tota  lumina  nulla  domo. 
Surgit,  et  auratum  vagina  deripit  ensem; 

Et  venit  in  thalamos,  nupta  pudica,  tuos. 
Utque  torum  pressit;  ferrum,  Lucretia,  mecuni  est, 

Natus,  ait,  regis,  Tarquiniusque  vocor. 
nia  nihil :  neque  enim  vocem  viresque  loquendi, 

Aut  aliquid  toto  pectore  mentis  habet. 
Sed  iremit,  ut  quondam  stabulis  deprensa  relicti^ 

Parva  sub  infesto  cum  jacet  agne  lupo. 
Quid  facial ■?  pugnetl  vincetur  femina  pugna. 

Clamet?  at  in  dextra,  qui  necet,  ensisadest. 
EfTugiat?  positis  urgetur  pectora  palmis; 

Nunc  primum  externa  pectora  facta  manu. 
Instat  amans  hostis  precibus,  pretioque,  minisque . 

Nee  prece,  nee  pretio,  nee  movet  ille  minis. 
Nil  agis;  eripiam,  dixit,  per  crimina  vitam: 

Falsus  udullerii  testis  adulter  ero. 
Interimam  famulum ;  cum  quo  deprensa  fereris. 

Succubuit  famee  victa  puella  meta 
Quid,  victor,  gaudes?  ha^c  te  victoria  perdet. 

Heu  quanto  regnis  nox  stetit  una  tuis ! 
Jamque  erat  orta  dies:  passis  sedet  ilia  capillis; 

Ut  solet  ad  nati  mater  itura  rogum. 
Grandaivumque  patrem  fidocum  conjuge  castris 

Evocat;  et  posita  venit  uterque  mora. 
Utque  vident  habitum;  quae  luctus  causa,  requirunt: 

Cui  paret  exsequias,  quove  sit  icta  malo, 
Ela  diu  retieet,  pudibundaque  celat  amictu 

Ora.    Fluunt  lacrymae  more  perennis  aqua?. 
Hinc  pater,  hinc  conjux  lacrymas  solantur,  et  orant 

Indicet:  et  caeco  flentque  paventque  metu, 
Ter  conata  loqui,  etc. 

Our  readers  will  easily  perceive  by  this  short 
specimen,  how  very  unequal  Mr.  Massey  is  to  a 
translation  of  Ovid.  In  many  places  he  has  deviated 
entirely  from  the  sense,  and  in  every  part  fallen  infi- 
nitely below  the  strength,  elegance,  and  spirit  of  the 
original.  We  must  beg  leave,  therefore,  to  remind 
him  of  the  old  Italian  proverb,*  and  hope  he  will 


never  for  the  future  traduce  and  injure  any  of  those 
poor  ancients  who  never  injured  him,  by  thus  pes- 
tering the  world  with  such  translations  as  even'  his 
own  school- boys  ought  to  be  whipped  for. 


'  n  Tradattores  Tradatore. 


CRITICISM 

ON 

BARRET'S  TRANSLATION 

OF 

OVID'S  EPISTLES. 
[Published  in  1759.] 

The  praise  which  is  every  day  lavished  upon 
Virgil,  Horace,  or  Ovid,  is  often  no  more  than  an 
indirect  method  the  critic  takes  to  compliment  his 
own  discernment.  Their  works  have  long  been 
considered  as  models  of  beauty ;  to  praise  them  now 
is  only  to  show  the  conformity  of  our  tastes  to 
theirs;  it  tends  not  to  advance  their  reputation,  but 
to  promote  our  own.  Let  us  then  dismiss,  for  the 
present,  the  pedantry  of  panegyric  ;  Ovid  needs  it 
not,  and  we  are  not  disposed  to  turn  encomiasts  on 
ourselves. 

It  will  be  sufficient  to  observe,  that  the  multi- 
tude of  translators  which  have  attempted  this  poet 
serves  to  evince  the  number  of  his  admirers ;  and 
their  indifferent  success,  the  difficulty  of  equalling 
his  elegance  or  his  ease. 

Dry  den,  ever  poor,  and  ever  willing  tx>be  obliged, 
solicited  the  assistance  of  his  friends  for  a  transla- 
tion of  these  epistles.  It  was  not  the  first  time  his 
miseries  obliged  him  to  call  in  happier  bards  to  his 
aid ;  and  to  permit  such  to  quarter  their  fleeting 
performances  on  the  lasting  merit  of  his  name. 
This  eleemosynary  translation,  as  might  well  be- 
expected,  was  extremely  unequal,  frequently  unjust 
to  the  poet's  meaning,  almost  always  so  to  his  fame. 
It  was  published  without  notes ;  for  it  was  not  at 
that  time  customary  to  swell  every  performance  cf 
this  nature  with  comment  and  scholia.  The  rea(^  • 
er  did  not  then  choose  to  have  the  current  of  hi* 
passions  interrupted,  his  attention  every  moment 
called  off  from  pleasure  only,  to  be  informed  why 
he  was  so  pleased.  It  was  not  then  thought  neces- 
sary to  lessen  surprise  by  anticipation,  and,  like 
some  spectators  we  have  met  at  the  play-house,  to 
take  off  our  attent'  )n  from  the  performance,  by 
telling  in  our  ear,  what  will  follow  next. 

Since  this  united  effort,  Ovid,  as  if  born  to  mis- 
fortune, has  undergone  successive  metamorphoses, 
being  sometimes  transposed  by  schoolmasters  un* 
acquainted  with  English,  and  sometimes  transversed 
by  ladies  who  knew  no  Latin :  thus  he  has  alter- 
nately worn  the  dress  of  a  pedant  or  a  rake ;  either 
crawling  in  humble  prose,  or  having  his  hints  ex- 


PREFACflS  AND  CRITICISM. 


343 


flained  into  unbashful  meaning.  Schoolmasters, 
who  knew  all  that  was  in  him  except  his  gtaces, 
give  the  names  of  places  and  towns  at  full  length, 
and  he  moves  along  stiffly  in  their  literal  versions, 
as  the  man  who,  as  we  are  told  in  the  Philosophi- 
cal Transactions,  was  afflicted  with  a  universal 
anchilbsis.  His  female  imitators,  on  the  other 
hand,  regard  the  dear  creature  only  as  a  lover;  ex- 
press the  delicacy  of  his  passion  b}'^  the  ardour  of 
their  oWh ;  and  if  now  and  then  he  is  found  to  grow 
a  little  too  warm,  and  perhaps  to  express  himself  a 
little  indelicately,  it  must  be  impUted  to  the  more 
poignant  sensations  of  his  fair  admirers.  In  a 
word,  we  have  seen  him  stripped  of  all  his  beauties 
in  the  versions  of  Stirling  and  Clark,  and  talk  like 

a  debauchee  in  that  of  Mrs. ;  but  the  sex 

should  ever  be  sacred  from  criticism ;  perhaps  the 
ladies  have  a  right  to  describe  raptures  which  none 
but  themselves  can  bestow. 

A  poet,  like  Ovid,  whose  greatest  beauty  lies 
rather  in  expression  than  sentiment,  must  be  ne- 
cessarily difficult  to  translate.  A  fine  sentiment 
may  be  conveyed  several  different  ways,  without 
impairing  its  vigour;  but  a  sentence  delicately  ex- 
pressed will  scarcely  admit  the  least  variation  with- 
out losing  beauty.  The  performance  before  us 
will  serve  to  convince  the  public,  that  Ovid  is  more 
easily  admired  than  imitated.  The  translator,  in 
his  notes,  shows  an  ardent  zeal  for  the  reputation 
of  his  poet.  It  is  possible  too  he  may  have  felt  his 
beauties;  however,  he  does  not  seem  possessed  of 
the  happy  art  of  giving  his  feelings  expression.  If 
a  kindred  spirit,  as  we  have  often  been  told,  must 
animate  the  translator,  we  fear  the  claims  of  Mr. 
Barret  will  never  receive  a  sanction  in  the  heraldry 
of  Parnassus. 

His  intentions^  even  envy  must  own,  are  laud- 
able :  nothing  less  than  to  instruct  boys,  school- 
masters, grown  gentlemen,  the  public,  in  thspnin- 
ciples  of  taste  (to  use  his  own  expression),  both 
by  precept  and  by  example.  His  manner  it  seems 
is,  "to  read  a  course  of  poetical  lectures  to  his  pu- 
pils one  night  in  the  week ;  which,  beginning  with 
this  author,  running  through  select  pieces  of  our 
own,  as  well  as  the  Latin  and  Greek  writers,  and 
ending -with  Longinus,  contributes  no  little  to- 
wards forming  their  taste."  No  little,,  reader  ob- 
serve that,  from  a  person  so  perfectly  master  of  the 
force  of  his  own  language :  what  may  not  be  ex- 
pected from  his  comments  on  the  beauties  of  an- 
other'? 

But,  in  order  to  show  in  what  nfanner  he  has 
executed  these  intentions,  it  is  proper  he  should 
first  march  in  review  as  a  poet.  We  shall  select 
the  first  epistle  that  offers,  which  is  that  from  Pene- 
lope to  Ulysses,  observing  beforehand,  that  the 
whole  translation  is  a  most  convincing  instance, 
If  that  English  words  may  be  placed  in  Latin  order, 
•without  being  wholly  unintelligible..    Such  forced 


tl^iispositions  serve  at  once  to  give  an  idea  of  the 
translator's  learning,  and  of  difficulties  surnwunted. 

PENELOPE  TO  ULYSSES. 

"This,  still  your  wife,  my  ling' ring  lord !  I  send; 
Yet  be  your  answer  personal,  not  penn'd." 

These  lines  seem  happily  imitated  from  Taiylori 
the  water-poet,  who  has  it  thus ; 

"To  thee,  deaf  Ursula,  these  lines  I  send, 
Not  with  my  hand,  but  with  my  heart,  they're 
penn'd." 

But  not  to  make  a  pause  in  the  reader's  pleasure, 
we  proceed. 

"Sunk  now  is  Troy,  the  curse  of  Grecian  dames  I 
(  Her  king,  her  all,  a  worthless  prize ! )  in  flames. 
O  had  by  storms  (his  fleet  to  Sparta  bound) 
Th'  adult'rer  perished  in  the  mad  profound! 

Here  seems  some  obscurity  in  the  translation} 
we  are  at  a  loss  to  know  what  is  meant  by  the  mad 
profound.  It  can  certainly  mean  neither  Bedlam 
nor  Fleet- Ditch ;  for  though  the  epithet  mad  might 
agree  with  one^  or  profound  with  the  other,  yet 
when  united  they  seem  incompatible  with  either. 
The  profound  has  frequently  been  used  to  signify 
bad  verses;  and  poets  are  sometimes  said  to  be 
mad:  who  knows  but  Penelope  wishes  that  Paris 
might  have  died  in  the  very  act  of  rhyming;  and 
as  he  was  a  shepherd,  it  is  not  improbable  to  sup-f 
pose  but  that  he  was  a  poet  also. 

"Cold  in  a  widow'd  bed  I  ne'er  had  lay. 
Nor  chid  with  weary  eyes  the  hng'ring  day." 


Lay  for  lain,  by  the  figure  ginglimus. 
translator  makes  frequent  use  of  this  figure. 


Th^ 


"Nor  the  protracted  nuptials  to  avoid, 
By  night  unravell'd  what  the  day  employed. 
When  have  not  fancied  dangers  broke  my  rest? 
Love,  tim'rous  passion!  rends  the  anxious  breasts 
In  thought  I  saw  you  each  fierce  Trojan's  aim; 
Pale  at  the  mention  of  bold  Hector's  name!" 

Ovid  makes  Penelope  shudder  at  the  name  of 
Hector.  Our  translator,  with  great  proprietyy 
transfers'  the  fright  from  Penelope  to  Ulysses  him- 
self: it  is  he  who  grows  pale  at  the  name  of  Hec- 
tor; and  well  indeed  he  might;  for  Hector  is  repre- 
sented by  Ovid,  somewhere  else,  as  a  terrible  fel* 
low,  and  Ulysses  as  little  better  than  a  poltroon, 

"Whose  spear  when  brave  Antilochus  imbrued. 
By  the  dire  news  awoke,  my  fear  renew'd 
Clatl  in  dissembled  arms  Patroclus  died; 
And  "Oh  the  fate  of  stratagem  1"  1  cried. 
Tlepolemus,  beneath  the  Lycian  dart, 
His  breath  resign'd,  and  roused  afresh  my  smart. 


244 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Thus,  when  each  Grecian  press' d  the  bloody  field, 
Cold  icy  horrors  my  fond  bosom  chill'd." 

Here  we  may  observe  how  epithets  tend  to 
strengthen  the  force  of  expression.  First,  her  hor- 
rors are  cold,  and  so  far  Ovid  seems  to  think  also; 
but  the  translator  adds,  from  himself,  the  epithet 
icy,  to  show  that  they  are  still  colder — a  fine  climax 
of  frigidity ! 

"But  Heaven,  indulgent  to  my  chaste  desire, 
Haswrapp'd  (my  husband  safe)  proud  Troy  in 
fire." 

The  reader  may  have  already  observed  one  or 
two  instances  of  our  translator's  skill,  in  parentheti- 
cally clapping  one  sentence  within  another.  This 
contributes  not  a  little  to  obscurity ;  and  obscurity, 
we  all  know,  is  nearly  allied  to  admiration.  Thus, 
when  the  reader  begins  a  sentence  which  he  finds 
pregnant  with  another,  which  still  teems  with  a 
third,  and  so  on,  he  feels  the  same  surprise  which 
a  countryman  does  at  Bartholomew-fair.  Hocus 
shows  a  bag,  in  appearance  empty;  slap,  and  out 
come  a  dozen  new-laid  eggs;  slap  again,  and  the 
number  is  doubled ;  but  what  is  his  amazement, 
when  it  swells  with  the  hen  that  laid  them! 

"The  Grecian  chiefs  return,  each  altar  shines, 
And  spoils  of  Asia  grace  our  native  shrines. 
Gifts,  for  their  lords  restored,  the  matrons  bring ; 
The  Trojan  fates  o'ercome,  triumphant  sing; 
Old  men  and  trembling  maids  admire  the  songs, 
And  wives  hang,   list'ning,  on  their  husbands' 
iongties." 

Critics  have  expatiated,  in  raptures,  on  the  deli- 
cate use  the  ancients  have  made  of  the  verb  pen- 
dere.  Virgil's  goats  are  described  as  hanging  on 
the  mountain  side;  the  eyes  of  a  lady  hang  on  the 
looks  of  her  lover.  Ovid  has  increased  the  force  of 
the  metaphor,  and  describes  the  wife  as  hanging  on 
the  lips  of  her  husband.  Our  translator  has  gone 
still  farther,  and  described  the  lady  as  pendent  from 
his  tongue.    A  fine  picture ! 

"Now,  drawn  in  wine,  fierce  battles  meet  their 

eyes, 
And  llion's towers  in  miniature  arise: 
There  stretch'd  Sigean  plains,  here  Simois  flow'd: 
And  there  old  Priam's  lofty  palace  stood. 
Here  Peleus'  son  encamp'd,  Ulysses  there; 
Here  Hector's  corpse  distain'd  the  rapid  car." 

"Of  this  the  Pylian  sage,  in  quest  of  thee 
Embark'd,  your  son  inform'd  his  mother  he." 

If  we  were  permitted  to  offer  a  correction  upon 
the  two  last  lines,i^  we  would  translate  them  into 
plain  EngUsh  thus,  still  preserving  the  rhyme  en- 
tire. 


The  Pylian  sage  inform'd  your  son  embark'd  in 

quest  of  thee 
Of  this,  and  he  his  mother,  that  is  me. 

"  He  told  how  Rhesus  and  how  Dolon  fell, 

By  your  wise  conduct  and  Tydides'  steel ; 

That  doom'd  by  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  to  die, 

And  this  prevented,  a  nocturnal  spy  ! 

Rash  man !  undmindful  what  your  friends  you  owe, 

Night's  gloom  to  tempt,  and  brave  a  Thracian  foe 

By  one  assisted  in  the  doubtful  strife ; 

To  me  how  kind  !  how  provident  of  life ! 

Still  throbb'd  my  breast,  till,  victor,  from  the  plain, 

You  join'd,  on  Thracian  steeds,  th'  allies  again. 

"  But  what  to  me  avails  high  Ilium's  fall,  ^ 

Or  soil  continued  o'er  its  ruin'd  wall ; 

If  still,  as  when  it  stood,  my  wants  remain ; 

If  still  I  wish  you  in  these  arms  in  vain? 

"Troy,  sack'd  to  others,  yet  to  me  remains. 
Though  Greeks,  with  captive  oxen,  till  her  plains, 
Ripe  harvests  bend  where  once  her  turrets  stood; 
Rank  in  her  soil,  manured  with  Phrygian  blood; 
Harsh  on  the  ploughs,  men's  bones,  half  buried, 

sound, 
And  grass  each  ruin'd  mansion  hides  around. 
Yet,  hid  in  distant  climes,  my  conq'ror  stays; 
Unknown  the  cause  of  these  severe  delays ! 

"  No  foreign  merchant  to  our  isle  resorts. 

But  question'd  much  of  you,  he  leaves  our  ports ; 

Hence  each  departing  sail  a  letter  bears 

To  speak  (if  you  are  found)  my  anxious  cares. 

"Our  son  to  Pylos  cut  the  briny  wave; 
But  Nestor's  self  a  dubious  answer  gave ; 
To  Sparta  next — nor  even  could  Sparta  tell 
What  seas  you  plough,  or  in  what  region  dwell  I 

"  Better  had  stood  Apollo's  sacred  wall : 

0  could  I  now  my  former  wish  recall ! 

War  my  sole  dread,  the  scene  I  then  should  know. 
And  thousands  then  would  share  the  common  woe : 
But  all  things  now,  not  knowing  what  to  fear, 

1  dread ;  and  give  too  large  a  field  to  care. 
Whole  lists  of  dangers,  both  by  land  and  sea, 
Are  muster'd,  to  have  caused,  so  long  delayi 

"But  while  your  conduct  thus  I  fondly  cle^ 
Perhaps  (true  man !)  you  court  some  foreign  fail ; 
Perhaps  you  rally  your  domestic  loves, 
Whose  art  the  snowy  fleece  alone  improvefli.i|j#'''^jjH 

No ! may  I  err,  and  start  at  false  alarms ;  ^ 

May  nought  but  force  detain  you  from  my  arms. 

"Urged  by  a  father's  right  again  towed, 
Firm  I  refuse,  still  faithful  to  your  bed ! 
Still  let  him  urge  the  fruitless  vain  design; 
I  am— I  must  be— and  I  will  be  thine. 
Though  melted  by  my  chaste  desires,  of  late 
His  rig'rous  importunities  abate.  , 


PREFACES  AND  CRITICISM. 


245 


*'  Of  teasing  suitors  a  luxurious  train, 

From  neighbouring  isles,  have  cross'd  the  liquid 

plain. 
Here  uncontroU'd  the  audacious  crews  resort, 
Rifle  in  your  wealth,  and  revel  in  your  court. 
Pisander,  Polybus,  and  Medon  lead, 
Anlinous  and  Eurymachus  succeed. 
With  others,  whose  rapacious  throats  devour 
The  wealth  you  purchased  once,  distained  with 

gore. 
Melanthius  add,  and  Irus,  hated  name ! 
A  beggar  rival  to  complete  our  shame. 

"  Three,  helpless  three!  are  here ;  a  wife  not  strong, 
A  sire  too  aged,  and  a  son  too  young. 
He  late,  hy  fraud,  embark'd  for  Pylos'  shore, 
Nigh  from  my  arms  for  ever  had  been  tore." 

These  two  Unes  are  replete  with  beauty:  nigh, 
which  implies  approximation,  and  from,  which 
implies  distance,  are,  to  use  our  translator's  expres- 
sions, drawn  as  it  were  up  in  line  of  battle.  Tore 
is  put  for  torn,  that  is,  torn  by  fraud,  from  her 
arms;  not  that  her  son  played  truant,  and  embark- 
led  by  fraud,  as  a  reader  who  does  nbt  understand 
Latin  might  be  apt  to  fancy. 

"Heaven  grant  the  youth  survive  each  parent's 

date. 
And  no  cross  chance  reverse  the  course  of  fate. 
Your  nurse  and  herdsman  join  this  wish  of  mine. 
And  the  just  keeper  of  your  bristly  swine." 

Our  translator  observes  in  a  note,  that  "  the  sim- 
plicity expressed  in  these  lines  is  so  far  from  being 
a  blemish,  that  it  is,  in  fact,  a  very  great  beauty ; 
and  the  modern  crjtic,  who  is  offended  with  the 
mention  of  a  sty,  however  he  may  pride  himself 
upon  his  false  delicacy,  is  either  too  short-sighted 
to  penetrate  into  real  nature,  or  has  a  stomach  too 
nice  to  digest  the  noblest  relics  of  antiquity.  He 
means,  no  doubt,  to  digest  a  hog-sty ;  but,  antiquity 
apart,  we  doubt  if  even  Powel  the  fire-eater  him- 
self could  bring  his  appetite  to  relish  so  unsavoury 
a  repast. 

"  By  age  your  sire  disarm' d,  and  wasting  woes. 
The  helm  resigns,  amidst  surrounding  foes. 
This  may  your  son  resume  (when  years  allow), 
But  oh  !  a  father's  aid  is  wanted  now. 
Nor  h^ve  I  strength  his  title  to  maintain, 
Haste,  then,  our  only  refuge,  o'er  the  main." 

"  A  son,  and  long  may  Heaven  the  blessing  granl. 
You  have,  whose  years  a  sire's  instruction  want. 
Think  how  Laertes  drags  an  age  of  woes, 
In  hope  that  you  his  dying  eyes  may  close; 
And  1,  left  youthful  in  my  early  bloom. 
Shall  aged  seem ;  how  soon  soe'er  you  come." 

But  let  not  the  reader  imagine  we  can  find  plea- 
si^e  in  thus  exposing  absurdities,  which  are  too 


ludicrous  for  serious  reproof.  While  we  censure 
as  critics,  we  feel  as  men,  and  could  sincerely  wish 
that  those,  whose  greatest  sin,  is  perhaps,  the  ve- 
nial one  of  writing  bad  verses,  would  regard  their 
failure  in  this  respect  as  ws  do,  not  as  faults,  but 
foibles ;  they  may  be  good  and  useful  members  of 
society,  without  being  poets.  The  regitms  of  tasto 
can  be  travelled  only  by  a  few,  and  even  those 
often  find  indifferent  accommodation  by  the  way. 
Let  such  as  have  not  got  a  passport  from  nature  be 
content  with  happiness,  and  leave  the  poet  the  un- 
rivalled possession  of  his  misery,  his  garret,  and 
his  fame. 

We  have  of  late  seen  the  republic  of  letters 
crowded  with  some,  who  have  no  other  pretensions 
to  applause  but  industry,  who  have  no  other  merit 
but  that  of  reading  many  books,  and  making  long 
quotations ;  these  we  have  heard  extolled  by  sym- 
pathetic dunces,  and  have  seen  them  carry  off  the 
rewards  of  genius;  while  others,  who  should  have 
been  born  in  better  days,  felt  all  the  wants  of  pov- 
erty, and  the  agonies  of  contempt.  Who  then 
that  has  a  regard  for  the  public,  for  the  literary 
honours  of  our  country,  for  the  figure  we  shall  one 
day  make  among  posterity,  that  would  not  choose 
to  see  such  humbled  as  are  possessed  only  of  talents 
that  might  have  made  good  cobblers,  liad  fortune 
turned  them  to  trade  7  Should  such  prevail,  the 
real  interests  of  learning  must  be  in  a  reciprocal 
proportion  to  the  power  they  possess.  Let  it  be 
then  the  character  of  our  periodical  endeavours,  and 
hitherto  we  flatter  ourselves  it  has  ever  been,  not  to 
permit  an  ostentation  of  learning  to  pa^s  for  merit, 
nor  to  give  a  pedant  quarter  upon  the  score  of  his 
industry  alone,  even  though  he  took  refuge  behind 
Arabic,  or  powdered  his  hair  with  hieroglyphics. 
Authors  thus  censured  may  accuse  our  judgment, 
or  our  reading,  if  they  please,  but  our  own  hearts 
will  acquit  us  of  envy  or  ill-nature,  since  we  re- 
prove only  with  a  desire  to  reform. 

But  we  had  almost  forgot,  that  our  translator  is 
to  be  considered  as  a  critic  as  well  as  a  poet ;  and 
in  this  department  he  seems  also  equally  unsuc- 
cessful with  the  former.  Criticism  at  present  is 
different  from  what  it  was  upon  the  revival  of  taste 
in  Europe;  all  its  rules  are  now  well  known  ;  the 
only  art  at  present  is,  to  exbibit  them  in  such  lights 
as  contribute  to  keep  the  attention  alive,  and  excite 
a  favourable  audience,  it  must  borrow  graces 
from  eloquence,  and  please  while  it  aims  at  instruc- 
tion :  but  instead  of  this,  we  have  a  combination  of 
trite  observations,  delivered  in  a  style  hi  which 
those  who  are  disposed  to  make  war  upon  words, 
will  find  endless  opportunities  of  trium})h. 

He  is  sometimes  hypercritical ;  thus,  page  9. 
"  Pope  in  his  excellent  Essay  on  Criticism  (as  will, 
in  it?  place,  when  you  come  to  be  lectured  upon  it, 
atfullbe  explained,)  terms  this  making  the  sound  an 
echo  to  the  sense.   But  I  apprehend  that  definition 


246 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Jtakes  in  but  a  part,  for  the  best  ancient  poets  ex- 
celled in  thus  painting  to  the  eye  as  well  as  to  the 
ear.  Virgil,  describing  his  housewife  preparing  her 
wine,  exhibits  the  act  of  the  fire  to  the  eye. 

'  Aut  dulcis  musU  Vulcano  decoquit  humorera, 
Et  foliis  undam  trepidi  dispumai  aheni.' 

"  For  the  line  (if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
Bion)  boils  over;  and  in  order  to  reduce  it  to  its 
proper  bounds,  you  must,  with  her,  skim  off  the 
redundant  syllable."  These  are  beauties,  which, 
doubtless,  the  reader  is  displeased  he  can  not 
discern. 

Sometimes  confused :  "  There  is  a  deal  of  artful 
and  concealed  satire  in  what  CEnone  throws  out 
against  Helen :  and  to  speak  truth,  there  was  fair 
scope  for  it,  and  it  might  naturally  be  expected. 
Her  chief  design  was  to  render  his  new  mistress 
suspected  of  meretricious  arts,  and  make  him  ap- 
prehensive that  she  would  hereafter  be  as  ready  to 
leave  him  for  some  new  gallant,  as  she  had  be-' 
fore,  perfidiously  to  her  lawful  husband,  followed 
hi«i." 


Sometimes  contradictory :  thus,  page  3.  "  Style 
(says  he)  is  used  by  some  writers,  as  synonymous 
with  diction,  yet  in  my  opinion,  it  has  rather  a 
complex  sense,  including  both  sentiment  and  dic- 
tion." Oppose  to  this,  page  135.  "As  to  con- 
cord and  even  style,  they  are  acquirable  by  most 
youth  in  due  time,  and  by  many  with  ease ;  but 
the  art  of  thinking  properly,  and  choosing  the  best 
sentiments  on  every  subject,  is  what  comes  later." 

And  sometimes  he  is  guilty  of  false  criticism  :  as 
when  he  says,  Ovid's  chief  excellence  lies  in  de- 
scription. Description  was  the  rock  on  which  he 
always  split ;  Nescivit  quod  bene  cessit  Telinquere^ 
as  Seneca  says  of  him  :  when  once  he  embarks  in 
description,  he  most  commonly  tires  us  before  he 
has  done  with  it.  But  to  tire  no  longer  the  reader, 
or  the  translator  with  extended  censure ;  as  acntiCf 
this  gentleman  seems  to  have  drawn  his  knowledge 
from  the  remarks  of  others,  and  not  his  own  reflec- 
tion ;  as  a  translator,  he  understands  the  language 
of  Ovid,  but  not  his  beauties ;  and  though  he  may- 
be an  excellent  schoolmaster,  he  has,  howev^  ito 
pretensions  to  taste. 


LETTERS 


FROM  A 


m^m^^  ©IF'  ^^^  w®iBEfliB 


FRTEXTDS  IN  THIS  EAST. 


THE  EDITOR'S  PREFACE. 

The  schoolmen  had  formerly  a  very  exact  way 
^f  computing  the  abilities  of  their  saints  or  authors. 
Escobar,  for  instance,  was  said  to  have  learning  as 
five,  genius  as  four,  and  gravity  as  seven.  Cara- 
muel  was  greater  than  he.  His  learning  was  as 
eight,  his  genius  as  six,  and  his  gravity  as  thir- 
teen. Were  I  to  estimate  the  merits  of  our  Chi- 
nese Philosopher  by  the  same  scale,  I  would  not 
hesitate  to  state  his  genius  still  higher;  but  as  to 
his  learning  and  gravity,  these,  1  think,  might 
safely  be  marked  as  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine, 
within  one  degree  of  absolute  frigidity. 

Yet,  upon  his  first  appearance  here,  many  were 
angry  not  to  find  him  as  ignorant  as  a  Tripoline 
ambassador,  or  an  envoy  from  Mujac.  They  were 
surprised  to  find  a  man  born  so  far  from  London, 
that  school  of  prudence  and  wisdom,  endued  even 
with  a  moderate  capacity.  They  expressed  the 
same  surprise  at  his  knowledge  that  the  Chinese 
do  at  ours.  *How  comes  it,  said  they,  that  the 
Europeans  so  remote  from  China,  think  with  so 
much  justice  and  precision?  They  have  never 
read  our  books,  they  scarcely  know  even  oar  let- 
ters, and  yet  they  talk  and  reason  just  as  we  do. 
The  truth  is,  the  Chinese  and  we  are  pretty  much 
alike.  Different  degrees  of  refinement,  and  not  of 
distance,  mark  the  distinctions  among  mankind. 
Savages  of  the  most  opposite  climates  have  all  but 
one  character  of  improvidence  and  rapacity ;  and 
tutored  nations,  however  separate,  make  use  of 
the  very  same  method  to  procure  refined  enjoy- 
ment. 

The  distinctions  of  polite  nations  are  few,  but 
such  as  are  peculiar  to  the  Chinese,  appear  in  every 
page  of  the  following  correspondence.  The  me- 
taphors and  allusions  are  all  drawn  from  the  East. 

•Le  Comte,  voL  i.  p.  2ia 


Their  formality  our  author  carefully  preserves. 
Many  of  their  favourite  tenets  in  morals  are  illus- 
trated. The  Chinese  are  always  concise,  so  is  he. 
Simple,  so  is  he.  The  Chinese  are  grave  and  sen- 
tentious, so  is  he.  But  in  one  particular  the  resem- 
blance is  peculiarly  striking :  the  Chinese  are  often 
dull,  and  so  is  he.  Nor  has  any  assistance  been 
wanting.  We  are  told  in  an  old  romance,  of  a  certain 
knight  errant  and  his  horse  who  contracted  an  inti- 
mate friendship.  The  horse  most  usually  bore  the 
knight;  but,  in  cases  of  extraordinary  dispatch, 
the  knight  returned  the  favour,  and  carried  his 
hors '.  1  hus,  in  the  intimacy  between  my  author 
and  me,  he  has  usually  given  me  a  lift  of  his  east- 
ern sublimity,  and  I  have  sometimes  given  him  a 
return  of  my  colloquial  ease. 

Yet  it  appears  strange,  in  this  season  of  pane- 
gyric, when  scarcely  an  author  passes  unpraised, 
either  by  his  friends  or  himself,  that  such  merit  as 
our  Philosopher's  should  be  forgotten.  While  the 
epithets  of  ingenious,  copious,  elaborate,  and  re- 
fined, are  lavished  among  the  mob,  like  medals  at 
a  coronation,  the  lucky  prizes  fall  on  every  side, 
but  not  one  on  him.  I  could,  on  this  occasion, 
make  myself  melancholy,  by  considering  the  ca- 
priciousness  of  public  taste,  or  the  mutability  of 
fortune :  but,  during  this  fit  of  morality,  lest  my 
reader  should  sleep,  I'll  take  a  nap  myself,  and 
when  I  awake  tell  him  my  dream. 

1  imagined  the  Thames  was  frozen  over,  and  I 
stood  by  its  side.  Several  booths  were  erected 
upon  the  ice,  and  I  was  told  by  one  of  the  specta- 
tors, that  Fashion  Fair  was  going  to  begin.  He 
added,  that  every  author  who  would  carry  his 
works  there,  might  probably  find  a  very  good  re- 
ception. I  was  resolved,  however,  to  observe  the 
humours  of  the  place  in  safety  from  the  shore; 
sensible  that  the  ice  was  at  best  precarious,  and 
I  having  been  always  a  httle  cowardly  in  my  sleeu 


'■248 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Several  of  my  acquaintance  seemed  much  more 
hardy  than  I,  and  went  over  the  ice  with  intrepidi- 
ty. Some  carried  their  works  to  the  fair  on  sledges, 
some  on  carts,  and  those  which  were  more  volu- 
minous, were  conveyed  ^n  wagons.  Their  te- 
merity astonished  me.  I  Igiew  their  cargoes  were 
heavy,  and  expected  every  moment  they  would 
have  gone  to  the  bottom.  They  all  entered  the 
fair,  however,  in  safety,  and  each  soon  after  re- 
turned to  my  great  surprise,  highly  satisfied  with 
his  entertainment,  and  the  bargains  he  had  brought 
away. 

The  success  of  such  numbers  at  lasf  began  to 
operate  upon  me.  If  these,  cried  I,  meet  with  fa- 
vour and  safety,  some  luck  may,  perhaps,  for  once, 
attend  the  unfortunate.  I  am  resolved  to  make  a 
new  adventure.  The  furniture,  frippery,  and  fire- 
works of  China,  have  long  been  fashionably  bought 
up.  I'll  try  the  fair  with  a  small  cargo  of  Chinese 
morality.  If  the  Chinese  haye  contributed  to  viti- 
ate our  taste,  I'll  try  how  far  they  can  help  to  im- 
prove our  understanding.  But  as  others  have 
driven  into  the  market  in  wagons,  I'll  cautiously 
begin  by  venturing  with  a  wheelbarrow.  Thus 
resolved,  I  baled  up  my  goods,  and  fairly  ventured ; 
when,  upon  just  entering  the  fair,  I  fancied  the  ice 
that  had  supported  a  hundred  wagons  before, 
cracked  under  me,  and  wheelbarrow  and  all  went 
to  the  bottom. 

Upon  awaking  from  my  reverie  with  the  fright, 
I  can  not  help  wishing  that  the  pains  taken  in  giv- 
ing this  correspondence  an  English  dress,  had  been 
employed  in  contriving  new  political  systems,  or 
new  plots  for  farces.  1  might  then  have  taken  my 
station  in  the  world,  either  as  a  poet  or  a  philoso 
pher,  and  made  one  in  those  little  societies  where 
men  club  to  raise  each  other's  reputation.  But  at 
present  I  belong  to  no  particular  class.  I  resemble 
one  of  those  animals  that  has  been  forced  from  its 
forest  to  gratify  human  curiosity.  My  earliest  wish 
was  to  escape  unheeded  through  life ;  but  I  have 
been  set  up  for  halfpence,  to  fret  and  scamper  at 
the  end  of  my  chain.  Though  none  are  injured 
by  my  rage,  I  am  naturally  too  savage  to  court  any 
friends  by  fawning ;  too  obstinate  to  be  taught  new 
tricks ;  and  too  improvident  to  mind  what  may  hap- 
pen. I  am  appeased,  though  not  contented.  Too 
indolent  for  intrigue,  and  too  fimid  to  push  for  fa- 
vour, I  am — ^but  what  signifies  what  I  am. 

ExiTiff  }CM  ou  Tv^n  fAiryct  ^ajptTi'  toy  Kijuiv  supor. 
OvS'tv  ifJioi  ^  v/uir  TTcti^iTi  Tovi  y.tnr'  t/xi. 

Fortune  and  Hope,  adieu!— I  see  my  Port: 
Too  long  your  dupe ;  be  others  now  your  sport. 


LETTERS  FROM  A 

CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

TO  HIS 

FRIENDS  IN  THE  EAST. 

LETTER  I. 
To  Mr.  *  *  *  *,  Merchant  in  London. 

Sir,  Amsterdam. 

Yours  of  the  13th  instant,  covering  two  bills, 
one  on  Messrs.  R.  and  D.  value  478/.  10s.  and  the 
other  on  Mr.  ****,  value  285Z.,  duly  came  to  hand, 
the  former  of  which  met  with  honour,  but  the  other 
has  been  trifled  with,  and  I  am  afraid  will  be  re- 
turned protested. 

The  bearer  of  this  is  my  friend,  therefore  let  him 
be  yours.  He  is  a  native  of  Honan  in  China,  and 
one  who  did  me  signal  services,  when  he  was  a 
mandarine,  and  I  a  factor,  at  Canton.  By  fre- 
quently conversing  with  the  English  there,  he  has 
learned  the  language;  though  he  is  entirely  a  stran- 
ger to  their  manners  and  customs.  I  am  told  he 
is  a  philosopher ;  I  am  sure  he  is  an  honest  man : 
that  to  you  will  be  his  best  recommendation,  next 
to  the  consideration  of  his  being  the  friend  of,  sir, 

Yours,  etc. 


LETTER  IL 


From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to 


Merchant  in  Amsterdam. 


Friend  op  my  Heart,  London. 

May  the  wings  of  peace  rest  upon  thy  dwelling-^ 
and  the  shield  of  conscience  preserve  thee  from 
rice  and  misery  I  For  all  thy  favours  accept  my 
gratitude  and  esteem,  the  only  tributes  a  poor  phi- 
losophic wanderer  can  return.  Sure,  fortune  is 
resolved  to  make  me  unhappy,  when  she  gives 
others  a  power  of  testifying  their  friendship  by  ac- 
tions, and  leaves  me  only  words  to  express  the  sin- 
cerity of  mine. 

I  am  perfectly  sensible  of  the  delicacy  with  which 
you  endeavour  to  lessen  your  own  merit  and  my 
obligations.  By  caUing  your  late  instances  of 
friendship  only  a  return  for  former  favours,  you 
would  induce  me  to  impute  to  your  justice  what 
I  owe  to  your  generosity. 

The  services  I  did  you  at  Canton,  justice,  hu- 
manity,  and  my  office,  bade  me  perform :  those  you 
have  done  me  since  my  arrival  at  Amsterdam,  no 
laws  obliged  you  to,  no  justice  required, — even  half 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


your  favours  would  have  been  greater  than  my 
most  sanguine  expectations. 

The  sum  of  money,  therefore,  which  you  pri- 
vately conveyed  into  my  baggage,  when  I  was 
leaving  Holland,  and  which  I  was  ignorant  of  till 
my  arrival  in  London,  I  must  beg  leave  to  return. 
You  have  been  bred  a  merchant,  and  I  a  scholar ; 
you  consequently  love  money  better  than  I.  You 
can  find  pleasure  in  superfluity;  1  am  perfectly  con- 
tent with  what  is  sufficient.  Take  therefore  what 
is  yours,  it  may  give  you  some  pleasure,  even 
though  you  have  no  occasion  to  use  it ;  my  happi- 
ness it  can  not  improve,  for  I  have  already  all  that 
I  want. 

My  passage  by  sea  from  Rotterdam  to  England 
was  more  painful  to  me  than  all  the  journeys  I 
ever  made  on  land.  I  have  traversed  the  immea- 
surable wilds  of  Mogul  Tartary;  felt  all  the  ri- 
gours of  Siberian  skies :  I  have  had  my  repose  a 
hundred  times  disturbed  by  invading  savages,  and 
have  seen,  without  shrinking,  the  desert  sands  rise 
like  a  troubled  ocean  all  around  me :  against  these 
calamities  I  was  armed  with  resolution ;  but  in  my 
passage  to  England,  though  nothing  occurred  that 
gave  the  mariners  any  uneasiness,  to  one  who  was 
never  at  sea  before,  all  was  a  subject  of  astonish- 
ment and  terror.  To  find  the  land  disappear,  to 
see  our  ship  mount  the  waves,  swift  as  an  arrow 
from  the  Tartar  bow,  to  hear  the  wind  howling 
through  the  cordage,  to  feel  a  sickness  which  de- 
presses even  the  spirits  of  the  brave  ;  these  were 
xmexpected  distresses,  and  consequently  assaulted 
me  unprepared  to  receive  them. 

You  men  of  Europe  think  nothing  of  a  voyage 
by  sea.  With  us  of  China,  a  man  who  has  been 
from  sight  of  land  is  regarded  upon  his  return  with 
admiration.  I  have  known  some  provinces  where 
there  is  not  even  a  name  for  the  Ocean.  What  a 
strange  people,  therefore,  am  I  got  amongst,  who 
have  founded  an  empire  on  this  unstable  element^ 
who  build  cities  upon  billows  that  rise  higher  than 
the  mountains  of  Tipertala,  and  make  the  deep 
more  formidable  than  the  wildest  tempest ! 

Such  accounts  as  these,  I  must  confess,  were  my 
first  motives  for  seeing  England.  These  induced 
me  to  undertake  a  journey  of  seven  hundred  pain- 
ful days,  in  order  to  examine  its  opulence,  build- 
ings, sciences,  arts,  and  manufactures,  on  the  spot. 
Judge  then  my  disappointment  on  entering  Lon- 
don, to  see  no  signs  of  that  opulence  so  much  talked 
of  abroad  :  wherever  I  turn,  I  am  presented  with  a 
gloomy  solemnity  in  the  houses,  the  streets,  and 
the  inhabitants;  none  of  that  beautiful  gilding 
which  makes  a  principal  ornament  in  Chinese  ar- 
chitecture. The  streets  of  Nankin  are  sometimes 
strewed  with  gold-leaf;  very  different  are  those  of 
London  .  in  the  midst  of  their  pavements,  a  great 
lazy  puddle  moves  muddily  along  ;  heavy  laden  ma- 
chines, with  wheels  of  unwieldy  thickness,  crowd 


up  every  passage;  so  that  a  stranger,  instead  of  find- 
ing time  for  observation,  is  often  happy  if  he  has 
time  to  escape  from  being  crushed  to  pieces. 

The  houses  borrow  very  few  ornaments  from  ar- 
chitecture ;  their  chief  decoration  seems  to  be  a  pal- 
try piece  of  painting  hung  out  at  their  doors  or 
windows,  at  once  a  proof  of  their  indigence  and 
vanity :  their  vanity,  in  each  having  one  of  those 
pictures  exposed  to  public  view;  and  their  indi- 
gence, in  being  unable  to  get  them  better  painted. 
In  this  respect,  the  fancy  of  their  painters  is  also 
deplorable.  Could  you  believe  it  7  I  have  seen  five 
black  lions  and  three  blue  boars,  in  less  than  the 
circuit  of  half  a  mile ;  and  yet  you  know  that  ani- 
mals of  these  colours  are  no  where  to  be  found  ex- 
cept in  the  wild  imaginations  of  Europe. 

From  these  circumstances  in  their  buildings,  and 
from  the  dismal  looks  of  the  inhabitants,  I  am  in- 
duced to  conclude  that  the  nation  is  actually  poor; 
and  that,  like  the  Persians,  they  make  a  splendid 
figure  every  where  but  at  home.  The  proverb  of 
Xixofou  is,  that  a  man's  riches  may  be  seen  in  his 
eyes :  if  we  judge  of  the  Enghsh  by  this  rule,  there 
is  not  a  poorer  nation  under  the  sun. 

1  have  been  here  but  two  days,  so  will  not  be 
hasty  in  my  decisions.  Such  letters  as  I  shall 
write  to  Fipsihi  in  Moscow,  1  beg  you'll  endeavour 
to  forward  with  all  diligence ;  1  shall  send  them 
open,  in  order  that  you  may  take  copies  or  transla- 
tions, as  you  are  equally  versed  in  the  Dutch  and 
Chinese  languages.  Dear  friend,  think  of  my  ab- 
sence with  regret,  as  I  sincerely  regret  yours ;  even 
while  I  write,  1  lament  our  separation.     Farewell. 


LETTER  in. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  the  care  of  Fipsihi,  resident  in 
Moscow,  to  be  forwarded  by  the  Russian  caravan  to  Fund 
Hoana,  First  President  of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pe». 
Icin  in  China, 

Think  not,  O  thou  guide  of  my  youth  !  that  ab-. 
sence  can  impair  my  respect,  or  interposing  track- 
less deserts  blot  your  reverend  figure  from  my 
memory.  The  farther  I  travel  I  feel  the  pain  of 
separation  with  stronger  force ;  those  ties  that  bind 
me  to  my  native  country  and  you,  are  still  un- 
broken. By  every  remove,  I  only  drag  a  greater 
length  of  chain.  * 

Could  I  find  aught  worth  transmitting  from  so 
remote  a  region  as  this  to  which  1  have  wandered, 
1  should  gladly  send  it;  but,  instead  of  this,  you 
must  be  contented  with  a  renewal  of  my  former 
professions,  and  an  imperfect  account  of  a  people 


•  We  iind  a  repetition  of  this  beautiful  and  affecting  image 
in  the  Traveller: 

"And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain." 


250 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


with  whom  I  am  as  yet  but  superficially  acquaint 
ed.  The  remarks  of  a  man  who  has  been  but 
three  days  in  the  country,  can  only  be  those  obvi- 
ous circumstances  which  force  themselves  upon  the 
imagination.  I  consider  myself  here  as  a  newly- 
created  being  introduced  into  a  new  world ;  every 
object  strikes  with  wonder  and  surprise.  The 
imagination,  still  unsated,  seems  the  only  active 
principle  of  the  mind.  The  most  trifling  occur- 
rences give  pleasure  till  the  gloss  of  novelty  is  worn 
away.  When  I  have  ceased  to  wonder,  I  may 
possibly  grow  wise ;  I  may  then  call  the  reasoning 
principle  to  my  aid,  and  compare  those  objects  with 
each  other,  which  were  before  examined  without 
reflection. 

Behold  me  then  in  London,  gazing  at  the 
strangers,  and  they  at  me :  it  seems  they  find  some 
what  absurd  in  my  figure;  and  had  I  been  never 
from  home,  it  is  possible  I  might  find  an  infinite 
fund  of  ridicule  in  theirs;  but  by  long  travelling  I 
am  taught  to  laugh  at  folly  alone,  and  to  find  no- 
thing truly  ridiculous  but  villany  and  vice. 

When  1  had  just  quitted  my  native  country,  and 
crossed  the  Chinese  wall,  I  fancied  every  deviation 
from  the  customs  and  manners  of  China  was  a  de- 
parting from  nature.  I  smiled  at  the  blue  lips  and 
red  foreheads  of  the  Tonguese;  and  could  hardly 
contain  when  I  saw  the  Daures  dress  their  heads 
with  horns.  The  Ostiacs  powdered  with  red  earth ; 
and  the  Calmuck  beauties,  tricked  out  in  all  the 
finery  of  sheep-skin,  appeared  highly  ridiculous : 
but  I  soon  perceived  that  the  ridicule  lay  not  in 
them  but  in  me ;  that  I  falsely  condemned  others 
for  absurdity,  because  they  happened  to  differ  from 
a  standard  originally  founded  in  prejudice  or  parti- 
ality. 

I  find  no  pleasure  therefore  in  taxing  the  Eng- 
lish with  departing  from  nature  in  their  external 
appearance,  which  is  all!  yetknowof  their  charac- 
ter: it  is  possible  they  only  endeavour  to  improve 
♦  her  simple  plan,  since  every  extrayagance  in  dress 
proceeds  from  a  desire  of  becoming  more  beautiful 
than  nature  made  us;  and  this  is  so  harmless  a 
vanity,  that  I  not  only  pardon  but  approve  it.  A 
desire  to  be  more  excellent  than  others,  is  what  ac- 
tually makes  us  so ;  and  as  thousands  find  a  liveli- 
hood in  society  by  such  appetites,  none  but  the  ig- 
norant inveigh  against  them. 

You  are  not  insensible,  most  reverend  Fum 
Hoam,  what  numberless  trades,  even  among  the 
Chinese,  subsist  by  the  harmless  pride  of  each 
other.  Your  nose-borers,  feet-swathers,  tooth-stain- 
ers,  eyebrow-pluckers,  would  all  want  bread,  should 
their  neighbours  want  vanity.  These  vanities, 
however,  employ  much  fewer  hands  in  China  than 
in  England ;  and  a  fine  gentleman  or  a  fine  lady 
here,  dressed  up  to  the  fashion,  seems  scarcely  to 
have  a  single  limb  that  does  not  suffer  some  distor- 
tions from  art 


To  make  a  fine  gentleman,  several  trades  are  re- 
quired, but  chiefly  a  barber.  You  have  undoubt- 
edly heo.xd  of  the  Jewish  champion,  whose  strength 
lay  in  his  hair.  One  would  think  that  the  English 
were  for  placing  all  wisdom  there.  To  appear 
wise,  nothing  more  is  requisite  here  than  for  a  man 
to  borrow  hair  from  the  heads  of  all  his  neighbours, 
and  clap  it  like  a  bush  on  his  own ;  the  distributors 
of  law  and  physic  stick  on  such  quantities,  that  it 
is  almost  impossible,  even  in  idea,  to  distinguish 
between  the  head  and  the  hair. 

Those  whom  I  have  been  now  describing  affect 
the  gravity  of  the  lion ;  those  1  am  going  to  de- 
scribe, more  resemble  the  pert  vivacity  of  smaller 
animals.  The  barber,  who  is  still  master  of  the 
ceremonies,  cuts  their  hair  close  to  the  crown ;  and 
then  with  a  composition  of  meal  and  hog's-lard, 
plasters  the  whole  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it 
impossible  to  distinguish  whether  the  patient  wears 
a  cap  or  a  plaster ;  but,  to  make  the  picture  more 
perfectly  striking,  conceive  the  tail  of  some  beast, 
a  greyhound's  tail,  or  a  pig's  tail,  for  instance,  ap- 
pended to  the  back  of  the  head,  and  reaching  down 
to  that  place  where  tails  in  other  animals  are  gener- 
ally seen  to  begin ;  thus  betailed  and  bepowdered, 
the  man  of  taste  fancies  he  improves  in  beauty, 
dresses  up  his  hard-featured  face  in  smiles,  and  at- 
tempts to  look  hideously  tender.  Thus  equipped, 
he  is  qualified  to  make  love,  and  hopes  for  success 
more  from  the  powder  on  the  outside  of  his  head, 
than  the  sentiments  within. 

Yet  when  I  consider  what  sort  of  a  creature  the 
fine  lady  is  to  whom  he  is  supposed  to  pay  his  ad- 
dresses, it  is  not  strange  to  find  him  thus  equipped 
in  order  to  please.  She  is  herself  every  whit  as 
fond  of  powder,  and  tails,  and  hog's-lard,  as  he. 
To  speak  my  secret  sentiments,  most  reverend 
Fum,  the  ladies  here  are  horribly  ugly;  I  can 
hardly  endure  the  sight  of  them;  they  no  way  re- 
semble the  beauties  of  China :  the  Europeans  have 
quite  a  diflferent  idea  of  beauty  from  us.  When  1 
reflect  on  the  small-footed  perfections  of  an  Eastern 
beauty,  how  is  it  possible  I  should  have  eyes  for  a 
woman  whose  feet  are  ten  inches  long  1  I  shall 
never  forget  the  beauties  of  my  native  city  of  Nan- 
few.  How  very  broad  their  faces !  how  very  short 
their  noses !  how  very  httle  their  eyes !  how  very 
thin  their  lips !  how  very  black  their  teeth  I  the 
snow  on  the  tops  of  Bao  is  not  fairer  than  their 
cheeks ;  and  their  eyebrows  are  small  as  the  line 
by  the  pencil  of  Cluamsi.  Here  a  lady  with  such 
perfections  would  be  frightful ;  Dutch  and  Chinese 
beauties,  indeed,  have  some  resemblance,  but  Eng- 
lish women  are  entirely  different ;  red  cheeks,  big 
eyes,  and  teeth  of  a  most  odious  whiteness,  are  not 
only  seen  here,  but  wished  for;  and  then  they  have 
such '  masculine  feet,  as  actually  serve  some  for 
walking! 

Yot  uncivil  as  nature  has  been,  they  seem  re- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


261 


Bolved  to  outdo  her  in  unkindness ;  they  use  white 
powder,  blue  powder,  and  black  powder,  for  their 
hair,  and  a  red  powder  for  the  face  on  some  parti- 
cular occasions. 

They  like  to  have  the  face  of  various  colours,  as 
among  the  Tartars  of  Koreki,  frequently  sticking 
on,  with  spittle,  little  black  patches  on  every  part 
of  it,  except  on  the  tip  of  the  nose,  which  I  have 
never  seen  with  a  patch.  You'll  have  a  better  idea 
of  their  manner  of  placing  these  spots,  when  I  have 
finished  the  map  of  an  English  face  patched  up  to 
the  fashion,  which  shall  shortly  be  sent  to  increase 
your  curious  collection  of  paintings,  medals,  and 
monsters. 

But  what  surprises  more  than  all  the  rest  is  what 
I  have  just  now  been  credibly  informed  by  one  of 
this  country.  "Most  ladies  here, "  says  he,  "have 
two  faces;  one  face  to  sleep  in,  and  another  to  show 
in  company :  the  first  is  generally  reserved  for  the 
husband  and  family  at  home ;  the  other  put  on  to 
please  strangers  abroad :  the  family  face  is  often  in- 
difl^erent  enough,  but  the  out-door  one  looks  some- 
thing better;  this  is  always  made  at  the  toilet, 
where  the  looking-glass  and  toad-eater  sit  in  coun- 
cil, and  settle  the  complexion  of  the  day." 

I  can't  ascertain  the  truth  of  this  remark ;  how- 
ever, it  is  actually  certain,  that  they  wear  more 
clothes  within  doors  than  without ;  and  I  have  seen 
a  lady,  who  seemed  to  shudder  at  a  breeze  in  her 
own  apartment,  appear  half  naked  in  the  streets. 
Farewell. 


LETTER  IV. 

To  the  same. 

,;^  The  English  seem  as  silent  as  the  Japanese,  yet 
vainer  than  the  inhabitants  of  Siam.  Upon  my 
arrival,  I  attributed  that  reserve  to  modesty,  which 
I  now  find  has  its  origin  in  pride.  Condescend  to 
address  them  first,  and  you  are  sure  of  their  ac- 
quaintance ;  stoop  to  flattery,  and  you  conciliate 
their  friendship  and  esteem.  They  bear  hunger, 
cold,  fatigue,  and  all  the  miseries  of  life  without 
shrinking ;  danger  only  calls  forth  their  fortitude ; 
they  even  exult  in  calamity ;  but  contempt  is  what 
they  can  not  bear.  An  Englishman  fears  contempt 
more  than  death ;  he  often  flies  to  death  as  a^efuge 
from  its  pressure ;  and  dies  when  he  fancies  the 
world  has  ceased  to  esteem  him. 

Pride  seems  the  source  not  only  of  their  nation- 
al vices,  but  of  their  national  virtues  also.  An 
Englishman  is  taught  to  love  his  king  as  his  friend, 
but  to  acknowledge  no  other  master  than  the  laws 
which  himself  has  contributed  to  enact.  He  de- 
spises those  nations,  who,  that  one  may  be  free, 
are  all  content  to  be  slaves ;  who  first  lift  a  tyrant 
into  terror,  and  then  shrink  under  his  power  as  if 
delegated  from  Heaven.    Liberty  is  echoed  in  all 


their  assemblies;  and  thousands  might  be  found 
ready  to  oflfer  up  their  lives  for  the  sound,  though 
perhaps  not  one  of  all  the  number  understands  its 
meaning.  The  lowest  mechanic,  however,  looks 
upon  it  as  his  duty  to  be  a  watchful  guardian  of 
his  country's  freedom,  and  often  uses  a  language 
that  might  seem  haughty,  even  in  the  mouth  of  the 
great  emperor,  who  traces  his  ancestry  to  the 
moon. 

A  few  days  ago,  passing  by  one  of  their  prisons, 
I  could  not  avoid  stopping,  in  order  to  listen  to  a 
dialogue  which  I  thought  might  aflford  me  some 
entertainment.  The  conversation  was  carried  on 
between  a  debtor  through  the  grate  of  his  prison,  a 
porter,  who  had  stopped  to  rest  his  burden,  and  a 
soldier  at  the  window.  The  subject  was  upon  a 
threatened  invasion  from  France,  and  each  seemed 
extremely  anxious  to  rescue  his  country  from  the 
impending  danger.  '^For  my  part,"  cries  the 
prisoner,  "  the  greatest  of  my  apprehensions  is  for 
our  freedom ;  if  the  French  should  conquer,  what 
would  become  of  English  liberty?  My  dear 
friends,  Liberty  is  the  Englishman's  preroga- 
tive ;  we  must  preserve  that  at  the  expense  of  our 
lives ;  of  that  the  French  shall  never  deprive  us  ; 
it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  men  who  are  slaves 
themselves  would  preserve  our  freedom  should 
they  happen  to  conquer.''^ — "  Ay,  slaves,"  cries  the 
porter,  "  they  are  all  slaves,  fit  only  to  carry  burdens, 
every  one  of  them.  Before  I  would  stoop  to  slave- 
ry, may  this  be  my  poison  (and  he  held  the  goblet 
in  his  hand),  may  this  be  my  poison — but  I  would 
sooner  list  for  a  soldier." 

The  soldier,  taking  the  goblet  from  his  friend, 
with  much  awe  fervently  cried  out,  "/f  ts  not  so 
much  our  liberties  as  our  religion,  that  would  suf- 
fer by  such  a  change :  ay,  our  religion,  my  lads. 
May  the  devil  sink  me  into  fames  (such  was  the 
solemnity  of  his  adjuration),  if  the  French  should 
come  over,  but  our  religion  would  be  utterly  un- 
done. "  So  saying,  instead  of  a  libation,  he  applied 
the  goblet  to  his  lips,  and  confirmed  his  sentiment* 
with  a  ceremony  of  the  most  persevering  devo- 
tion. 

In  short,  every  man  here  pretends  to  be  a  politi- 
cian ;  even  the  fair  sex  are  sometimes  found  to  mix 
the  severity  of  national  altercation  with  the  bland- 
ishments of  love,  and  often  become  conquerors,  by 
more  weapons  of  destruction  than  their  eyes. 

This  universal  passion  for  politics,  is  gratified  by 
daily  gazettes,  as  with  us  at  China.  But  as  in  ours 
the  emperor  endeavours  to  instruct  his  people,  in 
theirs,  the  people  endeavour  to  instruct  the  admin- 
istration. You  must  not,  however,  imagine,  that 
they  who  compile  these  papers  have  any  actual 
knowledge  of  the  politics,  or  the  government  of  a 
state ;  they  only  collect  their  materials  from  the 
oracle  of  some  coflee-house ;  which  oracle  has  him- 
self gathered  them  the  night  before  from  a  bf  au  at 


252 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


a  gaining-table,  who  has  pillaged  his  knowledge 
from  a  great  man's  porter,  who  has  had  his  infor- 
mation from  the  great  man's  gentleman,  who  has 
invented  the  whole  story  for  his  own  amusement 
the  night  preceding. 

The  English,  in  general,  seem  fonder  of  gaining 
the  esteem  than  the  love  of  those  they  converse 
with.  This  gives  a  formality  to  their  amusements ; 
their  gayest  conversations  have  something  too  wise 
for  innocent  relaxation :  though  in  company  you 
are  seldom  disgusted  with  the  absurdity  of  a  fool, 
you  are  seldom  lifted  into  rapture  |^  those  strokes 
of  vivacity,  which  give  instant,  though  not  perma- 
nent pleasure. 

What  they  want,  however,  in  gaiety,  they  make 
up  in  politeness.  You  smile  at  hearing  me  praise 
the  English  for  their  politeness;  you  who  have 
heard  very  different  accounts  from  the  missionaries 
at  Pekin,  who  have  seen  such  a  different  behaviour 
in  their  merchants  and  seamen  at  home.  But  I 
must  still  repeat  it,  the  English  seem  more  polite 
than  any  of  their  neighbours :  their  great  art  in  this 
respect  lies  in  endeavouring,  while  they  oblige,  to 
lessen  the  force  of  the  favour.  Other  countries  are 
fond  of  obliging  a  stranger ;  but  seem  desirous  that 
he  should  be  sensible  of  the  obligation.  The  Eng- 
lish confer  their  kindness  with  an  appearance  of 
indifference,  and  give  away  benefits  with  an  air  as 
if  they  despised  them. 

Walking  a  few  days  ago  between  an  English 
and  a  Frenchman  into  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  we 
were  overtaken  by  a  heavy  shower  of  rain.  1  was 
unprepared ;  but  they  had  each  large  coats,  which 
defended  them  from  what  seenied  to  be  a  perfect 
inundation.  The  Englishman,  seeing  me  shrink 
from  the  weather,  accosted  me  thus :  ^'Psha,  man, 
what  dost  shrink  at  ?  here,  take  this  coat ;  I  don't 
want  it ;  lj\,nd  it  no  way  useful  to  me;  I  had  as 
lief  be  without  it^  The  Frenchman  began  to 
show  his  politeness  in  turn.  "iV/y  dear  friend,''^ 
cries  he,  ^^  why  won't  you  oblige  me  by  making  use 
of  my  coat  ?  you  see  how  well  it  defends  me  from 
the  rain;  I  should  not  choose  to  part  with  it  to 
others,  but  to  such  a  friend  as  you  I  could  even 
part  with  my  skin  to  do  him  service. " 

From  such  minute  instances  as  these,  most  reve- 
rend Fum  Hoam,  I  am  sensible  your  sagacity  will 
(Collect  instruction.  The  volume  of  nature  is  the 
book  of  knowledge;  and  he  becomes  most  wise, 
who  makes  the  most  judicious  selection.  Fare- 
well. 


LETTER  V. 

To  the  same. 
I  HAVE  already  informed  you  of  the  singular 
passion  of  this  nation  for  politics.     An  English- 
man not  satisfied  with  finding,  by  his  own  pros- 


perity, the  contending  powers  of  Europe  properly 
balanced,  desired  also  to  know  the  precise  value  of 
every  weight  in  either  scale.  To  gratify  this  curi- 
osity, a  leaf  of  political  instruction  is  served  up 
every  morning  with  tea :  when  our  politician  has 
feasted  upon  this,  he  repairs  to  a  coffee-house,  in 
order  to  ruminate  upon  what  he  has  read,  and  in- 
crease his  collection ;  from  thence  he  proceeds  to 
the  ordinary,  inquires  what  news,  and,  treasuring 
up  every  acquisition  there,  hunts  about  all  the 
evening  in  quest  of  more,  and  carefully  adds  it  to 
the  rest.  Thus  at  night  he  retires  home,  full  of 
the  important  advicel*of  the  day :  when  lo!  awaking 
next  morning,  he  finds  the  instructions  of  yeterday 
a  collection  of  absurdity  or  palpable  falsehood. 
This  one  would  think  a  mortifying  repulse  in  the 
pursuit  of  wisdom  ;  yet  our  politician,  no  way  dis- 
couraged, hunts  on,  in  order  to  collect  fresh  ma- 
terials, and  in  order  to  be  again  disappointed. 

I  have  often  admired  the  commercial  spirit  which 
prevails  over  Europe ;  have  been  surprised  to  see 
them  carry  on  a  traffic  with  productions  that  an 
Asiatic  stranger  would  deem  entirely  useless.  It 
is  a  proverb  in  China,  that  a  European  suffers  not 
even  his  spittle  to  be  lost ;  the  maxim,  however,  is 
not  sufficiently  strong,  since  they  sell  even  their 
lies  to  great  advantage.  Every  nation  drives  a 
considerable  trade  in  this  commodity  with  their 
neighbours. 

An  English  dealer  in  this  way,  for  instance,  has 
only  to  ascend  to  his  workhouse,  and  manufacture 
a  turbulent  speech,  averred  to  be  spoken  in  the 
senate ;  or  a  report  supposed  to  be  dropped  at  court; 
a  piece  of  scandal  that  strikes  at  a  popular  manda- 
rine; or  a  secret  treaty  between  two  neighbouring 
powers.  When  finished,  these  goods  are  baled  up, 
and  consigned  to  a  factor  abroad,  who  sends  in  re- 
turn too  battles,  three  sieges,  and  a  shrev^'d  Itett^r 

filled  with  dashes blanks  and  stars 

****  of  great  importance. 

Thus  you  perceive,  that  a  single  gazette  is  the 
joint  manufacture  of  Europe;  and  he  who  would 
peruse  it  with  a  philosophical  eye,  might  perceive 
in  every  paragraph  something  characteristic  of  the 
nation  to  which  it  belongs.  A  map  does  not  ex- 
hibit a  more  distinct  view  of  the  boundaries  and 
situation  of  every  country,  than  its  news  does  a 
picture  of  the  genius  and  the  morals  of  its  inhabi- 
tants. The  superstition  and  erroneous  delicacy  of 
Italy,  the  formality  of  Spain,  the  cruelty  of  Portu- 
gal, the  fears  of  Austria,  the  confidence  of  Prussia, 
the  levity  of  France,  the  avarice  of  Holland,  the 
pride  of  England,  the  absurdity  of  Ireland,  and  the 
national  partiality  of  Scotland,  are  all  consj)icuous 
in  every  page. 

But,  perhaps,  you  may  find  more  satisfaction  in 
a  real  newspaper,  than  in  my  description  of  one ;  I 
therefore  send  a  specimen,  which  may  serve  to  ex- 
hibit the  manner  of  their  being  written,  and  dis- 


CITIZEN  OF  TKE  WORLD. 


tinguish  the  characters  of  the  various  nations  which 
are  united  in  its  composition. 

Naples. — We  have  lately  dug  up  here  a  curious 
Etruscan  monument,  broke  in  two  in  the  raising. 
The  characters  are  scarce  visible ;  but  Lugosi,  the 
learned  antiquary,  supposes  it  to  have  been  erected 
in  honour  of  Picus,  a  Latin  King,  as  one  of  the 
lines  may  be  plainly  distinguished  to  begin  with  a 
P.  It  is  hoped  this  discovery  will  produce  some- 
thing valuable,  a5k:.the  literati  of  our  twelve  acade- 
mies are  deeply  engaged  in  the  disquisition. 

Pisa. — Since  Father  Fudgi,  prior  of  St.  Gil- 
bert's, has  gone  to  reside  at  Rome,  no  miracles  have 
been  performed  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Gilbert :  the 
devout  begin  to  grow  uneasy,  and  some  begin  ac- 
tually to  fear  that  St.  Gilbert  has  forsaken  them 
with  the  reverend  father. 

Lucca. — The  administrators  of  our  serene  re- 
public have  frequent  conferences  upon  the  part 
they  shall  take  in  the  present  commotions  of  Eu- 
rope. Some  are  for  sending  a  body  of  their  troops, 
consisting  of  one  company  of  foot  and  six  horse- 
men, to  make  a  diversion  in  favour  of  the  empress- 
queen  ;  others  are  as  strenuous  assertors  of  the 
Prussian  interest :  what  turn  these  debates  may 
take,  time  only  can  discover.  However,  certain  it 
IS,  we  shall  be  able  to  bring  into  the  field,  at  the 
opening  of  the  next  campaign,  seventy-five  armed 
men,  a  commander-in-chief,  and  two  drummers  of 
great  experience. 

Spain. — Yesterday  the  new  king  showed  him- 
self to  his  subjects,  and,  after  having  staid  half  an 
hour  in  his  balcony,  retired  to  the  royal  apartment. 
The  night  concluded  on  this  extraordinary  occasion 
with  illuminations,  and  other  demonstrations  of  joy. 

The  queen  is  more  beautiful  than  the  rising  sun, 
and  reckoned  one  of  the  first  wits  in  Europe ;  she 
had  a  glorious  opportunity  of  displaying  the  readi- 
ness of  her  invention  and  her  skill  in  repartee, 
lately  at  court.  The  Duke  of  Lerma  coming  up 
to  her  with  a  low  bow  and  a  smile,  and  presenting 
a  nosegay  set  with  diamonds.  Madam,  cries  he,  1 
am  your  most  obedient  humble  servant.  Oh,  sir, 
replies  the  queen,  without  any  prompter,  or  the 
least  hesitation,  Tm  very  proud  of  the  very  great 
honour  you  do  me.  Upon  which  she  made  a  low 
courtesy,  and  all  the  courtiers  fell  a-laughing  at  the 
readiness  and  the  smartness  of  her  reply. 

Lisbon. — Yesterday  wc  had  an  auto  da  fe,  at 
which  were  burned  three  young  women,  accused 
of  heresy,  one  of  them  of  exquisite  beauty;  two 
Jews,  and  an  old  woman,  convicted  of  being  a 
witch  :  one  of  the  friars,  who  attended  this  last,  re- 
ports, that  he  saw  the  devil  fly  out  of  her  at  the 
stake  in  the  shape  of  a  flame  of  fire.  The  popu- 
lace behaved  on  this  occasion  with  great  good  hu- 
mour, joy,  and  sincere  devotion. 

Our  merciful  Sovereign  has  been  for  some  time 
past  recovered  of  his  fright :  thougL  so  atrocic^d  an 


attempt  deserved  to  extirminate  half  the  nation,  yet 
he  has  been  graciously  pleased  to  spare  the  lives 
of  his  subjects,  and  not  above  five  hundred  have 
been  broke  upon  the  wheel,  or  otherwise  executed, 
upon  this  horrid  occasion. 

Vienna. — We  have  received  certain  advices  that 
a  party  of  twenty  thousand  Austrians,  having  at- 
tacked a  much  superior  body  of  Prussians,  put  them 
all  to  flight,  and  took  the  rest  prisoners  of  war. 

Berlin. — We  have  received  certain  advices  that 
a  party  of  twenty  thousand  Prussians,  having  at- 
tacked a  much  superior  body  of  Austrians,  put 
them  to  flight,  and  took  a  great  number  of  prisoners, 
with  their  military  chest,  cannon,  and  baggage. 

Though  we  have  not  succeeded  this  campaign  to 
our  wishes,  yet,  when  we  think  of  him  who  com- 
mands us,  we  rest  in  security :  while  we  sleep,  our 
king  is  watchful  for  our  safety. 

Paris. — We  shall  soon  strike  a  signal  blow. 
We  have  seventeen  flat-bottomed  boats  at  Havre. 
The  people  are  in  excellent  spirits,  and  our  minis- 
ters make  no  difficulty  in  raising  the  supplies. 

We  are  all  undone ;  the  people  are  discontented 
to  the  last  degree ;  the  ministers  are  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  the  most  rigorous  methods  to  raise  the 
expenses  of  the  war. 

Our  distresses  are  great ;  but  Madame  Pompa- 
dour continues  to  supply  our  king,  who  is  now 
growing  old,  with  a  fresh  lady  every  night.  His 
health,  thank  Heaven,  is  still  pretty  well ;  nor  is  he 
in  the  least  unfit,  as  was  reported,  for  any  kind  of 
royal  exercitation.  He  was  so  frightened  at  the 
aflfair  of  Damien,  that  his  physicians  were  appre- 
hensive lest  his  reason  should  suffer;  but  that 
wretch's  tortures  soon  composed  the  kingly  ter- 
rors of  his  breast. 

England. — Wanted  an  usher  to  an  academy. 
N.  B.  He  must  be  able  to  read,  dress  hair,  and 
must  have  had  the  small-pox. 

Dublin. — We  hear  that  there  is  a  benevolent 
subscription  on  foot  among  the  nobility  and  gentry 
of  this  kingdom,  who  are  great  patrons  of  merit,  in 
order  to  assist  Black  and  All  Black  in  his  contest 
with  the  Padderen  mare. 

We  hear  from  Germany  that  Prince  Ferdinand 
has  gained  a  complete  victory,  and  taken  twelve 
kettle-drums,  five  standards,  and  four  wagons  of 
ammunition,  prisoners  of  war. 

Edinburgh. — We  are  positive  when  we  say  that 
Saunders  M'Gregor,  who  was  lately  executed  for 
horse-stealing,  is  not  a  Scotchman,  but  born  in 
Carrickferwus.     Farewell. 


LETTER  VL 

Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the  Ceremonial  Academy  at 
Pekin,  to  Lien  Ciii  Altangi,  the  Discontented  Wanderer;  by 
the  way  of  Moscow. 
Whether  sporting  on  the  flowery  banks  of  the 

river  Irtis,   or  scaling  the  steepy  mountains  of 


254 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Douchenour ;  whether  traversing  the  black  deserts 
of  Kobi,  or  giving  lessons  of  politeness  to  the  savage 
inhabitants  of  Europe ;  in  whatever  country,  what- 
«ver  climate,  and  whatever  circumstances,  all  hail! 
May  Tien,  the  Universal  Soul,  take  you  under  his 
protection,  and  inspire  you  with  a  superior  portion 
of  himself! 

How  long,  my  friend,  shall  an  enthusiasm  for 
knowledge  continue  tp  obstruct  your  happiness, 
and  tear  you  from  all  the  connexions  that  make 
life  pleasing  1  How  long  will  you  continue  to  rove 
from  climate  to  climate,  circled  by  thousands,  and 
yet  without  a  friend,  feeling  all  the  inconveniencies 
of  a  crowd,  and  all  the  anxiety  of  being  alone  7 

1  know  you  reply,  that  the  refined  pleasure  of 
growing  every  day  wiser,  is  a  sufficient  recompense 
for  every  inconvenience.  I  know  you  will  talk  of 
the  vulgar  satisfaction  of  soliciting  happiness  from 
tiensual  enjoyment  only;  and  probably  enlarge  up- 
on the  exquisite  raptures  of  sentimental  bliss.  Yet, 
i)elieve  me,  friend,  you  are  deceived ;  all  our  pleas- 
ures, though  seemingly  never  so  remote  from  sense, 
<lerive  their  origin  from  some  one  of  the  senses. 
The  most  exquisite  demonstration  in  mathematics, 
or  the  most  pleasing  disquisition  in  metaphysics,  il' 
it  does  not  ultimately  tend  to  increase  some  sensual 
satisfaction,  is  delightful  only  to  fools,  or  to  men 
•who  have  by  long  .habit  contracted  a  false  idea  of 
pleasure ;  and  he  who  separates  sensual  and  senti- 
mental enjoyments,  seeking  happiness  from  mind 
alone,  is  in  fact  as  wretched  as  the  naked  inhabitant 
of  the  forest,  who  places  all  happiness  in  the  first, 
regardless  of  the  latter.  There  are  two  extremes 
in  this  respect:  the  savage,  who  swallows  down  the 
draught  of  pleasure  without  staying  to  reflect  on 
his  happiness ;  and  the  sage,  who  passeth  the  cup 
while  he  reflects  on  the  conveniencies  of  drink- 
ing. 

It  is  with  a  heart  full  of  sorrow,  my  dear  Altan- 
gi,  that  I  must  inform  you,  that  what  the  world 
calls  happiness  must  now  be  yours  no  longer.  Our 
great  emperor's  displeasure  at  your  leaving  China, 
contrary  to  the  rules  of  our  government,  and  the 


surrounding  friends,  and  your  master's  esteem,  it 
has  reduced  thee  to  want,  persecution,  an<l,  still 
worse,  to  our  mighty  monarch's  displeasure.  Want 
of  prudence  is  too  frequently  the  want  of  virtue; 
nor  is  there  on  earth  a  more  powerful  advocate  for 
vice  than  poverty.  As  I  shall  endeavour  to  sfoard 
thee  from  the  one,  so  guard  thyself  from  the  other ; 
and  still  think  of  me  with  affection  and  esteem. 
Farewell. 


LETTER  VII. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Fum  Hoara,  first  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  Ciiina.* 

A  WIFE,  a  daughter,  carried  into  captivity  to  ex- 
piate my  offence ;  a  son,  scarce  yet  arrived  at  ma- 
turity, resolving  to  encounter  every  danger  in  the 
pious  pursuit  of  one  who  has  undone  him — these 
indeed  are  circumstances  of  distress :  though  my 
tears  were  more  precious  than  the  gem  of  Golcon- 
da,  yet  would  they  fall  upon  such  an  occasion. 

But  I  submit  to  the  stroke  of  Heaven  :  I  hold  the 
volume  of  Confucius  in  my  hand,  and,  as  I  read, 
grow  humble,  and  patient,  and  wise.  We  should 
feel  sorrow,  says  he,  but  not  sink  under  its  oppres- 
sion. The  heart  of  a  wise  man  should  resemble  a 
mirror,  which  reflects  every  object  without  being 
sullied  by  any.  The  wheel  of  fortune  turns  in- 
cessantly round ;  and  who  can  say  within  himself, 
1  shall  to-day  be  uppermost?  We  should  hold  the 
immutable  mean  that  lies  between  insensibility  and 
anguish ;  our  attempts  should  not  be  to  extinguish 
nature,  but  to  repress  it ;  not  to  stand  unmoved  at 
distress,  but  endeavour  to  turn  every  disaster  to  our 
own  advantage.  Our  greatest  glory  is,  not  in  never 
falling,  but  in  rising  every  time  we  fall. 

I  fancy  myself  at  present,  O  thou  reverend  dis- 
ciple of  Tao,  more  than  a  match  for  all  that  can 
happen.  The  chief  business  of  my  Ufe  has  been 
to  procure  wisdom,  and  the  chief  object  of  that 
wisdom  was  to  be  happy.  My  attendance  on  your 
lectures,  my  conferences  with  the  missionaries  of 


immemorial  custom  of  the  empire,  has  produced  the  J  £^j.^pg^  ^^j  ^^U  ^y  subsequent  adventures  upon 

most  terrible  effects.     Your  wife,  slaughter,  and  i^.^^.^g  ^.^^^^^  ^^^^  calculated  to  increase  the 

the  rest  of  your  family,  have  been  seized  by  hislg^^^^j.^  ^^  ^^  happiness,  not  my  curiosity.     Let 

order,   and  appropriated  to  his  use;  all,  except  j,^j.^pg^j^  ^^.^^^11^^.^  ^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^j  j^gg^jj.  jj^g^giy 

your  son,  are  now  the  peculiar  property  of  him  who  ^^  ^^^^^^^  ^je  height  of  a  mountain,  to  describe 

possesses  all :  him  I  have  hidden  from  the  officers  ^^^  cataract  of  a  river,  or  tell  the  commodities  which 

employed  for  this  purpose;  and  even  at  the  hazard  ^^^^^  country  may  produce;  merchants  or  geogra- 

of  my  life  I  have  concealed  him.     The  youth  seems  ^^^^^^  perhaps,  may  find  profit  by  such  discoveries ; 

obstinately  bent  on  finding  you  out,  wherever  you  ^^^  ^j^^^  advantage  can  accrue  to  a  philosopher 

are ;  he  is  determined  to  face  every  danger  that  op-  ^^^^  ^^^^  accounts,  who  is  desirous  of  understand- 

poses  his  pursuit.     Though  yet  but  fifteen,  all  his  .^^  ^j^^  j^^^^^  j^^^^^.^^  ^^^  ^^^1^^  t^  l^„ow  the  men 

father's  virtues  and  obstinacy  sparkle  in  his  eyes, 

and  mark  him  as  one  destined  to  no  mediocrity  of  ■  ,  ,u^  roori^r  thnt  th* 

j     *  Tiie  editor  thmks  proper  to  acquaint  the  reader,  that  tne 

fortune.  greatest  part  of  the  following  letter  seems  to  him  to  be  little 

You  see    my  dearest  friend,  what  imprudence  nwre  than  a  rhapsody  of  sentences  borrowed  from  Confuciua, 
has  brought  thee  to :  from  opulence,  a  tender  family,  the  Chinese  philosopher. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


2S5 


<tf  every  country,  who  desires  to  discover  those  dif-  time  I  shall  find  them  more  opulent,  more  cnari 
lerences  which  result  from  climate,  religion,  edu-  table,  and  more  hospitable,  than  I  at  first  imagined. 


caition,  prejudice,  and  partiality? 

I  should  think  my  time  very  ill  bestowed,  were 
the  only  fruits  of  my  adventures  to  consist  in  being 
able  to  tell,  that  a  tradesman  of  London  lives  in  a 
house  three  times  as  high  as  that  of  our  great  Em- 
peror ;  that  the  ladies  wear  longer  clothes  than  the 
men  ^  that  the  priests  are  dressed  in  colours  which 
we  are  taught  to  detest;  and  that  their  soldiers 
wear  scarlet,  which  is  with  us  the  symbol  of  peace 
•and  innocence.  How  many  travellers  are  there 
who  confine  their  relations  to  such  minute  and  use- 
less particulars !  For  one  who  enters  into  the  ge- 
*nius  of  those  nations  with  whom  he  has  conversed  ; 
■who  discloses  their  morals,  their  opinions,  the  ideas 
-which  they  entertain  of  religious  worship,  the  in- 
trigues of  their  ministers,  and  their  skill  in  sciences ; 
there  are  twenty  who  only  mention  some  idle  par- 
ticulars, which  can  be  of  no  real  use  to  a  true  phi- 
losopher. All  their  remarks  tend  neither  to  make 
themselves  nor  others  more  happy ;  they  no  way 
contribute  to  control  their  passions,  to  bear  adver- 
sity, to  inspire  true  virtue,  or  raise  a  detestation  of 
vice. 

Men  may  be  very  learned,  and  yet  very  miser- 
able; it  is  easy  to  be  a  deep  geometrician,  or  a  sub- 
lime astronomer,  but  very  difficult  to  be  a  good 
man.  I  esteem,  therefore,  the  traveller  who  in- 
structs the  heart,  but  despise  him  who  only  indul- 
ges the  imagination.  A  man  who  leaves  home  to 
mend  himself  and  others,  is  a  philosopher;  but  he 
who  goes  from  country  to  country,  guided  by  the 
blind  impulse  of  curiosity,  is  only  a  vagabond. 
From  Zerdusht  down  to  him  of  Tyanea,  1  honour 
all  those  great  names  who  endeavour  to  unite  the 
world  by  their  travels:  such  men  grew  wiser  as 
well  as  better,  the  farther  they  departed  from  home, 
and  seemed  like  rivers,  whose  streams  are  not  only 
increased,  but  refined,  as  they  travel  from  their 
source. 

For  my  own  part,  my  greatest  glory  is,  that 
travelling  has  not  more  steeled  my  constitution 
■against  all  the  vicissitudes  of  climate,  and  all  the 
•depressions  of  fatigue,  than  it  has  my  mind  against 
the  accidents  of  fortune,  or  the  access  of  despair, 
farewell. 


LETTER  VIIL 

To  the  same. 

How  insupportable,  O  thou  possessor  of  heaven- 
ly wisdom,  would  be  this  separation,  this  immeasur- 
able distance  from  my  friend,  were  1  not  able  thus 
to  deUneate  my  heart  upon  paper,  and  to  send  thee 
4aily  a  map  of  my  mind ! 

I  am  every  day  better  reconciled  to  the  people 
among  whom  I  reside,  and  begin  to  fancy,  that  in  I  her  nothing. 


begin  to  learn  somewhat  of  their  manners  and 
customs,  and  to  see  reasons  for  several  deviations 
which  they  make  from  us,  from  whom  all  other 
nations  derive  their  politeness,  as  well  as  their 
original. 

In  spite  of  taste,  in  spite  of  prejudice,  I  now  be 
gin  to  think  their  women  tolerable.  I  can  now 
look  on  a  languishing  blue  eye  without  disgust,  and 
pardon  a  set  of  teeth,  even  though  whiter  than 
ivory.  I  now  begin  to  fancy  there  is  no  universal 
standard  for  beauty.  The  truth  is,  the  manners 
of  the  ladies  in  t|;iis  city  are  so  very  open,  and  so 
vastly  engaging,  that  1  am  inclined  to  pass  over  the 
more  glaring  defects  of  their  persons,  since  com- 
pensated by  the  more  solid,  yet  latent  beauties  of 
the  mind.  What  though  they  want  black  teeth, 
or  are  deprived  of  the  allurements  of  feet  no  bigger 
than  their  thumbs,  yet  still  they  have  souls,  my 
friend ;  such  souls,  so  free,  so  pressing,  so  hospi- 
table, and  so  engaging. — I  have  received  more  in- 
vitations in  the  streets  of  London  from  the  sex  in 
one  night,  than  I  have  met  with  at  Pekin  in  twelve 
revolutions  of  the  moon. 

Every  evening,  as  I  return  home  from  my  usual 
solitary  excursions,  I  am  met  by  several  of  those 
vs^ell- disposed  daughters  of  hospitality,  at  different 
times,  and  in  different  streets,  richly  dressed,  and 
with  minds  not  less  noble  than  their  appearance. 
You  know  that  nature  has  indulged  me  with  a 
person  by  no  means  agreeable ;  yet  are  they  too 
generous  to  object  to  my  homely  appearance ;  they 
feel  no  repugnance  at  my  broad  face  and  flat  nose ; 
they  perceive  me  to  be  a  stranger,  and  that  alone 
is  a  sufficient  recommendation.  They  even  seem 
to  think  it  their  duty  to  do  the  honours  of  the  coun- 
try by  every  act  of  complaisance  in  their  power. 
One  takes  me  under  the  arm,  and  in  a  manner 
forces  me  along;  another  catches  me  round  the 
neck,  and  desires  to  partake  in  this  office  of  hospi- 
tality; while  a  third,  kinder  still,  invites  me  to  re- 
fresh my  spirits  with  wine.  Wine  is  in  England 
reserved  only  for  the  rich :  yet  here  even  wine  is 
given  away  to  the  stranger ! 

A  few  nights  ago,  one  of  these  generous  crea- 
tures, dressed  all  in  white,  and  flaunting  like  a 
meteor  by  my  side,  forcibly  attended  me  home  to 
my  own  apartment.  She  seemed  charmed  with 
the  elegance  of  the  furniture,  and  the  convenience 
of  my  situation :  and  well  indeed  she  might,  for  I 
have  hired  an  apartment  for  not  less  than  two  shil- 
lings of  their  money  every  week.  But  her  civility 
did  not  rest  here ;  for  at  parting,  being  desirous  to 
know  the  hour,  and  perceiving  my  watch  out  of 
order,  she  kindly  took  it  to  be  repaired  by  a  rela- 
tion of  her  own,  which  you  may  imagine  will  save 
some  expense;  and  she  assures  me,  that  it  will  cost 
I  shall  have  it  back  in  a  few  days^ 


256 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


•when  mended,  and  am  preparing  a  proper  speech, 
expressive  of  my  gratitude  on  the  occasion  :  Ce- 
lestial excellence,  1  intend  to  say,  happy  I  am  in 
having  found  out,  after  many  painful  adventures, 
a  land  of  innocence,  and  a  people  of  humanity :  I 
may  rove  into  other  climes,  and  converse  with  na- 
tions yet  unknown,  but  where  shall  I  meet  a  soul 
of  such  purity  as  that  which  resides  in  thy  breast  I 
Sure  thou  hast  been  nurtured  by  the  bill  of  the 
Shin  Shin,  or  sucked  the  breasts  of  the  provident 
Gin  Hiung.  The  melody  of  thy  voice  could  rob 
the  Chong  Fou  of  her  whelps,  oi  inveigle  the  Boh 
thai  lives  in  the  midst  of  the  waters.  Thy  ser- 
vant shall  ever  retain  a  sense  of  thy  favours  ;  and 
one  day  boast  of  thy  virtue,  sincerity,  and  truth, 
among  the  daughters  of  China.    Adieu. 


LETTER  IX. 

To  the  Same. 

I  HAVE  been  deceived !  She  whom  I  fancied  a 
daughter  of  paradise,  has  proved  to  be  one  of  the 
infamous  disciples  of  Han !  I  have  lost  a  trifle : 
I  have  gained  the  consolation  of  having  discovered 
a  deceiver.  I  once  more,  therefore,  relax  into  my 
former  indifference  with  regard  to  the  English  la- 
dies ;  they  once  more  begin  to  appear  disagreeable 
in  my  eyes.  Thus  is  my  whole  time  passed  in 
forming  conclusions  which  the  next  minute's  ex 
peiience  may  probably  destroy;  the  present  mo- 
ment becomes  a  comment  on  the  past,  and  I  improve 
rather  in  humility  than  wisdom. 

Their  laws  and  religion  forbid  the  English  to 
keep  more  than  one  woman  ;  I  therefore  concluded 
that  prostitutes  were  banished  from  society.  1  was 
deceived  ;  every  man  here  keeps  as  many  wives  as 
he  can  maintain:  the  laws  are  cemented  with 
blood,  praised  and  disregarded.  The  very  Chi- 
nese, whose  religion  allows  him  two  wives,  takes 
not  half  the  liberties  of  the  English  in  this  particu- 
lar. Their  laws  may  be  compared  to  the  books  of 
the  Sibyls ;  they  are  held  in  great  veneration,  but 
seldom  read,  or  seldom  are  understood ;  even  those 
who  pretend  to  be  their  guardians,  dispute  about 
the  meaning  of  many  of  them,  and  confess  their 
ignorance  of  others.  The  law,  therefore,  which 
commands  them  to  have  but  one  wife,  is  strictly 
observed  only  by  those  for  whom  one  is  more  than 
sufficient,  or  by  such  as  have  not  money  to  buy 
two.  As  for  the  rest,  they  violate  it  publicly,  and 
some  glory  in  its  violation.  They  seem  to  think, 
like  the  Persians,  that  they  give  evident  marks  of 
manhood  by  increasing  their  seraglio.  A  manda- 
rine, therefore,  here  generally  keeps  four  wives,  a 
gentleman  three,  and  a  stage-player  two.  As  for 
the  magistrates,  the  country  justices  and  'squires, 


they  are  employed  first  in  debauching  young  vir- 
gins, and  then  punishing  the  transgression. 

From  such  a  picture  you  will  be  apt  to  conclude, 
that  he  who  employs  four  ladies  for  his  amusement, 
has  four  times  as  much  constitution  to  spare  as  he 
who  is  contented  with  one ;  that  a  mandarine  is 
much  cleverer  than  a  gentleman,  and  a  gentleman 
than  a  player ;  and  yet  it  is  quite  the  reverse :  a 
mandarine  is  frequently  supported  on  spindle 
shanks,  appears  emaqj^ed  by  luxury,  and  is 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  variety,  merely  from  the 
weakness,  not  the  vigour  of  his  constitution,  the 
number  of  his  wives  being  the  most  equivocal 
symptom  of  his  virility. 

Beside  the  country  'squire,  there  is  also  another 
set  of  men,  whose  whole  employment  consists  in 
corrupting  beauty  ;  these,  the  silly  part  of  the  fair 
sex  call  amiable ;  the  more  sensible  part  of  them, 
however,  give  them  the  title  of  abominable.  You 
will  probably  demand  what  are  the  talents  of  a 
man  thus  caressed  by  the  majority  of  the  opposite 
sex  7  what  talents,  or  what  beauty  is  he  possessed 
of  superior  to  the  rest  of  his  fellows  1  To  answer 
you  directly,  he  has  neither  talents  nor  beauty;  but 
then  he  is  possessed  of  impudence  and  assiduity. 
With  assiduity  and  impudence,  men  of  all  ages, 
and  all  figures,  may  commence  admirers.  I  have 
even  been  told  of  some  who  made  professions  of 
expiring  for  love,  when  all  the  world  could  perceive 
they  were  going  to  die  of  old  age :  and  what  is 
more  surprising  still,  such  battered  beaux  are  ge- 
nerally most  infamously  successful. 

A  fellow  of  tliis  kind  employs  three  hours  every 
morning  in  dressing  his  head,  by  which  is  under- 
stood only  his  hair. 

He  is  a  professed  admirer,  not  of  any  particular 
lady,  but  of  the  whole  sex. 

He  is  to  suppose  every  lady  has  caught  cold 
every  night,  which  gives  him  an  opportunity  of 
calling  to  see  how  she  does  the  next  morning. 

He  is  upon  all  occasions  to  show  himself  in  very 
great  pain  for  the  ladies ;  if  a  lady  drops  even  a 
pin,  he  is  to  fly  in  order  to  present  it. 

He  never  speaks  to  a  lady  without  advancing  his 
mouth  to  her  ear,  by  which  he  frequently  addresses 
more  senses  than  one. 

Upon  proper  occasions,  he  looks  excessively 
tender.  This  is  performed  by  laying  his  hand  upon 
his  heart,  shutting  his  eyes  and  showing  his  teeth. 
He  is  excessively  fond  of  dancing  a  minuet  with 
the  ladies,  by  which  is  only  meant  walking  round 
the  floor  eight  or  ten  times  with  his  hat  on,  affect- 
ing great  gravity,  and  sometimes  looking  tenderly 
on  his  partner. 

He  never  affronts  any  man  himself,  and  never 
resents  an  affront  from  another. 

He  has  an  infinite  variety  of  small  talk  upon  all 
occasions,  and  laughs  vvhen  he  has  nothing  more 
to  say. 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


257 


Such  is  the  killing  creature  who  prostrates  him- 
self to  the  sex  till  he  has  undone  them :  all  whose 
Bubmissions  are  the  effects  of  design,  and  who  to 
please  the  ladies  almost  becomes  himself  a  lady. 


LETTER  X. 


To  the  Same. 


I  HAVE  hitherto  given  you  no  account  of  my 
journey  from  China  to  Europe,  of  my  travels  through 
countries,  where  nature  sports  in  primeval  rudeness, 
where  she  pours  forth  her  wonders  in  solitude ; 
countries,  from  whence  the  rigorous  climate,  the 
sweeping  inundation,  the  drifted  desert,  the  howl- 
ing forrest  and  mountains  of  immeasurable  height, 
banish  the  husbandman  and  spread  extensive  de- 
solation ;  countries,  where  the  brown  Tartar  wan- 
ders for  a  precarious  subsistence,  with  a  heart  that 
never  felt  pity,  himself  more  hideous  than  the 
wilderness  he  makes. 

You  will  easily  conceive  tlic  fatigue  of  crossing 
vast  tracts  of  land,  either  desolate,  or  still  more 
dangerous  by  its  inhabitants  ;  the  retreat  of  men 
who  seem  driven  from  society,  in  order  to  make 
war  upon  all  the  human  race ;  nominally  professing 
a  subjection  to  Muscovy  or  China,  but  without 
any  resemblance  to  the  countries  on  which  they 
depend. 

After  I  had  crossed  the  great  wall,  the  first  ob- 
jects that  presented  themselves  were  the  remains 
of  desolated  cities,  and  all  the  magnificence  of  ve- 
nerable ruin.  There  were  to  be  seen  temples  of 
beautiful  structure,  statues  wrought  by  the  hand 
of  a  master,  and  around,  a  country  of  luxuriant 
plenty ;  but  not  one  single  inhabitant  to  reap  the 
bounties  of  nature.  These  were  prospects  that 
might  humble  the  pride  of  kings,  and  repress  hu- 
man vanity.  I  asked  my  guide  the  cause  of  such 
desolation.  These  countries,  says  he,  were  once 
the  dominions  of  a  Tartar  Prince  ;  and  these  ruins, 
the  seat  of  arts,  elegance  and  ease.  This  prince 
waged  an  unsuccessful  war  with  one  of  the  empe- 
rors of  China  :  he  was  conquered,  his  cities  plun- 
dered, and  all  his  subjects  carried  into  captivity. 
Such  are  the  effects  of  the  ambition  of  Kings  ! 
Ten  Dervises,  says  the  Indian  Proverb,  shall  sleep 
in  peace  upon  a  single  carpet,  while  two  Kings 
is  all  quarrel,  though  they  have  kingdoms  to  divide 
them.  Sure,  my  friend,  the  cruelty  and  the  pride 
of  man  have  made  more  deserts  than  Nature  ever 
made !  she  is  kind,  but  man  is  ungrateful ! 

Proceeding  in  my  journey  through  this  pensive 
scene  of  desolated  beauty,  in  a  few  days  1  arrived 
among  the  Daures,  a  nation  still  dependent  on 
China  Xaizigar  is  their  principal  city,  which, 
compared  with  those  of  Europe,  scarcely  deserves 
the  name.  The  governors,  and  other  officers,  who 
17 


are  sent  yearly  from  Pekin,  abuse  their  authority, 
and  often  take  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  in- 
habitants to  themselves.  The  Daures,  accustomed 
to  base  submission,  feel  no  resentment  at  those  in- 
juries, or  stifle  what  they  feel.  Custom  and  ne- 
cessity teach  even  barbarians  the  same  art  of  dis- 
simulation that  ambition  and  intrigue  inspire  in  the 
breasts  of  the  polite.  Upon  beholding  such  un- 
hcensed  stretches  of  power,  alas !  thought  I,  how 
little  does  our  wise  and  good  emperor  know  of 
these  intolerable  exactions !  these  provinces  are  too 
distant  for  complaint,  and  too  insignificant  to  ex- 
pect redress.  The  more  distant  the  government, 
the  honester  should  be  the  governor  to  whom  it  is 
intrusted ;  for  hope  of  impunity  is  a  strong  induce- 
ment to  violation. 

The  religion  of  the  Daures  is  more  absurd  than 
even  that  of  the  sectaries  of  Fohi.  How  would 
you  be  surprised,  O  sage  disciple  and  follower  of 
Confucius !  you  who  believe  one  eternal  intelligent 
Cause  of  all,  should  you  be  present  at  the  barbarous 
ceremonies  of  this  infatuated  people !  How  would 
you  deplore  the  blindness  and  folly  of  mankind ! 
His  boasted  reason  seems  only  to  light  him  astray, 
and  brutal  instinct  more  regularly  points  out  the 
path  to  happiness.  Could  you  think  it  7  they  adore 
a  wicked  divinity;  they  fear  him  and  they  worship 
him  ;  they  imagine  him  a  malicious  Being,  ready 
to  injure  and  ready  to  be  appeased.  The  men  and 
women  assemble  at  midnight  in  a  hut,  which  serves 
for  a  temple.  A  i)ricst  stretches  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  all  the  people  pour  forth  the  most  hor- 
rid cries,  while  drums  and  timbrels  swell  the  in- 
fernal concert.  After  this  dissonance,  miscalled 
music,  has  continued  about  tvi^o  hours,  the  priest 
rises  from  the  ground,  assumes  an  air  of  inspira- 
tion, grows  big  with  the  inspiring  demon,  and  pre- 
tends to  a  skill  in  futurity. 

In  every  country,  my  friend,  the  bonzes,  the 
brahmins,  and  the  priests,  deceive  the  people  :  all 
reformations  begin  from  the  laity ;  the  priests  point 
us  out  the  way  to  Heaven  with  their  fingers,  but 
stand  still  themselves,  nor  seem  to  travel  towards 
the  country  in  view. 

The  customs  of  this  people  correspond  to  their 
religion ;  they  keep  their  dead  for  three  days  on  the 
same  bed  where  the  person  died  ;  after  which  they 
bury  him  in  a  grave  moderately  deep,  but  with  the 
head  still  uncovered.  Here  for  several  days  they 
present  him  different  sorts  of  meats ;  which  when 
they  perceive  he  does  not  consume,  they  fill  up  the 
grave,  and  desist  from  desiring  him  to  eat  for  the 
future.  How,  how  can  mankind  be  guilty  of  such 
strange  absurdity  7  to  entreat  a  dead  body,  already 
putrid,  to  partake  of  the  banquet !  Where,  I  again 
repeat  it,  is  human  reason?  not  only  some  men, 
but  whole  nations,  seem  divested  of  its  illiimina- 
tion.  Here  we  observe  a  whole  country  adoring  a 
divinity  through  fear,  and  attempting  to  feed  the 


258 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


dead.  These  are  their  most  serious  and  most  re- 
ligious occupations  ;  are  these  men  rational,  or  are 
not  the  apes  of  Borneo  more  wise  9 

Certain  I  am,  O  thou  instructor  of  my  youth! 
that  without  philosophers,  without  some  few  vir- 
tuous men,  who  seem  to  he  of  a  diflerent  natui« 
from  the  rest  of  mankind,  without  such  as  these, 
the  worship  of  a  wicked  divinity  would  surely  be 
established  over  every  part  of  the  earth.  Fear 
guides  more  to  their  duty  than  gratitude :  for  one 
man  who  is  virtuous  from  the  love  of  virtue,  from 
the  obligation  that  he  thinks  he  lies  under  to  the 
Giver  of  all,  there  are  ten  thousand  who  are  good 
only  from  the  apprehensions  of  punishment.  Could 
these  last  be  persuaded,  as  the  F^picureans  were, 
that  Heaven  had  no  thunders  in  store  for  the  vil- 
lain, they  would  no  longer  continue  to  acknowledge 
subordination,  or  thank  that  Being  who  gave  them 
existence.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XI. 

To  the  same. 

From  such  a  picture  of  nature  in  primeval  sim 
plicity,  tell  me,  my  much  respected  friend,  are  you 
in  love  with  fatigue  and  solitude !  Do  you  sigh  for 
the  severe  frugality  of  the  wandering  Tartar,  or 
regret  being  born  amidst  the  luxury  and  dissimula- 
tion of  the  polite !  Rather  tell  me,  has  not  every 
kind  of  life  vices  peculiarly  its  own  7  Is  it  not  a 
truth,  that  refined  countries  have  more  vices,  but 
those  not  so  terrible;  barbarous  nations  few,  and 
they  of  the  most  hideous  complexion  1  Perfidy  and 
fraud  arethe  vices  of  civilized  nations,  credulity 
and  violence  those  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  desert. 
Does  the  luxury  of  the  one  produce  half  the  evils 
of  the  inhumanity  of  the  other!  Certainly,  those 
philosophers  who  declaim  against  luxury  have  but 
little  understood  its  benefits;  they  seem  insensible, 
that  to  luxury  we  owe  not  only  the  greatest  part  of 
our  knowledge,  but  even  of  our  virtues. 

It  may  sound  fine  in  the  mouth  of  a  declaimer, 
when  he  talks  of  subduing  our  appetites,  of  teach- 
ing every  sense  to  be  content  with  a  bare  sufficiency, 
and  of  supplying  only  the  wants  of  nature ;  but  is 
there  not  more  satisfaction  in  indulging  those  ap- 
petites, if  with  innocence  and  safety,  than  in  re- 
straining them*?  Am  not  I  better  pleased  in  en- 
joyment, than  in  the  sullen  satisfaction  of  thinking 
that  I  can  live  without  enjoyment?  The  more 
various  our  artificial  necessities,  the  wider  is  our 
circle  of  pleasure;  for  all  pleasure  consists  in  obvi- 
ating necessities  as  they  rise :  luxury,  therefore,  as 
it  increases  our  wants,  increases  our  capacity  for 
happiness. 

Examine  the  history  of  any  country  remarkable 
for  opulence  and  wisdom,  you  will  find  they  would 


never  have  been  wise  had  they  not  been  first  luxu 
rious :  you  will  find  poets,  philosophers,  and  eytn 
patriots,  marching  in  luxury's  train.  The  reason 
is  obvious:  we  then  only  are  curious  after  know- 
ledge, when  we  find  it  connected  with  sensual  hap- 
piness. The  senses  ever  point  out  the  way,  and 
reflection  comments  upon  the  discovery.  Inform 
a  native  of  the  desert  of  Kobi,  of  the  exact  measure 
of  the  parallax  of  the  moon,  he  finds  no  satisfac- 
tion at  all  in  the  information  ;  he  wonders  how  any 
could  take  such  pains,  and  lay  out  such  treasures, 
in  order  to  solve  so  useless  a  difficulty  :  but  connect 
it  with  his  happiness,  by  showing  that  it  improves 
navigation,  that  by  such  an  investigation  he  may 
have  a  warmer  coat,  a  better  gun,  or  a  finer  knife, 
and  he  is  instantly  in  raptures  at  so  great  an  im- 
provement. In  short,  we  only  desire  to  know  what 
we  desire  to  possess;  and  whatever  we  may  talk 
against  it,  luxury  adds  the  spur  to  curiosity,  and 
gives  us  a  desire  of  becoming  more  wise. 

But  not  our  knowledge  only,  but  our  virtues  are 
improved  by  luxury.  Observe  the  brown  savage 
of  Thibet,  to  whom  the  fruits  of  the  spreading 
pomegranate  supply  food,  and  its  branches  a  habi- 
tation. Such  a  character  has  few  vices,  I  grant, 
but  those  he  has  are  of  the  most  hideous  nature  : 
rapine  and  cruelty  are  scarcely  crimes  in  his 
eye ;  neither  pity  nor  tenderness,  which  ennoble 
every  virtue,  have  any  place  in  his  heart ;  he  hates 
his  enemies,  and  kills  those  he  subdues.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  polite  Chinese  and  civilized  Euro- 
pean seem  even  to  love  their  enemies.  I  have  just 
now  seen  an  instance  where  the  English  have  suc- 
coured those  enemies  whom  their  own  countrymen 
actually  refused  to  relieve. 

The  greater  the  luxuries  of  every  country,  the 
more  closely,  politically  speaking,  is  that  country 
united.  Luxury  is  the  child  of  society  alone ;  the 
luxurious  man  stands  in  need  of  a  thousand  dififer- 
ent  artists  to  furnish  out  his  happiness :  it  is  more 
likely,  therefore,  that  he  should  be  a  good  citizen 
who  is  connected  by  motives  of  self-interest  with 
so  many,  than  the  abstemious  man  who  is  united 
to  none. 

In  whatsoever  light,  therefore,  we  consider  luxu- 
ry, whether  as  employing  a  number  of  hands, 
naturally  too  feeble  for  more  laborious  employment  j 
as  finding  a  variety  of  occupation  for  others  who 
might  be  totally  idle;  or  as  furnishing  out  new  in 
lets  to  happiness,  without  encroaching  on  mutual 
property;  in  whatever  hght  we  regard  it,  we  shall 
have  reason  to  stand  up  in  its  defence,  and  the  sen- 
timent of  Confucius  still  remains  unshaken,  Thai 
we  should  enjoy  as  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life  as 
are  consistent  with  our  own  safety,  and  the  pros- 
perity of  others ;  and  that  he  whojinds  out  a  new 
pleasure  is  one  of  the  most  useful  members  of  so- 
eietv. 


aTIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


259 


LETTER  XII. 


To  the  same. 


From  the  funeral  solemnities  of  the  Daures,  who 
think  themselves  the  politest  ppoi)le  in  the  world, 
I  must  make  a  transition  to  the  funeral  solemnities 
of  the  English,  who  think  themselves  as  polite  as 
they.  The  numberless  ceremonies  which  are  used 
here  when  a  person  is  sick,  appear  to  me  so  many 
evident  marks  of  fear  and  apprehension.  Ask  an 
Englishman,  however,  whether  he  is  afraid  of 
death,  and  he  boldly  answers  in  the  negative ;  but 
observe  his  behaviour  in  circumstances  of  approach- 
ing sickness,  and  you  will  find  his  actions  give  his 
assertions  the  lie. 

The  Chinese  are  very  sincere  in  this  respect; 
they  hate  to  die,  and  they  confess  their  terrors;  a 
great  part  of  their  life  is  spent  in  preparing  things 
proper  for  their  funeral.  A  poor  artisan  shall  spend 
half  his  income  in  providing  himself  a  tomb  twenty 
years  before  he  wants  it;  and  denies  himself  the 
necessaries  of  life,  that  he  may  be  amply  provided 
for  when  he  shall  want  them  no  more. 

But  people  of  distinction  in  England  really  de- 
serve pity,  for  they  die  in  circumstances  of  the  most 
extreme  distress.  It  is  an  established  rule,  never 
to  let  a  man  know  that  he  is  dying :  physicians  are 
sent  for,  the  clergy  are  called,  and  every  thing 
passes  in  silent  solemnity  round  the  sick  bed.  The 
patient  is  in  agonies,  looks  round  for  pity,  yet  not 
a  single  creature  will  say  that  he  is  dying.  If  he 
is  possessed  of  fortune,  his  relations  entreat  him  to 
make  his  will,  as  it  may  restore  the  tranquillity  of 
his  mind.  He  is  desired  to  undergo  the  rites  of  the 
church,  for  decency  requires  it.  His  friends  take 
their  leave  only  because  they  do  not  care  to  see  him 
in  pain.  In  short,  a  hundred  stratagems  are  used 
to  make  him  do  what  he  might  have  been  induced 
to  perform  only  by  being  told.  Sir,  you  arepast  all 
hopes,  and  had  as  good  think  decently  of  dying. 
Besides  all  this,  the  chamber  is  darkened,  the 
whole  house  echoes  to  the  cries  of  the  wife,  the 
lamentations  of  tho  children,  the  griof  of  the  ser- 
vants, and  the  sighs  of  friends.  The  bed  is  sur- 
rounded with  priests  and  doctors  in  black,  and  only 
flambeaux  emit  a  yellow  gloom.  Where  is  the 
man,  how  intrepid  soever,  that  would  not  shrink 
at  such  a  hideous  solemnity  ?  For  fear  of  affright- 
ing their  expiring  friends,  the  English  practise  all 
that  can  fillihem  with  terror.  Strange  effect  of 
human  prejudice,  thus  to  torture,  merely  from  mis- 
taken tenderness! 

You  see,  my  friend,  what  contradictions  there 
are  in  the  tempers  of  those  islanders :  when  prompt- 
ed by  ambition,  revenge,  or  disappointment,  they 
meet  death  with  the  utmost  resolution :  the  \>ery 
man  who  in  his  bed  would  have  trembled  at  the 
asjpect  of  a  doctor,  shall  go  with  intrepidity  to  at- 


tack a  bastion,  or  deliberately  noose  himself  up  in 
his  garters. 

The  passion  of  the  Europeans  for  magnificent 
interments,  is  equally  strong  with  that  of  the  Chi- 
nese. When  a  tradesman  dies,  his  frightful  face 
is  painted  up  by  an  undertaker,  and  placed  in  a 
proper  situation  to  receive  company :  this  is  called 
lying  in  state.  To  this  disagreeable  spectacle,  all 
the  idlers  in  town  flock,  and  learn  to  loath  the 
wretch  dead,  whom  they  despised  when  Hving.  In 
this  manner,  you  see  some  who  would  have  refused 
a  shilling  to  save  the  life  of  their  dearest  friend, 
bestow  thousands  on  adorning  their  putrid  corpse. 
I  have  been  told  of  a  fellow,  who,  grown  rich  by 
the  price  of  blood,  left  it  in  his  will  that  he  should 
lie  in  state ;  and  thus  unknowingly  gibbeted  himself 
into  infamy,  when  he  might  have,  otherwise,  quietly 
retired  into  oblivion. 

When  the  person  is  buried,  the  next  care  is  U» 
make  his  epitaph :  they  are  generally  reckoned  best, 
which  flatter  most;  such  relations,  therefore,  as 
have  received  most  benefits  from  the  defunct,  dis- 
charge this  friendly  office,  and  generally  flatter  in 
proportion  to  their  joy.     When  we  read  those 
monumental  histories  of  the  dead,  it  may  be  just- 
ly said,  that  all  men  are  equal  in  the  dust;  for, 
they  all  appear  equally  remarkable  for  being  the 
most  sincere  Christians,  the  most  benevolent  neigh- 
bours, and  the  honestest  men  of  their  time.     To 
go  through  a  European  cemetery,  one  would  be 
apt  to  wonder  how  mankind  could  have  so  basely 
degenerated  from  such  excellent  ancestors.     Every 
tomb  pretends  to  claim  your  reverence  and  regret: 
some  are  praised  for  piety  in  those  inscriptions, 
who  never  entered  the  temple  until  they  were  dead; 
some  are  praised  for  being  excellent  poets,  who 
were  never  mentioned,  except  for  their  dulness, 
when  living ;  others  for  sublime  orators,  who  were 
never  noted  except  for  their  impudence ;  and  others 
still,  for  military  achievements,  who  were  never 
in  any  other  skirmishes  but  with  the  watch.  Some 
even  make  epitaphs  for  themselves,  and  bespeak 
the  reader's  good-will.     It  were  indeed  to  be  wish- 
ed, that  every  man  would  early  learn  in  this  man- 
ner to  make  his  own ;  that  he  would  draw  it  up  in 
terms  as  flattering  as  possible,  and  that  he  would 
make  it  the  employment  of  his  whole  hfe  to  do- 
serve  it. 

I  have  not  yet  been  in  a  place  called  Westmin- 
ister Abbey,  but  soon  intend  to  visit  it.  There,  I 
am  told,  I  shall  see  justice  done  to  deceased  merit: 
none,  I  am  told,  are  permitted  to  be  buried  there, 
but  such  as  have  adorned  as  well  as  improved  man- 
kind. There,  no  intruders,  by  the  influence  of 
friends  or  fortune,  presume  to  mix  their  unhallow 
ed  ashes  with  philosophers,  heroes,  and  poets.  No- 
thing but  true  merit  has  a  place  in  that  awful  sanc- 
tuary. The  guardianship  of  the  tombs  is  commit- 
ted to  several  reverend  priests,  vfW>  arb  never  guilty 


360 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


for  a  superior  reward,  of  taking  down  the  names  of 
good  men,  to  make  room  for  others  of  equivocal 
character,  nor  ever  profane  the  sacred  walls  with 
pageants  that  posterity  can  not  know,  or  shall  blush 
to  own. 

I  always  was  of  opinion,  that  sepulchral  ho- 
nours of  this  kind  should  be  considered  as  a  na- 
tional concern,  and  not  trusted  to  the  care  of  the 
priests  of  any  country,  how  respectable  soever  ;  but 
from  the  conduct  of  the  reverend  ]wrsonages,  whose 
disinterested  patriotism  I  shall  shortly  be  able  to 
discover,  I  am  taught  to  retract  my  former  senti- 
ments. It  is  true,  the  Spartans  and  the  Persians 
made  a  fine  political  use  of  sepulcliral  vanity  ;  they 
permitted  none  to  be  thus  interred,  who  had  not 
fallen  in  theVindication  of  their  country.  A  monu- 
ment thus  became  a  real  mark  of  distinction ;  it 
nerved  the  hero's  arm  with  tenfold  vigour,  and  he 
fought  without  fear  who  only  fought  for  a  grave. 
Farewell. 


LETTER  XIII. 


From  the  Same. 


I  AM  just  returned  from  AVestminster  Abbey, 
the  place  of  sepulture  for  the  philosophers,  heroes, 
and  kings  of  England.  What  a  gloom  do  monu- 
mental inscriptions,  and  all  the  venerable  remains 
of  deceased  merit,  inspire!  Imagine  a  temple 
marked  with  the  hand  of  antiquity,  solemn  as  reli- 
gious awe,  adorned  with  all  the  magnificence  of 
barbarous  profusion,  dim  windows,  fretted  pillars, 
long  colonades,  and  dark  ceilings.  Think,  then, 
what  were  my  sensations  at  being  introduced  to 
such  a  scene.  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  temple, 
and  threw  my  eyes  round  on  the  walls,  filled  with 
the  statues,  the  inscriptions,  and  the  monuments  of 
the  dead. 

Alas !  I  said  to  myself,  how  does  pride  attend 
the  puny  child  of  dust  even  to  the  grave !  Even 
humble  as  I  am,  I  possess  more  consequence  in  the 
present  scene  than  the  greatest  hero  of  them  all : 
they  have  toiled  for  an  hour  to  gain  a  transient  im- 
mortality, and  are  at  length  retired  to  the  grave, 
where  they  have  no  attendant  but  the  worm,  none 
to  flatter  but  the  epitaph. 

As  I  was  indulging  such  reflections,  a  gentleman 
dressed  in  black,  perceiving  me  to  be  a  stranger, 
came  up,  entered  into  conversation,  and  politely 
offered  to  be  my  instructor  and  guide  through  the 
temple.  If  any  monument,  said  he,  should  par- 
ticularly excite  your  curiosity,  I  shall  endeavour  to 
satisfy  your  demands.  I  accepted  with  thanks  the 
gentleman's  offer,  adding,  that  "I  was  come  to  ob- 
serve the  polic}',  the  wisdom,  and  the  justice  of  the 
EngUsh,  in  conferring  rewards  upon  deceased 
merit.  If  adulation  like  this  (continued  I)  be  pro- 
perly conducted,  as  it  can  no  ways  injure  those  who 


are  flattered,  so  it  may  be  a  glorious  incentive  to 
those  who  arc  now  capable  of  enjoying  it.  It  is  the 
duty  of  every  good  government  to  turn  this  monu- 
mental pride  to  its  own  advantage ;  to  become 
strong  in  the  aggregate  from  the  weakness  of  the 
individual.  If  none  but  the  truly  great  have  a 
place  in  this  awful  repository,  a  temple  like  this 
will  give  the  finest  lessons  of  morality,  and  be  a 
strong  incentive  to  true  ambition.  I  am  told,  that 
none  have  a  place  here  but  characters  of  the  most 
distinguished  merit."  The  man  in  black  seemed 
impatient  at  my  observations,  so  1  discontinued  my 
remarks,  and  we  walked  on  together  to  take  a  view 
of  every  particular  monument  in  order  as  it  lay. 

As  the  eye  is  naturally  caught  by  the  finest  ob- 
jects, I  could  not  avoid  being  particularly  curious 
about  one  monument,  which  appeared  more  beau- 
tiful than  the  rest :  that,  said  I  to  my  guide,  I  take 
to  be  the  tomb  of  some  very  great  man.  By  the 
peculiar  excellence  of  the  workmanship,  and  the 
magnificence  ef  the  design,  this  must  be  a  trophy 
raised  to  the  memory  of  some  king,  who  has  saved 
his  country  from  ruin,  or  lawgiver  who  has  re- 
duced his  fellow-citizens  from  anarchy  into  just 
subjection.  It  is  not  requisite,  replied  my  com- 
panion, smiling,  to  have  such  qualifications  in 
order  to  have  a  very  fine  monument  here.  More 
humble  abiUties  will  suffice.  What!  I  suppose, 
then,  the  gaining  two  or  three  battles,  or  the  taking 
half  a  score  of  towns,  is  thought  a  sufficint  qualU 
Jication  7  Gaining  battles,  or  taking  towns,  re- 
plied the  man  in  black,  may  be  of  service  ;  but  a 
gentleman  may  have  a  very  fine  monument  here 
without  ever  seeing  a  battle  or  a  siege.  This^ 
then,  is  tJie  monument  of  some  poet,  I  presume,  of 
one  whose  ^cit  has  gained  him  immortality  ?  No, 
sir,  repUed  my  guide,  the  gentleman  who  lies  here 
never  made  verses ;  and  as  for  wit,  he  despised  it 
in  others,  because  he  had  none  himself.  Pray  tell 
me  then  in  a  word,  said  I  peevishly,  what  is  the 
great  man  who  lies  here  particularly  remarkable 
for  ?  Remarkable,  sir !  said  my  companion ;  why 
sir,  the  gentleman  that  lies  here  is  remarkable, 
very  remarkable — for  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. Hut,  head  my  ancestors !  how  has  he  got 
here  7  I  fancy  he  could  never  bribe  the  guardians 
of  the  temple  to  give  him  a  place.  Should  he  not 
be  ashamed  to  be  seen  among  company,  where  even 
moderate  merit  xoould  look  like  infamy  7  I  sup- 
pose, replied  the  man  in  black,  the  gentleman  was 
rich,  and  his  friends,  as  is  usual  in  such  a  case, 
told  him  he  was  great.  He  readily  believed  them ; 
the  guardians  of  the  temple,  as  they  got  by  the 
self-delusion,  were  ready  to  believe  him  too ;  so  he 
paid  his  money  for  a  fine  monument ;  and  the 
workman,  as  you  see,  has  made  him  one  the 
most  beautiful.  Think  not,  however,  that  this 
gentleman  is  singular  in  his  desire  of  being  buried 
among  the  great ;  there  are  several  others  in  the 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


!261 


temple,  who,  hated  and  shunned  by  the  great  while 
alive,  have  come  here,  fully  resolved  to  keep  them 
company  now  they  are  dead. 

As  we  walked  along  to  a  particular  part  of  the 
temple,  There,  says  the  gentleman,  pointing  with 
his  finger,  that  is  the  poet's  corner ;  there  you  see 
the  monuments  of  Shakspeare,  and  Milton,  and 
Prior,  and  Drayton.  Drayton !  1  repUed  ;  I  never 
heard  of  him  before  :  but  I  have  been  told  of  one 
Pope ;  is  he  there?  It  is  time  enough,  replied  my 
guide,  these  hundred  years ;  he  is  not  long  dead ; 
people  have  not  done  hating  him  yet.  Strange, 
cried  I,  can  any  be  found  to  hate  a  man,  whose  life 
was  wholly  spent  in  entertaining  and  instructing 
his  fellow-creatures  7  Yes,  says  my  guide,  they 
hate  him  for  that  very  reason.  There  are  a  set  of 
men  called  answerers  of  books,  who  take  upon  them 
to  watch  the  republic  of  letters,  and  distribute  re- 
putation by  the  sheet ;  they  somewhat  resemble  the 
eunuchs  in  a  seraglio,  who  are  incapable  of  giving 
pleasure  themselves,  and  hinder  those  that  would. 
These  answerers  have  no  other  employment  but 
to  cry  out  Dunce,  and  Scribbler ;  to  praise  the 
dead,  and  revile  the  living ;  to  grant  a  man  of  con- 
fessed abilities  some  small  share  of  merit  ;  to  ap- 
plaud twenty  blockheads  in  order  to  gain  the  repu- 
tion  of  candour ;  and  to  revile  the  moral  character 
of  the  man  whose  writings  they  can  not  injure. 
Such  wretches  are  kept  in  pay  by  some  mercenary 
bookseller,  or  more  frequently  the  bookseller  him- 
self takes  this  dirty  work  ofl' their  hands,  as  all  that 
is  required  is  to  be  very  abusive  and  very  dull. 
Every  poet  of  any  genius  is  sure  to  find  such  ene 
mies ;  he  feels,  though  he  seems  to  despise,  their 
malice ;  they  make  him  miserable  here,  and  in  the 
pursuit  of  empty  fame,  at  last  he  gains  solid  anxi 
ety. 

Has  this  been  the  case  with  every  poet  I  see  here  7 
cried  I. — ^Yes,  with  every  mother's  son  of  them, 
replied  he,  except  he  happened  to  be  born  a  man- 
darine. If  he  has  much  money,  he  may  buy  repu- 
tation from  your  book-answerers,  as  well  as  a  monu- 
ment from  the  guardians  of  the  temple. 

But  are  there  not  some  men  of  distinguished 
taste,  as  in  China,  who  are  willing  to  patronise 
men  of  merit,  and  soften  the  rancour  of  malevo- 
lent dulness? 

I  own  there  are  many,  replied  the  man  in  black ; 
but,  alas !  sir,  the  book-answerers  crowd  about 
them,  and  call  themselves  the  writers  of  books ;  and 
the  patron  is  too  indolent  to  distinguish  :  thus  poets 
are  kept  at  a  distance,  while  their  enemies  eat  up 
all  their  rewards  at  the  mandarine's  table. 

Leaving  this  part  of  the  temple,  we  made  up  to 
an  iron  gate,  through  which  ray  companion  told 
me  we  were  to  pass  in  order  to  see  the  monuments 
of  the  kings.  Accordingly  I  marched  up  without 
further  ceremony,  and  was  going  to  enter,  when  a 
person,  who  held  the  gate  in  his  hand,  told  me  I 


must  pay  first.  I  was  surprised  at  such  a  demand ; 
and  asked  the  man,  whether  the  people  of  England 
kept  a  shoiD  ?  whether  the  paltry  sum  he  demanded 
was  not  a  national  reproach  ?  whether  it  was  not 
more  to  the  honour  of  the  country  to  let  their  mag- 
nificence or  their  antiquities  be  openly  seen,  than 
thus  meanly  to  tax  a  curiosity  which  tended  to 
their  own  honour?  As  for  your  questions,  replied 
the  gate-keeper,  to  be  sure  they  may  be  very  right, 
because  I  don't  understand  them;  but,  as  for  that 
there  threepence,  I  farm  it  from  one, — who  rents 
it  from  another, — who  hires  it  from  a  third, — who 
leases  it  from  the  guardians  of  the  temple,  and  we 
all  must  live.  I  expected,  upon  paying  here,  to  see 
something  extraordinary,  since  what  I  had  seen  for 
nothing  filled  me  with  so  much  surprise :  but  in 
this  I  was  disappointed;  there  was  little  more 
within  than  black  coffins,  rusty  armour,  tattered 
standards,  and  some  few  slovenly  figures  in  wax. 
I  was  sorry  I  had  paid,  but  I  comforted  myself  by 
considering  it  would  be  my  last  payp.icnt.  A  per- 
son attended  us,  who,  without  once  blushing,  told 
a  hundred  lies :  he  talked  of  a  lady  who  died  by 
pricking  her  finger ;  of  a  king  with  a  golden  head, 
and  twenty  such  pieces  of  absurdity.  Look  ye 
there,  gentlemen,  says  he,  pointing  to  an  old  oak 
chair,  there's  a  curiosity  for  ye ;  in  that  chair  the 
kings  of  England  were  crowned :  you  see  also  a 
stone  underneath,  and  that  stone  is  Jacob's  pillow. 
I  could  see  no  curiosity  either  in  the  oak  chair  or 
the  stone :  could  I,  indeed,  behold  one  of  the  old 
kings  of  England  seated  in  this,  or  Jacob's  head 
laid  upon  the  other,  there  might  be  something  cu- 
rious in  the  sight ;  but  in  the  present  case  there  was 
no  more  reason  for  my  surprise,  than  if  I  should 
pick  a  stone  from  their  streets,  and  call  it  a  curiosi- 
ty, merely  because  one  of  the  kings  happened  to 
tread  upon  it  as  he  passed  in  a  procession. 

From  hence  our  conductor  led  us  through  several 
dark  walks  and  winding  ways,  uttering  lies,  talking 
to  himself,  and  flourishing  a  wand  which  he  held 
in  his  hand.  He  reminded  me  of  the  black  magi- 
cians of  Kobi.  After  we  had  been  almost  fatigued 
with  a  variety  of  objects,  he  at  last  desired  me  to 
consider  attentively  a  certain  suit  of  armour,  which 
seemed  to  show  nothing  remarkable.  This  ar- 
mour, said  he,  belonged  to  General  Monk.  Ver]/ 
surprising  that  a  general  should  wear  armour . 
And  pray,  added  he,  observe  this  cap,  this  is  Gene- 
ral Monk's  cap.  Very  strange  indeed,  very 
strange,  that  a  general  should  have  a  cap  also! 
Pray,  friend,  what  might  this  cap  have  cost  ori- 
ginally? That,  sir,  says  he,  I  don't  know ;  but  this 
cap  is  all  the  wages  I  have  for  my  trouble.  A  very 
■  small  recompense  truly,  said  I.  Not  so  very  small, 
replied  he,  for  every  gentleman  puts  some  money 


into  it,  and  I  spend  the  money.     Wliat,  viore  mo- 


'ney!  still  more  money!    Every  gentleman  gives 
i  something,  sir.    I'll  give  thee  nothing,  returned  I ; 


262 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  guardians  of  the  temple  should  pay  you  your 
wages,  friend,  and  not  permit  you  to  squeeze  thus 
from  every  spectator.  When  we  pay  our  money 
at  the  door  to  see  a  show,  we  never  give  more  as 
we  are  going  out.  Sure,  the  guardians  of  the  tem- 
ple can  never  think  they  get  enough.  Show  me 
the  gate ;  if  I  stay  longer,  I  may  probably  meet  with 
more  of  those  ecclesiastical  beggars. 

Thus  leaving  the  temple  precipitately,  I  returned 
to  my  lodgings,  in  order  to  ruminate  over  what  was 
great,  and  to  despise  what  was  mean  in  the  occur- 
rences of  the  day. 


LETTER  XIV. 


From  tlie  Same. 


I  WAS  some  days  ago  agreeably  surprised  by  a 
message  from  a  lady  of  distinction,  who  sent  me 
word,  that  she  most  passionately  desired  the  plea- 
sure of  my  acquaintance;  and,  with  the  utmost 
impatience,  expected  an  interview.  I  will  not  deny, 
my  dear  Fum  Hoam,  but  that  my  vanity  was  raised 
at  such  an  invitation:  I  flattered  myself  that  she 
had  seen  me  in  some  public  place,  and  had  con- 
ceived an  affection  for  my  person,  which  thus  in- 
duced her  to  deviate  from  the  usual  decorums  of 
the  sex.  My  imagination  painted  her  in  all  the 
bloom  of  youth  and  beauty.  I  fancied  her  attended 
by  the  Loves  and  Graces  ;  and  I  set  out  with  the 
most  pleasing  expectations  of  seeing  the  conquest 
I  had  made. 

When  1  was  introduced  into  her  apartment,  my 
expectations  were  quickly  at  an  end  ;  I  perceived 
a  little  shrivelled  figure  indolently  reclined  on  a 
sofa,  who  nodded  by  way  of  approbation  at  my  ap- 
proach. This,  as  I  was  afterwards  informed,  was 
the  lady  herself,  a  woman  equally  distinguished  for 
rank,  politeness,  taste,  and  understanding.  As  I 
was  dressed  after  the  fashion  of  Europe,  she  had 
taken  me  for  an  Englishman,  and  consequently  sa- 
luted me  in  her  ordinary  manner :  but  when  the 
footman  informed  her  grace  that  I  was  the  gentle- 
man from  China,  she  instantly  lifted  herself  from 
the  couch,  while  her  eyes  sparkled  with  unusual 
\ivacity.  "  Bless  me  !  can  this  be  the  gentleman 
that  was  born  so  far  from  home  1  What  an  unu- 
sual share  of  somethingness  in  his  whole  appear- 
ance !  Lord,  how  1  am  charmed  with  the  outlandish 
cut  of  his  face  !  how  bewitching  the  exotic  breadth 
of  his  forehead !  I  would  give  the  world  to  see  him 
in  his  own  country  dress.  Pray  turn  about,  sir, 
and  let  me  see  you  behind.  There,  there's  a  tra- 
veled air  for  you  !  You  that  attend  there,  bring  up 
a  plate  of  beef  cut  into  small  pieces ;  I  have  a  violent 
passion  to  see  him  eat.  Pray,  sir,  have  you  got 
your  chop-sticks  about  you?  It  will  be  so  pretty  to 
see  the  meat  carried  to  the  mouth  with  a  jerk. 


Pray  speak  a  Uttle  Chinese :  I  have  learned  some 
of  the  language  myself.  Lord !  have  you  nothing 
pretty  from  China  about  you ;  something  that  one 
does  not  know  what  to  do  with  7  I  have  got  twenty 
things  from  China  that  are  of  no  use  in  the  world. 
Look  at  those  jars,  they  are  of  the  right  pea-green* 
these  are  the  furniture,"  Dear  madam,  said  I, 
these,  though  they  may  appear  fine  in  your  eyes 
are  hut  paltry  to  a  Chinese  ;  but,  as  they  are  use- 
ful utensils,  it  is  proper  they  should  have  a  place 
in  every  apartment.  Useful !  sir,  rephed  the  lady ; 
sure  you  mistake,  they  are  of  no  use  in  the  world. 
What!  are  they  not  filled  with  an  infusion  of  tea 
as  in  China?  replied  I.  Cluite  empty  and  useless, 
upon  my  honour,  sir.  Then  they  are  the  most 
cumbrous  and  clumsy  furniture  in  the  world,  as 
nothing  is  truly  elegant  but  what  unites  use  with 
beauty.  I  protest,  says  the  lady,  I  shall  begin  to 
suspect  thee  of  being  an  actual  barbarian.  I  sup- 
pose you  hold  my  two  beautiful  pagods  in  con- 
tempt. What !  cried  I,  has  Fohi  spread  his  gross 
superstitions  here  also !  Pagods  of  all  kinds  are 
my  aversion.  A  Chinese  traveller,  and  want  taste! 
it  surprises  me.  Pray,  sir,  examine  the  beauties 
of  that  Chinese  temple  which  you  see  at  the  end 
of  the  garden.  Is  there  any  thing  in  China  more 
beautiful?  IVhere  Island,  I  see  nothing,  madam, 
at  the  end  of  the  garden,  that  may  not  as  well  be 
called  an  Egyptian  pyramid  as  a  Chinese  tem- 
ple ;for  that  little  building  in  view  is  as  like  the 
one  as  Mother.  What !  sir,  is  not  that  a  Chinese 
temple  ?  you  must  surely  be  mistaken.  Mr.  Freeze, 
who  designed  it,  calls  it  one,  and  nobody  disputes 
his  pretensions  to  taste.  I  now  found  it  vain  to 
contradict  the  lady  in  any  thing  she  thought  fit  to 
advance;  so  was  resolved  rather  to  act  the  disciple 
than  the  instructor.  She  took  me  through  several 
rooms  all  furnished,  as  she  told  me,  in  the  Chinese 
manner  ;  sprawling  dragons,  squatting  pagods,  and 
clumsy  mandarines,  were  stuck  upon  every  shelf: 
in  turning  round,  one  must  have  used  caution  not 
to  demolish  a  part  of  the  precarious  furniture. 

In  a  house  like  this,  thought  I,  one  must  live 
continually  upon  the  watch ;  the  inhabitant  must  re- 
semble a  knight  in  an  enchanted  castle,  who  ei 
pects  to  meet  an  adventure  at  every  turning.  But, 
madam^  said  I,  do  not  accidents  ever  happen  to  all 
this  finery  ?  Man,  sir,  replied  the  lady,  is  bom  to 
misfortinies,  and  it  is  but  fit  I  should  have  a  share. 
Three  weeks  ago,  a  careless  servant  snapped  off 
the  head  of  a  favourite  mandarine :  I  had  scarce 
done  grieving  for  that,  when  a  monkey  broke  a 
beautiful  jar ;  this  I  took  the  more  to  heart,  as  the 
injury  was  done  me  by  a  friend  !  However,  I  sur- 
vived the  calamity;  when  yesterday  crash  went 
half  a  dozen  dragons  upon  the  marble  hearthstone  • 
and  yet  I  live  ;  I  survive  it  all :  you  can't  conceive 
what  comfort  I  find  under  afflictions  from  philoso- 
phy.   There  is  Seneca  and  BoUngbroke,  and  some 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


2r.3 


uthei-s,  who  guide  me  through  life,  and  teach  me  to 
support  its  calamities. — I  could  not  but  smile  at  a 
woman  who  makes  her  own  misfortunes,  and  then 
deplores  the  miseries  of  her  situation.  Wherefore, 
tired  of  acting  with  dissimulation,  and  willing  to 
indulge  my  meditations  in  solitude,  I  took  leave  just 
as  the  servant  v\as  bringing  in  a  plate  of  beef,  pur- 
suant to  the  directions  of  his  mistress.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XV 


From  the  same. 


The  better  sort  here  pretend  to  the  utmost  com- 
passion for  animals  of  every  kind :  to  hear  them 
speak,  a  stranger  would  be  apt  to  imagine  they 
could  hardly  hurt  the  gnat  that  stung  them;  they 
seem  so  tender  and  so  full  of  pity,  that  one  would 
take  them  for  the  harmless  friends  of  the  whole 
creation ;  the  protectors  of  the  meanest  insect  or 
reptile  that  was  privileged  with  existence.  And 
yet  (would  you  believe  it  7)  I  have  seen  the  very 
men  who  have  thus  boasted  of  their  tenderness,  at 
the  same  time  devouring  the  flesh  of  six  different 
animals  tossed  up  in  a  fricassee.  Strange  contra- 
riety of  conduct!  they  pity,  and  they  eat  the  ob- 
jects of  their  compassion !  The  lion  roars  with  ter- 
ror over  its  captive  ;  the  tiger  sends  forth  its  hideous 
shriek  to  intimidate  its  prey;  no  creature  shows 
any  fondness  for  its  short-lived  prisoner,  except  a 
man  and  a  cat. 

Man  was  born  to  live  with  innocence  and  sim- 
plicity, but  he  has  deviated  from  nature;  he  v 
born  to  share  the  bounties  of  heaven,  but  he  has 
monopolized  them ;  he  was  born  to  govern  the  brute 
creation,  but  he  is  become  their  tyrant.  If  an  epi- 
cure now  shall  happen  to  surfeit  on  his  last  night's 
feast,  twenty  animals  the  next  day  are  to  undergo 
the  most  exquisite  tortures,  in  order  to  provoke  his 
appetite  to  another  guilty  meal.  Hail,  O  ye  simple, 
honest  brahmins  of  the  East;  ye  inoffensive  friends 


punishment ;  but  are  previously  condemned  to  suf- 
fer all  the  pains  and  hardships  inflicted  upon  them 
by  man,  or  by  each  other,  here.  If  this  be  the  case, 
it  may  frequently  happen,  that  while  we  whip  pigs 
to  death,  or  boil  live  lobsters,  we  are  putting  some 
old  acquaintance,  some  near  relation,  to  excruciat- 
ing tortures,  and  are  serving  him  up  to  the  very  table 
where  he  was  once  the  most  welcome  companion. 

"Kabul,"  says  the  Zendevcsta,  "was  born  on 
the  rusliy  banks  of  the  river  Mawra ;  his  posses- 
sions were  great,  and  his  luxuries  kept  pace  with 
the  affluence  of  his  fortune ;  he  hated  the  harmless 
brahmins,  and  despised  their  holy  religion ;  every 
day  his  table  was  decked  out  with  the  flesh  of  a 
hundred  different  animals,  and  his  cooks  had  a 
hundred  different  ways  of  dressing  it,  to  solicit  even 
satiety. 

"  Notwithstanding  all  his  eating,  he  did  not  ar- 
rive at  old  age ;  he  died  of  a  surfeit,  caused  by  in- 
temperance :  upon  this,  his  soul  was  carried  off,  in 
order  to  take  its  trial  before  a  select  assembly  of 
the  souls  of  those  animals  which  his  gluttony  had 
caused  to  be  slain,  and  who  were  now  appointed 
his  judges. 

"  He  trembled  before  a  tribunal,  to  every  mem- 
ber of  which  he  had  formerly  acted  as  an  unmer- 
ciful tyrant ;  he  sought  for  pity,  but  found  none 
disposed  to  grant  it.  Docs  he  not  remember,  cries 
the  angry  boar,  to  what  agonies  I  was  put,  not  to 
satisfy  his  hunger,  but  his  vanity?  I  was  first 
hunted  to  death,  and  my  flesh  scarce  thought  wor- 
thy of  coming  once  to  his  table.  Were  my  advice 
followed,  he  should  do  penance  in  the  shape  of  a 
hog,  which  in  life  he  most  resembled. 

"  I  am  rather,  cries  a  sheep  upon  the  bench,  for 
having  him  suffer  under  the  appearance  of  a  lamb ; 
we  may  then  send  him  through  four  or  five  trans- 
migrations in  the  space  of  a  month.  Were  my 
voice  of  any  weight  in  the  assembly,  cries  a  calf, 
he  should  rather  assume  such  a  form  as  mine ;  1 
was  bled  every  day,  in  order  to  make  my  flesh 
white,  and  at  last  killed  without  mercy.  Would  it 
not  be  wiser,  cries  a  hen,  to  cram  him  in  the  shape 


of  all  that  were  born  to  happiness  as  well  as  you; 
you  never  sought  a  short-lived  pleasure  from  the  I  of  a  fowl,  and  then  smother  him  in  his  own  blood, 
miseries  of  other  creatures  !  You  never  studied  the  as  I  was  served?  The  majority  of  the  assembly 
tormenting  arts  of  ingenious  refinement;  you  never  were  pleased  with  this  punishment,  and  were  go- 
surfeited  upon  a  guilty  meal!  How  much  more  purifi-jing  to  condemn  him  without  further  delay,  when 
ed  and  refined  are  all  your  sensations  than  ours!  you  the  ox  rose  up  to  give  his  opinion :  I  am  informed, 
distinguishevery  element  with  the  utmost  precision;  says  this  counsellor,  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
a  stream  untasted  before  is  new  luxury,  a  change  has  left  a  wife  with  child  behind  him.  By  my  know- 


of  air  is  a  new  banquet,  too  refined  for  Western 
imaginations  to  conceive. 

Though  the  Europeans  do  not  hold  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls,  yet  one  of  their  doctors  has,  with 
great  force  of  argument,  and  great  plausibility  of 
reasoning,  endeavoured  to  prove,  that  the  bodies 


ledge  in  divination,  I  foresee  that  this  child  will  bo 
a  son,  decrepit,  feeble,  sickly,  a  plague  to  himself 
and  all  about  him.  What  say  you,  then,  my  com- 
panions, if  we  condemn  the  father  to  animate  the' 
body  of  his  own  son ;  and  by  this  means  make  him 
feel  in  himself  those  miseries  his  intemperance  must 


ofanimals  are  the  habitations  ofdemons  and  wicked 'otherwise  have  entailed  upon  his  posterity?  The 
spirits^  which  are  obliged  to  reside  in  these  prisons  whole  court  applauded  the  ingenuity  of  his  torture; 
till  the  resurrection  pronounces  their  everlasting  they  thanked  him  for  liis  advice.     Kabul  was 


264 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


driven  once  more  to  revisit  the  earth;  and  his  soul 
in  the  body  of  his  own  son,  passed  a  period  of  thirty 
vears,  loaded  with  misery,  anxiety,  and  disease." 


LETTER  XVI. 


From  the  same. 


I  KNOW  not  whether  I  am  more  obliged  to  the 
Chinese  missionaries  for  the  instruction  I  have 
received  from  them,  or  prejudiced  by  the  falsehoods 
they  have  made  me  believe.  By  them  I  was  told 
that  the  Pope  was  universally  allowed  to  be  a  man, 
and  placed  at  the  head  of  the  church ;  in  England, 
however,  they  plainly  prove  him  to  be  a  whore  in 
man's  clothes,  and  often  burn  him  in  effigy  as  an 
impostor.  A  thousand  books  have  been  written 
on  either  side  of  the  question :  priests  are  eternally 
disputing  against  each  other;  and  those  mouths 
that  want  argument  are  filled  with  abuse.  Which 
party  must  I  believe,  or  shall  I  give  credit  to  nei- 
ther? When  I  survey  the  absurdities  and  false- 
hoods with  which  the  books  of  the  Europeans  are 
filled,  I  thank  Heaven  for  having  been  born  in 
China,  and  that  I  have  sagacity  enough  to  detect 
imposture. 

The  Europeans  reproach  us  with  false  history 
and  fabulous  chronology  :  how  should  they  blush 
to  see  their  own  books,  many  of  which  are  written 
by  the  doctors  of  their  religion,  filled  with  the  most 
monstrous  fables,  and  attested  with  the  utmost 
solemnity.  The  bounds  of  a  letter  do  not  permit 
me  to  mention  all  the  absurdities  of  this  kind, 
which  in  my  reading  1  have  met  with.  1  shall 
confine  myself  to  the  accounts  which  some  of  their 
lettered  men  give  of  the  persons  of  some  of  the  in- 
habitants on  our  globe :  and  not  satisfied  with  the 
most  solemn  asseverations,  they  sometimes  pre- 
tend to  have  been  eye-witnesses  of  what  they  de- 
scribe. 

A  Christian  doctor,  in  one  of  his  principal  per- 
formances,* says,  that  it  was  not  impossible  for  a 
whole  nation  to  have  but  one  eye  in  the  middle  of 
the  forehead.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  leaving  it 
in  doubt;  but  in  another  work,t  assures  us,  that 
the  fact  was  certain,  and  that  he  himself  was  an 
eye-witness  of  it.  When,  says  he,  /  took  a  journey 
into  Ethiopia,  in  company  with  several  other  ser- 
vants of  Christ,  in  order  to  preach  the  gospel  there, 
I  beheld,  in  the  southern  provinces  of  that  country, 
a  nation  which  had  only  one  eye  in  the  midst  of 
their  foreheads. 

You  will  no  doubt  be  surprised,  reverend  Fum 
with  this  author's  effrontery  ;  but,  alas !  he  is  not 
alone  in  this  story :  he  has  only  borrowed  it  from 
several  others  who   wrote  before   him.      Solinus 

'  Augustin.  de  Civit.  Dei,  lib.  xvi.  p.  422. 

[  Augxxstia  ad  fratres  in  Eremo,  Serm.  xxxvii. 


creates  another  nation  of  Cyclops,  the  Arimaspian» 
who  inhabit  those  countries  that  border  on  tht 
Caspian  Sea.  This  author  goes  on  to  tell  us  of  a 
people  of  India,  who  have  but  one  leg  and  one  eye, 
and  yet  are  extremely  active,  run  with  great  swift- 
ness, and  five  by  hunting.  These  people  we 
scarcely  know  how  to  pit}^  or  admire  :  but  the  men 
whom  Pliny  calls  Cynamolci,  who  have  got  the 
heads  of  dogs,  really  deserve  our  compassion ;  in- 
stead of  language,  they  express  their  sentiments 
by  barking.  Solinus  confirms  what  Pliny  men- 
tions; and  Simon  Mayole,  a  French  bishop,  talks 
of  them  as  of  particular  and  familiar  acquaintances. 
After  passing  the  deserts  of  Egypt,  says  he,  we 
meet  with  the  Kunokephaloi,  who  inhabit  those 
regions  that  border  on  Ethiopia ;  they  live  by 
hunting;  they  cannot  speak,  but  whistle;  their 
chins  resemble  a  serpent's  head;  their  hands  are 
armed  with  long  sharp  claws;  their  breast  resem- 
bles that  of  a  greyhound ;  and  they  excel  in  swift- 
ness and  agility.  Would  you  think  it,  my  friend, 
that  these  odd  kind  of  people  are,  notwithstanding 
their  figure,  excessively  delicate ;  not  even  an  alder- 
man's wife,  or  Chinese  mandarine,  can  excel  them 
in  this  particular.  These  people,  continues  our 
faithful  bishop,  never  refuse  wine ;  love  roast  and 
boiled  meat:  they  are  particularly  curious  in  hav- 
ing their  meat  well  dressed,  and  spurn  at  it  if  in 
the  least  tainted.  When  the  Ptolemies  reigned 
in  Egypt  (says  he  a  little  farther  on)  those  men 
with  dogs'  heads  taught  grammar  and  music. 
For  men  who  had  no  voices  to  teach  music,  and 
who  could  not  speak,  to  teach  grammar,  is,  I  con- 
fess, a  httle  extraordinary.  Did  ever  the  disciples 
of  Fohi  broach  any  thing  more  ridiculous? 

Hitherto  we  have  seen  men  with  heads  strange- 
ly deformed,  and  with  dogs'  heads ;  but  what  would 
you  say  if  you  heard  of  men  without  any  headsat  alii 
Pomponius  Mela,  Solinus,  and  Aulus  Gellius,  de- 
scribe them  to  our  hand :  "  The  Blemise  have  a 
nose,  eyes,  and  mouth  on  their  breasts ;  or,  as  others 
will  have  it,  placed  on  their  shoulders." 

One  would  think  that  these  authors  had  an  an- 
tipathy to  the  humem  form,  and  were  resolved  to 
make  a  new  figure  of  their  own :  but  let  us  do  them 
justice.  Though  they  sometimes  deprive  us  of  a 
leg,  an  artn,  a  head,  or  some  such  trifling  part  of 
the  body,  they  often  as  liberally  bestow  upon  us 
something  that  we  wanted  before.  Simon  Mayole 
seems  our  particular  friend  in  this  respect ;  if  he  has 
denied  heads  to  one  part  of  mankind,  he  has  given 
tails  to  another.  He  describes  many  of  the  Eng- 
lish of  his  time,  which  is  not  more  than  a  hundred  • 
years  ago,  as  having  tails.  His  own  words  are  as 
follow  :  In  England  there  are  some  families  which 
have  tails,  as  a  punishment  for  deriding  an  Au- 
gustin friar  sent  by  St.  Gregory,  and  who  preach- 
I  ed  in  Dorsetshire.  They  sexced  the  tails  of  differ - 
\ent  animals  to  his  clothes;  but  soon  they  found 


CITIT^N  OF  THE  WORLD. 


265 


that  those  tails  entailed  on  them  and  their  posteri- 
ty/or ever.  It  is  certain  that  the  author  had  some 
ground  for  this  description.  Many  of  the  English 
wear  tails  to  their  wigs  to  this  very  day,  as  a  mark, 
I  suppose,  of  the  antiquity  of  their  families,  and 
I)erhaps  as  a  symbol  of  those  tails  with  which  they 
were  formerly  distinguished  by  nature.  / 

You  see,  my  friend,  there  is  nothing  so  ridicu- 
lous that  has  not  at  some  time  been  said  by  some 
philosopher.  The  writers  of  books  in  Europe  seem 
to  think  themselves  authorized  to  say  what  they 
please;  and  an  ingenious  philosopher  among  them* 
has  openly  asserted,  that  he  would  undertake  to 
persuade  the  whole  republic  of  readers  to  believe, 
that  the  sun  was  neither  the  cause  of  light  nor  heat, 
if  he  could  only  get  six  philosophers  on  his  side. 
Farewell. 


LETTER  XVIL 

From  the  same. 

Were  an  Asiatic  politician  to  read  the  treaties 
of  peace  and  friendship  that  have  been  annually 
making  for  more  than  a  hundred  years  among  the 
inhabitants  of  Europe,  he  would  probably  be  sur- 
prised how  it  should  ever  happen  that  Christian 
princes  could  quarrel  among  each  other.  Their 
compacts  for  peace  are  drawn  up  with  the  utmost 
precision,  and  ratified  with  the  greatest  solemnity ; 
to  these  each  party  promises  a  sincere  and  in- 
violable obedience,  and  all  wears  the  appearance  of 
open  friendship  and  unreserved  reconciliation. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  those  treaties,  the  people 
of  Europe  are  almost  continually  at  war.  There 
is  nothing  more  easy  than  to  break  a  treaty  ratified 
in  all  the  usual  forms,  and  yet  neither  pkrty  be  the 
aggressor.  One  side,  for  instance,  breaks  a  trifling 
article  by  mistake ;  the  opposite  party,  upon  this, 
makes  a  small  but  premeditated  reprisal ;  this  brings 
on  a  return  of  greater  from  the  other ;  both  sides 
complain  of  injuries  and  infractions;  war  is  de- 
clared; they  beat;  are  beaten;  some  two  or  three 
hundred  thousand  men  are  killed ;  they  grow  tired ; 
leave  off  just  where  they  began;  and  so  sit  coolly 
down  to  make  new  treaties. 

The  English  and  French  seem  to  place  them- 
selves foremost  among  the  champion  states  of 
Europe.  Though  parted  by  a  narrow  sea,  yet  are 
they  entirely  of  opposite  characters ;  and  from  their 
vicinity  are  taught  to  fear  and  admire  each  other. 
They  ai-e  at  present  engaged  in  a  very  destructive 
war,  have  already  spilled  much  blood,  are  excessive- 
ly irritated,  and  all  upon  account  of  one  side's  de- 
eiring  to  wear  greater  quantities  of  furs  than  the 
other. 


Fontenelle. 


The  pretext  of  the  war  is  about  some  lands  a 
thousand  leagues  oft:  a  country  cold,  desolate,  and 
hideous ;  a  country  belonging  to  a  people  who  were 
in  possession  for  time  immemorial.  The  savages 
of  Canada  claim  a  property  in  the  country  in  dis- 
pute ;  they  have  all  the  pretensions  which  long  pos- 
session can  confer.  Here  they  had  reigned  for 
ages  without  rivals  in  dominion,  and  knew  no  ene- 
mies but  the  prowling  bear  or  insidious  tiger ;  their 
native  forests  produced  all  the  necessaries  of  life, 
and  they  found  ample  luxury  in  the  enjoyment.  In 
this  manner  they  might  have  continued  to  live  to 
eternity,  had  not  the  English  been  informed  that 
those  countries  produced  furs  in  great  abundance. 
From  that  moment  the  country  became  an  object 
of  desire :  it  was  found  that  furs  were  things  very 
much  wanted  in  England ;  the  ladies  edged  some 
of  their  clothes  with  furs,  and  muffs  were  worn  both 
by  gentlemen  and  ladies.  In  short,  furs  were  found 
indispensably  necessary  for  the  happiness  of  the 
state ;  and  the  king  was  consequently  petitioned  to 
grant,  not  only  the  country  of  Canada,  but  all  the 
savages  belonging  to  it,  to  the  subjects  of  England, 
in  order  to  have  the  people  supplied  with  proper 
quantities  of  this  necessary  commodity. 

So  very  reasonable  a  request  was  immediately 
complied  with,  and  large  colonies  were  sent  abroad 
to  procure  furs,  and  take  possession.  The  French, 
who  were  equally  in  want  of  furs  (for  they  were 
as  fond  of  muffs  and  tippets  as  the  English),  made 
the  very  same  request  to  their  monarch,  and  met 
with  the  same  gracious  reception  from  thpir  king, 
who  generously  granted  what  was  not  his  to  give. 
Wherever  the  French  landed  they  called  the  coun- 
try their  own ;  and  the  English  took  possession 
wherever  they  camo,  upon  the  same  equitable  pre- 
tensions. The  harmless  savages  made  no  opposi- 
tion; and,  could  the  intruders  have  agreed  together, 
they  might  peaceably  have  shared  this  desolate 
country  between  them  ;  but  they  quarrelled  about 
the  boundaries  of  their  settlements,  about  grounds 
and  rivers  to  which  neither  side  could  show  any 
other  right  than  that  of  power,  and  which  neither 
could  occupy  but  by  usurpation.  Such  is  the  con- 
test, that  no  honest  man  can  heartily  wish  success 
to  either  party. 

The  war  has  continued  for  some  time  with  va- 
rious success.  At  first  the  French  seemed  victo- 
rious ;  but  the  English  have  of  late  dispossessed 
them  of  the  whole  country  in  dispute.  Think  not, 
however,  that  success  on  one  side  is  the  harbinger 
of  peace ;  on  the  contrary,  both  parties  must  be 
heartily  tired,  to  effect  even  a  temporary  reconcilia 
tion.  It  should  seem  the  business  of  the  victorious 
party  to  offer  terms  of  peace  ;  but  there  are  many 
in  England  who,  encouraged  by  success,  are  for 
still  protracting  the  war. 

The  best  English  politicians,  however,  are  sen- 
■  gible,  that  to  Ir«ep  their  present  conquests  would  be 


266    • 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


rather  a  jurdeu  than  an  advantage  to  them ;  rather 
a  diminution  of  their  strength  than  an  increase  of 
power.  It  is  in  the  politic  as  in  the  human  consti- 
tution :  if  the  limbs  grow  too  large  for  the  body, 
their  size,  instead  of  improving,  will  diminish  the 
vigour  of  the  whole.  The  colonies  should  always 
bear  an  exact  proportion  to  the  mother  country ; 
when  they  grow  populous,  they  grow  powerful, 
and  by  becoming  powerful,  they  become  inde- 
pendent also  ;  thus  subordination  is  destroyed,  and 
a  country  swallowed  up  in  the  extent  of  its  own 
dominions.  The  Turkish  empire  would  be  more 
formidable,  were  it  less  extensive ;  were  it  not  for 
those  countries  which  it  can  neither  conmiand,  nor 
give  entirely  away  ;  which  it  is  obliged  to  protect, 
but  from  which  it  has  no  power  to  exact  obedience. 
Yet,  obvious  as  these  truths  are,  there  are  many 
Englishmen  who  are  for  transplanting  new  colo- 
nies into  this  late  acquisition,  for  peopling  the  de- 
serts of  America  with  the  refuse  of  their  country- 
men, and  (as  they  express  it)  with  the  waste  of  an 
exuberant  nation.  But  who  are  those  unhappy 
creatures  who  are  to  be  thus  drained  away  1  Not 
the  sickly,  for  they  are  unwelcome  guests  abroad  as 
well  as  at  home ;  nor  the  idle,  for  they  would 
starve  as  well  behind  the  Apalachian  mountains 
as  in  the  streets  of  London.  This  refuse  is  com- 
posed of  the  laborious  and  enterprising,  of  such 
men  as  can  be  serviceable  to  their  country  at  home, 
of  men  who  ought  to  be  regarded  as  the  sinews  of 
the  people,  and  cherished  with  every  degree  of  po- 
litical indulgence.  And  what  are  the  commodi- 
ties which  this  colony,  when  established,  are  to 
produce  in  return  1  why,  raw  silk,  hemp,  and  to- 
bacco. England,  therefore,  must  make  an  ex- 
change of  her  best  and  bravest  subjects  for  raw 
silk,  hemp,  and  tobacco ;  her  hardy  veterans  and 
honest  tradesmen  must  be  trucked  for  a  box  of 
snufF  and  a  silk  petticoat.  Strange  absurdity ! 
Sure  the  politics  of  the  Daures  are  not  more  strange 
who  sell  their  religion,  their  wives,  and  their  Uber- 
ty,  for  a  glass  bead,  or  a  paltry  penknife.  Fare- 
well. 


LETTER  XVII. 

From  the  Same. 
Thk  English  love  their  wives  with  much  pas- 
sion, the  Hollanders  with  much  prudence ;  the 
English,  when  they  give  their  hands,  frequently 
give  their  hearts ;  the  Dutch  give  the  hand  but 
keep  the  heart  wisely  in  their  own  possession. 
The  English  love  with  violence,  and  expect  vio- 
lent love  in  return  ;  the  Dutch  are  satisfied  with 
the  slightest  acknowledgment,  for  they  give  Uttle 
away.  The  English  expend  many  of  the  matri- 
monial comforts  in  the  first  year ;  the  Dutch  fru- 
gally husband  out  their  pleasures,  and  are  alwa^'s 
constant  because  they  are  always  indifferent. 


There  seems  very  little  difference  between  a 
Dutch  bridegroom  and  a  Dutch  husband.  Both 
are  equally  possessed  of  the  same  cool  unexpecting 
serenity  ;  they  can  see  neither  Elysium  nor  Para- 
dise behind  the  curtain  ;  and  Yifrow  is  not  more 
a  goddess  on  the  wedding-night,  than  after  twenty 
years  matrimonial  acquaintance.  On  the  other  hand 
many  of  the  English  marry  in  order  to  have  one 
happy  month  in  their  lives ;  they  seem  incapable 
of  looking  beyond  that  jx^iotl ;  they  unite  in  hopes 
of  finding  rapture,  and  disappointed  in  that,  dis- 
dain ever  to  accept  of  happiness.  From  hence  we 
see  open  hatred  ensue  ;  or  what  is  worse,  concealed 
disgust  under  the  ai>pearance  of  fulsome  endear- 
ment. Much  formality,  great  civiUty,  and  studied 
compliments  are  exhibited  in  public;  cross  looks, 
sulky  silence,  or  open  recrimination,  fill  up  their 
hours  of  private  entertainment. 

Hence  I  am  taught,  whenever  I  see  a  new- 
married  couple  more  than  ordinarily  fond  before 
faces,  to  consider  them  as  attempting  to  impose 
upon  the  company  or  themselves ;  either  hating 
each  other  heartily,  or  consuming  that  stock  of  love 
in  the  beginning  of  their  course,  which  should 
serve  them  through  their  whole  journey.  Neithei 
side  should  expect  those  instances  of  kindness 
which  are  inconsistent  with  true  freedom  or  hap 
piness  to  bestow.  Love,  when  founded  in  the 
heart,  will  show  itself  in  a  thousand  unpremedi- 
tated sallies  of  fondness  ;  but  every  cool  deliberate 
exhibition  of  the  passion,  only  argues  little  under- 
standing, or  great  insincerity. 

Choang  was  the  fondest  husband,  and  Hansi, 
the  most  endearing  wife  in  all  the  kingdom  of  Ko- 
rea: they  were  a  pattern  of  conjugal  bliss ;  the  in 
habitants  of  the  country  around  saw,  and  envied 
their  felicity ;  wherever  Choang  came,  Hansi  was 
sure  to  follow ;  and  in  all  the  pleasures  of  Hansi, 
Choang  was  admitted  a  partner.  They  walked 
hand  in  hand  wherever  they  appeared,  showing 
every  mark  of  mutual  satisfaction,  embracing, 
kissing,  their  mouths  were  forever  joined,  and,  to 
speak  in  the  language  of  anatomy,  it  was  with  them 
one  perpetual  anastomosis. 

Their  love  was  so  great,  that  it  was  thought  no- 
thing could  interrupt  their  mutual  peace ;  when 
an  accident  happened,  which,  in  some*  measure, 
diminished  the  husband's  assurance  of  his  wife  s 
fidelity ;  for  love  so  refined  as  his  was  subject  to  a 
thousand  little  disquietudes. 

Happening  to  go  one  day  alone  among  the  tombs 
that  lay  at  some  distance  from  his  house,  he  there 
perceived  a  lady  dressed  in  the  deepest  mourning 
(being  clothed  all  over  in  white),  fanning  the  wet 
clay  that  was  raised  over  one  of  the  graves  with  a 
large  fan  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  Choang, 
who  had  early  been  taught  wisdom  in  the  school 
of  Lao,  was  unable  to  assign  a  cause  for  her  pre- 
sent employment ;  and  coming  up  civilly  demanded 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


267 


the  reason.  Alas !  replied  the  lady,  her  eyes 
bathed  in  tears,  how  is  it  possible  to  survive  the 
loss  of  my  husband,  who  lies  buried  in  this  grave ! 
he  was  the  best  of  men,  the  tenderest  of  husbands ; 
with  his  dying  breath  he  bid  me  never  marry  again 
till  the  earth  over  his  grave  should  be  dry ;  and  here 
you  see  me  steadily  resolving  to  obey  his  will,  and 
endeavouring  to  dry  it  with  my  fan.  I  have  em- 
plo3?ed  two  whole  days  in  fulfilling  his  commands, 
and  am  determined  not  to  marry  till  they  are  punc- 
tually obeyed,  even  though  his  grave  should  take 
up  four  days  in  drying. 

Choang,  who  was  struck  with  the  widow's  beau- 
ty, could  not,  however,  avoid  smiling  at  her  haste 
to  be  married;  but  concealing  the  cause  of  his 
'  mirth,  civilly  invited  her  home,  adding,  that  he  had 
a  wife  who  might  be  capable  of  giving  her  some 
consolation.  As  soon  as  he  and  his  guest  were  re- 
turned, he  imparted  to  *Hansi  in  private  what  he 
had  seen,  and  could  not  avoid  expressing  his  unea- 
siness, that  such  might  be  his  own  case  if  his  dear- 
est wife  should  one  day  happen  to  survive  him. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  Hansi's  resentment  at 
so  unkind  a  suspicion.  As  her  passion  for  him 
was  not  only  great,  but  extremely  delicate,  she  em- 
ployed tears,  anger,  frowns,  and  exclamations,  to 
chide  his  suspicions ;  the  widow  herself  was  in- 
veighed against ;  and  Hansi  declared,  she  was  re- 
solved never  to  sleep  under  the  same  roof  with  a 
wretch,  who,  like  her,  could  be  guilty  of  such  bare- 
faced inconstancy.  The  night  was  cold  and  stormy ; 
however,  the  stranger  was  obliged  to  seek  another 
lodging,  for  Choang  was  not  disposed  to  resist,  and- 
Hansi  would  have  her  way. 

The  widow  had  scarcely  been  gone  an  hour, 
when  an  old  disciple  of  Choang's  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  many  years,  came  to  pay  him  a  visit.  He 
was  received  with  the  utmost  ceremony,  placed  in 
the  most  honourable  seat  at  supper,  and  the  wine 
began  to  circulate  with  great  freedom.  Choang 
and  Hansi  exhibited  open  marks  of  mutual  tender- 
ness, and  unfeigned  reconciliation  :  nothing  could 
equal  their  apparent  happiness  ;  so  fond  a  husband, 
so  obedient  a  wife,  few  could  behold  without  re- 
gretting their  own  infelicity :  when,  lo !  their  hap- 
piness was  at  once  disturbed  by  a  most  fatal  acci- 
dent. Choang  fell  lifeless  in  an  apoplectic  fit  upon 
the  floor.  Every  method  was  used,  but  in  vain,  for 
his  recovery.  Hansi  was  at  first  inconsolable  for 
his  death :  after  some  hours,  however,  she  found 
spirits  to  read  his  last  will.  The  ensuing  day,  she 
began  to  moralize  and  talk  wisdom ;  the  next  day, 
she  was  able  to  comfort  the  young  disciple,  and, 
on  the  third,  to  shorten  a  long  story,  they  both 
agreed  to  be  married. 

There  was  now  no  longer  mourning  in  the  apart- 
ments ;  the  body  of  Choang  was  now  thrust  into  an 
old  coffin,  and  placed  in  one  of  the  meanest  rooms, 
there  to  lie  unattended  until  the  time  prescribed  by 


law  for  his  interment.  In  the  meantime,  Hansi 
and  the  young  disciple  were  arrayed  in  the  most 
magnificent  habits ;  the  bride  wore  in  her  nose  a 
jewel  of  immense  price,  and  her  lover  was  dressed 
in  all  the  finery  of  his  former  master,  together  with 
a  pair  of  artificial  whiskers  that  reached  down  to 
his  toes.  The  hour  of  their  nuptials  was  arrived ; 
the  whole  family  sympathized  with  their  approach- 
ing happiness ;  the  apartments  were  brightened  up 
with  lights  that  diffused  the  most  exquisite  per- 
fume, and  a  lustre  more  bright  than  noon-day. 
The  lady  expected  her  youthful  lover  in  an  inner 
apartment  with  impatience ;  when  his  servant,  ap- 
proaching with  terror  in  his  countenance,  informed 
her,  that  his  master  was  fallen  into  a  fit  which 
would  certainly  be  mortal,  unless  the  heart  of  a  man 
lately  dead  could  be  obtained,  and  applied  to  his 
breast.  She  scarcely  waited  to  hear  the  end  of  his 
story,  when  tucking  up  her  clothes,  she  ran  with  a 
mattock  in  her  hand  to  the  coffin  where  Choang 
lay,  resolving  to  apply  the  heart  of  her  dead  hus- 
band as  a  cure  for  the  living.  She  therefore  struck 
the  lid  with  the  utmost  violence.  In  a  few  blows 
the  coffin  flew  open,  when  the  body,  which  to  all 
aj)pearance  had  been  dead,  began  to  move.  Ter- 
rified at  the  sight,  Hansi  dropped  the  mattock,  and 
Choang  walked  out,  astonished  at  his  own  situa- 
tion, his  wife's  unusual  magnificence,  and  her  more 
amazing  surprise.  He  went  among  the  apart- 
ments, unable  to  conceive  the  cause  of  so  much 
splendour.  He  was  not  long  in  suspense  before 
his  domestics  informed  him  of  every  transaction 
since  he  first  became  insensible.  He  could  scarcely 
believe  what  they  told  him,  and  w^ent  in  pursuH 
of  Hansi  herself,  in  order  to  receive  more  certain 
information,  or  to  reproach  her  infidelity.  But  she 
prevented  his  reproaches  :  he  found  her  weltering 
in  blood ;  for  she  had  stabbed  herself  to  the  heart, 
being  unable  to  survive  "her  shame  and  disappoint- 
ment. 

Choang,  being  a  philosopher,  was  too  wise  to 
make  any  loud  lamentations :  he  thought  it  best  to 
bear  his  loss  with  serenity ;  so,  mending  up  the  old 
coffin  where  he  had  lain  himself,  he  placed  his 
faithless  spouse  in  his  room;  and,  unwilling  that 
so  many  nuptial  preparations  should  be  expended 
in  vain,  he  the  same  night  married  the  widow 
with  the  large  fan. 

As  they  both  were  apprised  of  the  foibles  of  each 
other  beforehand,  they  knew  how  to  excuse  them 
after  marriage.  They  lived  together  for  many 
years  in  great  tranquillity,  and  not  expecting  rap- 
ture, made  a  shift  to  find  contentment.    Farewell. 


LETTER  XIX. 

To  the  Saraa 
The  gentleman  dressed  in  black,  who  was  my 
companion  through  Westminster  Abbey,  came  yes- 


^G8 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


terday  to  pay  me  a  visit ;  and  after  drinking  tea,  we 
both  resolved  to  take  awalk  together,  in  order  to  en- 
joy the  freshness  of  the  country,  which  now  begins 
to  resume  its  verdure.  Before  we  got  out  of  the 
suburbs,  however,  we  were  stopped  in  one  of  the 
streets  by  a  crowd  of  people,  gathered  in  a  circle 
round  a  man  and  his  wife,  who  seemed  too  loud 
and  too  angry  to  be  understood.  The  people  were 
highly  pleased  with  the  dispute,  which,  upon  in- 
quiry, we  found  to  be  between  Dr.  Cacafogo,  an 
apothecary,  and  his  wife.  The  doctor,  it  seems, 
coming  unexpectedly  into  his  wife's  apartment, 
found  a  gentleman  there,  in  circumstances  not  in 
the  least  equivocal. 

The  doctor,  who  was  a  person  of  nice  honour, 
resolving  to  revenge  the  flagrant  insult,  imme- 
diately flew  to  the  chimney-piece,  and  taking  down 
a  rusty  blunderbuss,  drew  the  trigger  upon  the  de- 
filer  of  his  bed :  the  delinquent  would  certainly  have 
been  shot  through  the  head,  but  that  the  piece  had 
not  been  charged  for  many  years.  The  gallant 
made  a  shift  to  escape  through  the  window,  but 
the  lady  still  remained  ;  and  as  she  well  knew  her 
husband's  temper,  undertook  to  manage  the  quar- 
rel without  a  second.  He  was  furious,  and  she 
loud ;  their  noise  had  gathered  all  the  mob,  who 
charitably  assembled  on  the  occasion,  not  to  pre- 
vent, but  to  enjoy  the  quarrel. 

Alas !  said  1  to  my  companion,  what  will  become 
of  this  unhappy  creature  thus  caught  in  adultery  7 
Believe  me,  I  pity  her  from  my  heart ;  her  hus- 
band, I  suppose,  will  show  her  no  mercy.  Will 
they  burn  her  as  in  India,  or  behead  her  as  in  Per- 
sia*] Will  they  load  her  with  stripes  as  in  Tur- 
key, or  keep  her  in  perj)etual  imprisonment  as 
with  us  in  China  7  Prithee,  what  is  the  wife's 
punishment  in  England  for  such  offences  1  When 
a  lady  is  thus  caught  tripping,  replied  my  com- 
panion, they  never  punish  her,  but  the  husband. 
You  surely  jest,  interrupted  1 ;  I  am  a  foreigner, 
and  you  would  abuse  my  ignorance  !  I  am  really 
serious,  returned  he ;  Dr.  Cacafogo  has  caught  his 
wife  in  the  act ;  but  as  he  had  no  witnesses,  his 
small  testimony  goes  for  nothing :  the  consequence, 
therefore,  of  his  discovery  will  be,  that  she  will  be 
packed  oflf  to  live  among  her  relations,  and  the 
doctor  must  be  obliged  to  allow  her  a  separate 
maintenance.  Amazing !  cried  I ;  is  it  not  enough 
that  she  is  permitted  to  live  separate  from  the  ob- 
ject she  detests,  but  must  he  give  her  money  to 
keep  her  in  spirits  too  1  That  he  must,  said  my 
guide,  and  be  called  a  cuckold  by  all  his  neigh- 
bours into  the  bargain.  The  men  will  laugh  at 
him,  the  ladies  will  pity  him :  and  all  that  his 
warmest  friends  can  say  in  his  favour  will  be,  that 
the  poor  good  soul  has  never  had  any  harm  in 
him.  I  want  patience,  interrupted  I ;  what !  are 
there  no  private  chastisements  for  the  wife ;  no 
icnools  of  penitence  to  shov7  her  folly ;  no  rods  for 


such  dehnquents  7  Psha,  man,  replied  he,  smiling, 
if  every  delinquent  among  us  were  to  be  treated  in 
your  manner,  one-half  of  the  kingdom  would  flog 
the  other. 

I  must  confess,  my  dear  Fum,  that  if  I  were  an 
EngUsh  husband,  of  all  things  I  would  take  care 
not  to  be  jealous,  nor  busily  pry  into  those  secrets 
my  wife  was  pleased  to  keep  from  me.  Should  I 
detect  her  infidelity,  what  is  the  consequence  7  If 
I  calmly  pocket  the  abuse,  I  am  laughed  at  by  her 
and  her  gallant ;  if  1  talk  my  griefs  aloud,  like  a 
tragedy  hero,  I  am  laughed  at  by  the  whole  world. 
The  course  then  I  would  take  would  be,  whenever 
I  went  out,  U)  tell  my  wife  where  I  was  going,  lest 
I  should  unexpectedly  meet  her  abroad  in  compa- 
ny with  some  dear  deceiver.  Whenever  I  return- 
ed, I  would  use  a  peculiar  rap  at  the  door,  and  give 
four  loud  hems  as  1  walked  deliberately  up  the 
staircase.  I  would  never  inquisitively  peep  under 
her  bed,  or  look  under  the  curtains.  And,  even 
though  I  knew  the  captain  was  there,  I  would 
calmly  take  a  dish  of  my  wife's  cool  tea,  and  talk 
of  the  army  with  reverence. 

Of  all  nations,  the  Russians  seem  to  me  to  be- 
have most  wisely  in  such  circumstances.  The 
wife  promises  her  husband  never  to  let  him  see  her 
transgressions  of  this  nature  ;  and  he  as  punctually 
promises,  whenever  she  is  so  detected,  without  the 
least  anger,  to  beat  her  without  mercy ;  so  they 
both  know  what  each  has  to  expect;  the  lady 
transgresses,  is  beaten,  taken  again  into  favour, 
and  all  goes  on  as  before. 

When  a  Russian  young  lady,  therefore,  is  to  be 
married,  her  father,  with  a  cudgel  in  his  hand,  asks 
the  bridegroom,  whether  he  chooses  this  virgin  for 
his  bride  7  to  which  the  other  replies  in  the  affirm- 
ative. Upon  this,  the  father,  turning  the  lady 
three  times  round,  and  giving  her  three  strokes 
with  his  cudgel  on  the  back.  My  dear,  cries  he, 
these  are  the  last  blows  you  are  ever  to  receive 
from  your  tender  father  :  I  resign  my  authority, 
and  my  cudgel,  to  your  husband  ;  he  knows  bet' 
ter  than  me  the  use  of  either.  The  bridegroom 
knows  decorum  too  well  to  accept  of  the  cudgel 
abruptly;  he  assures  the  father  that  the  lady  will 
never  want  it,  and  that  he  would  not  for  the  world, 
make  any  use  of  it ;  but  the  father,  who  knows 
what  the  lady  may  want  better  than  he,  insists 
upon  his  acceptance;  upon  this  there  follows  a 
scene  of  Russian  politeness,  while  one  refuses,  and 
the  other  offers  the  cudgel.  The  whole,  however, 
ends  with  the  bridegroom's  taking  it ;  upon  which 
the  lady  drops  a  courtesy  in  token  of  obedience, 
and  the  ceremony  proceeds  as  usual. 

There  is  something  excessively  fair  and  open  in 
this  method  of  courtship :  by  this,  both  sides  are 
prepared  for  all  the  matrimonial  adventures  thai 
are  to  follow.  Marriage  has  been  compared  to  a 
game  of  skill  for  life  .  it  is  generous  thus  in  both 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


269 


parties  to  declare  t'.ioy  are  sharpers  in  the  begin- 
ning. In  England,  I  am  told,  both  sides  use  every 
art  to  conceal  their  defects  from  each  other  before 
marriage,  and  the  rest  of  their  lives  may  he  regard- 
ed as  doing  penance  for  their  former  dissimulation. 
Farewell. 


LETTER  XX. 


From  the  same. 


The  Republic  of  Letters,  is  a  very  common  ex- 
pression among  the  Europeans;  and  yet,  when  ap- 
plied to  the  learned  of  Europe,  is  the  most  absurd 
ihat  can  be  imagined,  since  nothing  is  more  unlike 
a  republic  than  the  society  which  goes  by  that  name. 
From  this  expression,  one  would  be  apt  to  imagine 
that  the  learned  were  united  into  a  single  body, 
joining  their  interests,  and  concurring  in  the  same 
design.  From  this,  one  might  be  apt  to  compare 
them  to  our  literary  societies  in  China,  where  each 
acknowledges  a  just  subordination,  and  all  contri- 
bute to  build  the  temple  of  science,  without  at- 
tempting, from  ignorance  or  envy,  to  obstruct  each 
other. 

But  very  different  is  the  state  of  learning  here  : 
every  member  of  this  fancied  republic  is  desirous 
of  governing,  and  none  willing  to  obey ;  each  looks 
upon  his  fellow  as  a  rival,  not  an  assistar  ^  the 
game  pursuit.  They  calumniate,  they  injure,  they 
despise,  they  ridicule  each  other ;  if  one  man  writes 
a  book  that  pleases,  others  shall  write  books  to  show 
that  he  might  have  given  still  greater  pleasure,  or 
should  not  have  pleased.  If  one  happens  to  hit 
upon  something  new,  there  are  numbers  ready  to 
assure  the  public  that  all  this  was  no  novelty  to 
them  or  the  learned ;  that  Cardanus,  or  Bruuus, 
or  some  other  author  too  dull  to  be  generally  read, 
had  anticipated  the  discovery.  Thus,  instead  of 
uniting  like  the  members  of  a  commonwealth,  they 
are  divided  into  almost  as  many  factions  as  there 
are  men  :  and  their  jarring  constitution,  instead  of 
being  styled  a  repxiblic  of  letters,  should  be  entitled 
an  anarchy  of  literature. 

It  is  true,  there  are  some  of  superior  abilities 
who  reverence  and  esteem  each  other;  but  their 
mutual  admiration  is  not  sufficient  to  shield  off  the 
contempt  of  the  crowd.  The  wise  are  but  few,  and 
they  praise  with  a  feeble  voice;  the  vulgar  are 
many,  and  roar  in  reproaches.  The  truly  great 
seldom  unite  in  societies;  have  few  meetings,  no 
cabals  ;  the  dunces  hunt  in  full  cry,  till  they  have 
run  down  a  reputation,  and  then  snarl  and  fight 
with  each  other  about  dividing  the  spoil.  Here 
you  may  see  the  compilers  and  the  book-answerers 
of  every  month,  when  they  have  cut  up  some  re- 
spectable name,  most  frequently  reproaching  each 
other  with  stupidity  and  dulness;  resembling  the 
wolves  of  the  Russian  forest,  who  prey  upon  veni- 


son, or  horse-flesh,  when  they  can  get  it ;  but  in 
cases  of  necessity,  lying  in  wait  to  devour  each 
other.  While  they  have  new  books  to  cut  up,  they 
make  a  hearty  meal ;  but  if  tKis  resource  should 
unhappily  fail,  then  it  is  that  critics  eat  up  critics, 
and  compilers  rob  from  compilations. 

Confucius  observes,  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
learned  to  unite  society  more  closely,  and  to  per- 
suade men  to  become  citizens  of  the  world ;  but 
the  authors  I  refer  to,  are  not  only  for  disuniting 
ociety  but  kingdoms  also :  if  the  English  are  at 
war  with  France,  the  dunces  of  FraJice  think  it 
their  duty  to  be  at  war  with  those  of  England. 
Thus  Freron,  one  of  their  first-rate  scribblers, 
thinks  proper  to  characterize  all  the  Enghsh  wri- 
ters in  the  gross :  "  Their  whole  merit  (says  he) 
consists  in  exaggeration,  and  often  in  extravagance : 
correct  their  pieces  as  you  please,  there  still  re- 
mains a  leaven  which  corrupts  the  whole.     They 
sometimes  discover  genius,  but  not  the  smallest 
share  of  taste  :  England  is  not  a  soil  for  the  plants 
of  genius  to  thrive  m."     This  is  open  enough,  with 
not  the  least  adulation  in  the  picture :  but  hear 
what  a  Frenchman  of  acknowledged  abilities  says 
upon  the  same  subject :  "  I  am  at  a  loss  to  deter- 
mine in  what  we  excel  the  English,  or  where  they 
excel  us :  when  I  compare  the  merits  of  both  in 
any  one  species  of  literary  composition,  so  many 
reputable  and  pleasing  writers  present  themselves 
from  either  country,  that  my  judgment  rests  in  sus- 
pense :  I  am  pleased  with  the  disquisition,  without 
finding  the  object  of  my  inquiry."     But  lest  you 
should  think  the  French  alone  are  faulty  in  this 
respect,  hear  how  an  English  journalist  delivers  his 
sentiments  of  them :  "  We  are  amazed  (says  he) 
to  find  so  many  works  translated  from  the  French, 
while  w^e  have  such  numbers  neglected  of  our  own. 
In  our  opinion,  notwithstanding  their  fame  through- 
out the  rest  of  Europe,  the  French  are  the  most 
contemptible  reasoners  (we  had  almost  said  wri- 
ters) that  can  be  imagined.     However,  neverthe- 
less,   excepting,"   etc.     Another  English  writer, 
Shaftesbury  if  I  remember,  on  the  contrary,  says 
that  the  French  authors  are  pleasing  and  judicious, 
more  clear,  more  methodical  and  entertaining,  than 
those  of  his  own  country. 

From  these  opposite  pictures,  you  perceive,  that 
the  good  authors  of  either  country  praise,  and  the 
bad  revile  each  other  ;  and  yet,  perhaps,  you  will 
be  surprised  that  indifferent  writers  should  thus  be 
the  most  apt  to  censure,  as  they  have  the  most  to 
apprehend  from  recrimination  :  you  may,  perhaps, 
imagine,  that  such  as  are  possessed  of  fame  them- 
selves, should  be  most  ready  to  declare  their  opi- 
nions, since  what  they  say  might  pass  for  decision 
But  the  truth  happens  to  be,  that  the  great  are  so- 
licitous only  of  raising  their  own  reputations,  while 
the  opposite  class,  alas !  are  solicitous  of  bringing 
every  reputation  down  to  a  level  with  their  own. 


srw 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


But  let  us  acquit  them  of  malice  and  envy.  A 
critic  is  often  guided  by  the  same  motives  that  di 
reel  his  author.  The  author  endeavours  to  per 
suade  us,  that  he  lias  written  a  good  book ;  the 
critic  is  equally  solicitous  to  show  that  he  could 
write  a  better,  had  he  thought  proper.  A  critic  is 
a  being  possessed  of  all  the  vanity,  but  not  the  ge 
nius  of  a  scholar ;  incapable,  from  his  native  weak- 
ness, of  lifting  himself  from  the  ground,  he  applies 
to  contiguous  merit  for  support ;  makes  the  spor 
tive  sallies  of  another's  imagination  his  serious 
employment ;  pretends  to  take  our  feelings  under 
his  care ;  teaches  where  to  condemn,  where  to  lay 
the  enSirfiasis  of  praise ;  and  may  with  as  much 
justice  be  called  a  man  of  taste,  as  the  Chinese 
who  measures  his  wisdom  by  the  length  of  his 
nails. 

If,  then,  a  book,  spirited  or  humorous,  happens 
to  appear  in  the  republic  of  letters,  several  critics 
are  in  waiting  to  bid  the  public  not  to  laugh  at  a 
single  line  of  it ;  for  themselves  had  read  it,  and 
they  know  what  is  most  proper  to  excite  laughter. 
Other  critics  contradict  the  fulminations  of  this 
tribunal,  call  them  all  spiders,  and  assure  the  pub- 
lic that  they  ought  to  laugh  without  restraint. 
Another  set  are  in  the  mean  time  quietl}'^  employed 
in  writing  notes  to  the  book,  intended  to  show  the 
particular  passages  to  be  laughed  at :  when  these 
are  out,  others  still  there  are  who  write  notes  upon 
notes  :  thus  a  single  new  book  employs  not  only 
the  paper -makers,  the  printers,  the  pressmen,  the 
book-binders,  the  hawkers,  but  twenty  critics,  and 
as  many  compilers.  In  short,  the  body  of  the 
learned  may  be  compared  to  a  Persian  army,  where 
there  are  many  pioneers,  several  sutlers,  number- 
less servants,  women  and  children  in  abundance, 
and  but  few  soldiers.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXI. 


To  the  Sama 


The  English  are  as  fond  of  seeing  plays  acted 
as  the  Chinese ;  but  there  is  a  vast  difference 
in  the  manner  of  conducting  them.  We  play  our 
pieces  in  the  open  air.  the  Englisli  theirs  under 
cover;  we  act  by  daylight,  they  by  the  blaze  of  torch- 
es. One  of  our  plays  continues  eight  or  ten  days 
successively  ;  an  English  piece  seldom  takes  up 
above  four  hours  in  the  representation. 

My  companion  in  black,  with  whom  I  am  now 
beginning  to  contract  an  intimacy,  introduced  me 
a  few  nights  ago  to  the  play-house,  where  we 
placed  ourselves  conveniently  at  the  foot  of  the 
stage.  As  the  curtain  was  not  drawn  before  my 
arrival,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  the  be- 
haviour of  the  spectators,  and  indulging  those  re- 
flections which  novelty  generally  inspires. 


The  rich  in  general  were  placed  in  the  lowefll 
seats,  and  the  poor  rose  above  them  in  degrees  pro- 
portioned to  their  poverty.  The  order  of  prece- 
dence seemed  here  mverted  ;  those  who  were  un- 
dermost all  the  day,  now  enjoyed  a  temporary  emi- 
nence, and  became  masters  of  the  ceremonies.  It 
was  they  who  called  for  the  music,  indulging  every 
noisy  freedom,  and  testifying  all  the  insolence  of 
beggary  in  exaltation. 

They  who  held  the  middle  region  seemed  not  so 
riotous  as  those  above  them,  nor  yet  so  tame  as  those 
below  :  to  judge  by  their  looks,  many  of  them 
scorned  strangers  there  as  well  as  myself:  they 
were  chiefly  employed,  during  this  period  of  ex- 
pectation, in  eating  oranges,  reading  the  story  of 
the  play,  or  making  assignations. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  lowest  rows,  which  are 
called  the  pit,  seemed  to  consider  themselves  as 
judges  of  the  merit  of  the  poet  and  the  performers ; 
they  were  assembled  partly  to  be  amused,  and 
partly  to  show  their  taste ;  appearing  to  labour  un- 
der that  restraint  which  an  affectation  of  superior 
discernment  generally  produces.  My  companion, 
however,  informed  me,  that  not  one  in  a  hundred 
of  them  knew  even  the  first  principles  of  criticism ; 
that  they  assumed  the  right  of  being  censors  be- 
cause there  was  none  to  contradict  their  preten- 
sions ;  and  that  every  man  who  now  called  himself 
a  connoisseur,  became  such  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses. 

Those  who  sat  in  the  boxes  appeared  in  the 
most  unhappy  situation  of  all.  The  rest  of  the 
audience  came  merely  for  their  own  amusement ; 
these,  rather  to  furnish  out  a  part  of  the  entertain- 
ments themselves.  I  could  not  avoid  considering 
them  as  acting  parts  in  dumb  show — not  a  courte- 
sy or  nod  that  was  not  the  result  of  art ;  not  a  look 
nor  a  smile  that  was  not  designed  for  murder. 
Gentlemen  and  ladies  ogled  each  other  through 
spectacles ;  for  my  companion  observed,  that  blind- 
ness was  of  late  become  fashionable ;  all  affected 
indifference  and  ease,  while  their  hearts  at  the  same 
time  burned  for  conquest.  Upon  the  whole,  the 
lights,  the  music,  the  ladies  in  their  gayest  dresses, 
the  men  with  cheerfulness  and  expectation  in  their 
looks,  all  conspired  to  make  a  most  agreeable  pic- 
ture, and  to  fill  a  heart  that  sympathizes  at  human 
happiness  with  inexpressible  serenity. 

The  expected  time  for  the  play  to  begin  at  last 
arrived;  the  curtain  was  drawn,  and  the  actors 
came  on.  A  woman,  who  personated  a.  queen, 
came  in  courtseying  to  the  audience,  who  clapped 
their  hands  upon  her  appearance.  Clapping  of 
hands,  is,  it  seems,  the  manner  of  applauding  in 
England ;  the  manner  is  absurd,  but  every  country, 
you  know,  has  its  pecuHar  absurdities.  I  WM 
equally  surprised,  however,  at  the  submission  of  the 
actress,  who  should  have  considered  herself  as  a 
queen,  as  at  the  little  discernment  of  the  audience 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


2^1 


who  gave  her  such  marks  of  applause  before  she 
attempted  to  deserve  them.  Prehminaries  between 
her  and  the  audience  being  thus  adjusted,  the  dia- 
logue was  supported  between  her  and  a  most  hope- 
ful youth,  who  acted  the  part  of  her  confidant. 
They  both  appeared  in  extreme  distress,  for  it 
seems  the  queen  had  lost  a  child  some  fifteen  years 
before,  and  still  keeps  its  dear  resemblance  next 
her  heart,  while  her  kind  companion  bore  a  part  in 
her  sorrows. 

Her  lamentations  grev^  loud ;  comfort  is  offered, 
but  she  detests  the  very  sound :  she  bids  them 
preach  comfort  to  the  winds.  Upon  this  her  hus- 
band comes  in,  who,  seeing  the  queen  so  much 
affected,  can  himself  hardly  refrain  from  tears,  or 
avoid  partaking  in  the  soft  distress.  After  thus 
grieving  through  three  scenes,  the  curtain  dropped 
for  the  first  act. 

Truly,  said  I  to  my  companion,  these  kings  and 
queens  are  very  much  disturbed  at  no  very  great  mis- 
fortune :  certain  I  am,  were  people  of  humbler  sta- 
tions to  act  in  this  manner,  they  would  be  thought 
divested  of  common  sense.  I  had  scarcely  finished 
this  observation,  when  the  curtain  rose,  and  the 
king  came  on  in  a  violent  passion.  His  wife  had, 
it  seems,  refused  his  proffered  tenderness,  had 
spurned  his  royal  embrace ;  and  he  seemed  resolv- 
ed not  to  survive  her  fierce  disdain.  After  he  had 
thus  fretted,  and  the  queen  had  fretted  through  the 
jiecond  act,  the  curtain  was  let  down  once  more. 

Now,  says  my  companion,  you  perceive  the  king 
to  be  a  man  of  spirit ;  he  feels  at  every  pore  :  one 
of  your  phlegmatic  sons  of  clay  would  have  given 
the  queen  her  own  way,  and  let  her  come  to  her- 
self by  degrees ;  but  the  king  is  for  immediate  ten- 
derness, or  instant  death:  death  and  tenderness 
aie  leading  passions  of  every  modern  buskined 
hero;  this  moment  they  embrace,  and  the  next 
tJtab,  mixing  daggers  and  kisses  in  every  period. 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  my  at- 
tention was  engrossed  by  a  new  object ;  a  man 
came  in  balancing  a  straw  upon  his  nose,  and  the  au- 
dience were  clapping  their  hands  in  all  the  raptures 
of  applause.  To  what  purpose,  cried  1,  does  this 
immeaning  figure  rnake  his  appearance ;  is  he  a 
part  of  the  plot?  Unmeaning  do  you  call  him?  re- 
plied my  friend  in  black ;  this  is  one  of  the  most 
important  characters  of  the  whole  play ;  nothing 
pleases  the  people  more  than  seeing  a  straw  bal- 
anced :  there  is  a  great  deal  of  meaning  in  the 
straw ;  there  is  something  suited  to  every  appre- 
hension in  the  sight;  and  a  fellow  possessed  of 
talents  like  these  is  sure  of  making  his  fortune. 

The  third  act  now  began  with  an  actor  who 
came  to  inform  us  that  he  was  the  villain  of  the  play, 
and  intended  to  show  strange  things  before  all  was 
over.  He  was  joined  by  another,  who  seemed  as 
much  disposed  for  mischief  as  he :  their  intrigues 


a  villain  said  I,  he  must  be  a  very  stupid  one  to  tell 
his  secrets  without  being  asked ;  such  soliloquies  of 
late  are  never  admitted  in  China. 

The  noise  of  clapping  interrupted  me  once  more : 
a  child  of  six  years  old  was  learning  to  dance  on 
the  stage,  which  gave  the  ladies  and  mandarines 
infinite  satisfaction.  I  am  sorry,  said  I,  to  see  the 
pretty  creature  so  early  learning  so  bad  a  trade ; 
dancing  being,  I  presume,  as  contemptil)le  here  as 
in  China.  Gluite  the  reverse,  interrupted  my  com  • 
panion;  dancing  is  a  very  reputable  and  genteel 
employment  here ;  men  have  a  greater  chance  for 
encouragement  from  the  merit  of  their  heels  than 
their  heads.  One  who  jumps  up  and  flourishes  his 
toes  three  times  before  he  comes  to  the  ground,  may 
have  three  hundred  a-year ;  he  who  flourishes  them 
four  times,  gets  four  hundred ;  but  he  who  arrives 
at  five  is  inestimable,  and  may  demand  what  salary 
he  thinks  proper.  The  female  dancers,  too,  are 
valued  for  this  sort  of  jumping  and  crossing ;  and 
it  is  a  cant  word  among  them,  that  she  deserves 
most  who  shows  highest.  But  the  fourth  act  is 
begun  ;  let  us  be  attentive. 

In  the  fourth  act  the  queen  finds  her  long-lost 
child,  now  grown  up  into  a  youth  of  smart  parts 
and  great  qualifications;  wherefore,  she  wisely 
considers  that  the  crown  will  fit  his  head  better 
than  that  of  her  husband,  whom  she  knows  to  be 
a  driveller.  The  king  discovers  her  design,  and 
here  comes  on  the  deep  distress ;  he  loves  the 
queen,  and  he  loves  the  kingdom;  he.  resolves, 
therefore,  in  order  to  possess  both,  that  her  son  must 
die.  The  queen  exclaims  at  his  barbarity,  is  frantic 
with  rage,  and  at  length,  overcome  with  sorrow, 
falls  into  a  fit ;  upon  which  the  curtail*  drops,  and 
the  act  is  concluded. 

Observe  the  art  of  the  poet,  cries  my  conjpanion. 
When  the  queen  can  say  no  more,  she  falls  into  a 
fit.  While  thus  her  eyes  are  shut,  while  she  is 
supi)orted  in  the  arms  of  her  abigail,  what  horrors 
do  we  not  fancy!  We  feel  it  in  every  nerve  ;  take 
my  word  for  it,  that  fits  are  the  true  aposiopesis  of 
modern  tragedy. 

The  fifth  act  began,  and  a  busy  piece  it  was. 
Scenes  shifting,  trumpets  sounding,  mobs  halloo- 
ing, carpets  spreading,  guards  bustling  from  one 
door  to  another ;  gods,  demons,  daggers,  racks,  and 
ratsbane.  But  whether  the  king  was  killed,  or  the 
queen  was  drowned,  or  the  son  was  poisoned,  I 
have  absolutely  forgotten. 

When  the  play  was  over,  I  could  not  avoid  ob- 
serving, that  the  persons  of  the  drama  appeared  in 
as  much  distress  in  the  first  act  as  the  last :  How 
is  it  possible,  said  I,  to  sympathize  with  them 
through  five  long  acts !  Pity  is  but  a  short-lived 
passion ;  I  hate  to  hear  an  actor  mouthing  trifles ; 
neither  startings,  strainings,  nor  attitudes  affect 
me,  unless  there  be  cause  :  after  I  have  been  once 


continued  through  this  whole  division.     If  that  be  or  twice  deceived  by  those  unmeaning  alarms,  mv 


279 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


heart  sleeps  in  peace,  probably  unaffected  by  the 
prinrina!  distres?.  There  should  be  one  great 
passion  aimed  at  by  the  actor  as  well  as  the  poet; 
all  the  rest  should  be  subordinate,  and  only  contri- 
bute to  make  that  the  greater :  if  the  actor,  there- 
fore, exclaims  upon  every  occasion  in  the  tones  of 
despair,  he  attempts  to  move  us  too  soon ;  he  anti- 
cipates the  blow,  he  ceases  to  affect,  though  he 
gains  our  applause, 

I  scarcely  perceived  that  the  audience  were  al- 
most all  departed;  wherefore,  mixing  with  the 
crowd,  my  companion  and  1  got  into  the  street ; 
where,  essaying  a  hundred  obstacles  from  coach- 
wheels  and  palanquin  poles,  like  birds  in  their 
flight  through  the  branches  of  a  forest,  after  vari- 
ous turnings  we  both  at  length  got  home  in  safety. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  XXII. 


To  the  same. 


The  letter  which  came  by  the  way  of  Smyrna, 
and  which  you  sent  me  unopened,  was  from  my 
son.  As  I  have  permitted  you  to  take  copies 'of  all 
those  I  sent  to  China,  you  might  have  made  no 
ceremony  in  opening  those  directed  to  me.  Either 
in  joy  or  sorrow,  my  friend  should  participate  in 
my  feelings.  It  would  give  pleasure  to  see  a  good 
man  pleased  at  my  success  ;  it  icould  give  almost 
equal  pleasure  to  see  him  sympathise  at  my  disap- 
pointment. 

Every  account  I  receive  from  the  East  seems  to 
come  loaded  with  some  new  affliction.  My  wife 
and  daughter  were  taken  from  me,  and  yet  I  sus- 
tained the  loss  with  intrepidity;  my  son  is  made  a 
slave  among  the  barbarians,  which  was  the  only 
blow  that  could  have  reached  my  heart :  yes,  I  will 
indulge  the  transports  of  nature  for  a  little,  in  order 
to  show  I  can  overcome  them  in  the  end.  Tru^ 
m,agnanimity  consists  not  in  never  ^falling,  but 
in  RISING  every  time  we  fall. 

When  our  mighty  emperor  had  published  his 
displeasure  at  my  departure,  and  seized  upon  all 
that  vsras  mine,  my  son  was  privately  secreted  from 
his  resentment.  Under  the  protection  and  guard- 
ianship of  Fum  Hoam,  the  best  and  the  wisest  of 
all  the  inhabitants  of  China,  he  was  for  some  time 
instructed  in  the  learning  of  the  missionaries,  and 
the  wisdom  of  the  East.  But  hearing  of  my  ad- 
ventures, and  incited  by  filial  piety,  he  was  resolved 
to  follow  my  fortunes,  and  share  my  distress. 

He  passed  the  confines  of  China  in  disguise, 
hired  himself  as  a  camel-driver  to  a  caravan  that 
was  crossing  the  deserts  of  Thibet,  and  was  within 
one  day's  journey  of  the  river  Laur,  which  divides 
that  country  from*  India,  when  a  body  of  wander- 
ing Tartars  falling  unexpectedly  upon  the  caravan, 


plundered  it,  and  made  those  who  escaped  their  first 
fury  slaves.  By  those  he  was  led  into  the  exten- 
sive and  desolate  regions  that  border  (m  the  shores 
of  the  Aral  lake. 

Here  he  lived  by  hunting;  and  was  obliged  to 
supply  every  day  a  certain  proportion  of  the  spoil, 
to  regale  his  savage  masters.  His  learning,  his 
virtues,  and  even  his  beauty,  were  qualifications 
that  no  way  served  to  recommend  him;  they  knew 
no  merit,  but  that  of  providing  large  quantities  cf 
milk  and  raw  flesh;  and  were  sensible  of  no  happi- 
ness but  that  of  rioting  on  the  undressed  meal. 

Some  merchants  from  Mesched,  however,  coming 
to  trade  with  the  Tartars  for  slaves,  he  was  sold 
among  the  number,  and  led  into  the  kingdom  of 
Persia,  where  he  is  now  detained.  He  is  there 
obliged  to  watch  the  looks  of  a  voluptuous  and  cruel 
master,  a  man  fond  of  pleasure,  yet  incapable  of  re- 
finement, whom  many  years'  service  in  war  has 
taught  pride,  but  not  bravery. 

That  treasure  which  I  still  keep  within  my 
bosom,  my  child,  my  all  that  was  left  to  me,  is  now 
a  slave.*  Good  Heavens,  why  was  this  7  Why 
have  I  been  introduced  into  this  mortal  apartment, 
to  be  a  spectator  of  my  own  misfortunes,  and  th« 
misfortunes  of  my  fellow-creatures'?  Wherever  ) 
turn,  what  a  labyrinth  of  doubt,  error,  and  disap- 
pointment aj)pears !  Why  was  I  brought  into  be- 
ing ;  for  what  purposes  made ;  from  whence  have  1 
come;  whither  strayed;  or  to  what  regions  am  I 
hastening?  Reason  can  not  resolve.  It  lends  a 
ray  to  show  the  horrors  of  my  prison,  but  not  a 
light  to  guide  me  to  escape  them.  Ye  boasted 
revelations  of  the  earth,  how  little  do  you  aid  the 
inquiry  I 

How  am  I  surprised  at  the  inconsistency  of  the 
magi!  their  two  principles  of  good  and  evil  affright 
me.  The  Indian  who  bathes  his  visage  in  urine, 
and  calls  it  piety,  strikes  me  with  astonishment. 
The  Christian  who  believes  in  three  Gods  is  high- 
ly absurd.  The  Jews,  who  pretend  that  deity  is 
pleased  with  the  effusion  of  blood,  are  not  less  dis- 
pleasing. I  am  equally  surprised,  that  rational  be- 
ings can  come  from  the  extremities  of  the  earth,  in 
order  to  kiss  a  stone,  or  scatter  pebbles.  How  con- 
trary to  reason  are  those!  and  yet  all  pretend  to 
teach  me  to  be  happy. 

Surely  all  men  are  blind  and  ignorant  of  truth. 
Mankind  wanders,  unknowing  his  way,  from 
morning  till  evening.  Where  shall  we  turn  afler 
happiness;  or  is  it  wise54t  to  desist  from  the  pursuit ! 
Like  reptiles  in  a  corner  of  some  stupendous  palace, 
we  peep  from  our  holes,  look  about  us,  wonder  at 
all  we  see,  but  are  ignorant  of  tlie  great  architect's 
design.  O  for  n  revelation  of  himself,  for  a  plan  of 
his  universal  system!     O  for  the  reasons  of  our 

*  This  whole  apostrophe  secmg  most  literally  translated 
from  Ambulaaohamed,  the  Arabian  poet. 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


273 


creation;  or  why  were  we  created  to  be  thus  un- 
happy !  If  we  arc  to  experience  no  other  fehcity 
but  what  this  life  affords,  then  are  we  miserable  in- 
deed ;  if  we  are  born  only  to  looli  about  us,  repine 
and  die,  then  has  Heaven  been  guilty  of  injustice. 
If  this  life  terminates  my  existence,  I  despise  the 
blessings  of  Providence,  and  the  wisdom  of  the 
giver ;  if  this  life  be  my  all,  let  the  following  epitaph 
be  written  on  the  tomb  of  Altangi :  By  my  father's 
crimes  I  received  this  ;  by  my  own  crimes  Ibeqiieath 
it  to  posterity. 


LETTER  XXIII. 


To  the  Same. 


Yet,  while  I  sometimes  lament  the  case  of  hu- 
manity, and  the  depravity  of  human  nature,  there 
now  and  then  appear  gleams  of  greatness  that  serve 
to  relieve  the  eye  oppressed  with  the  hideous  pros- 
pects, and  resemble  those  cultivated  spots  that  are 
Bometimes  found  in  the  midst  of  an  Asiatic  wilder- 
ness. I  see  many  superior  excellencies  among  the 
EngUsh,  which  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  all  their 
follies  to  hide  :  I  see  virtues,  which  in  other  coun- 
tries are  known  only  to  a  few,  practised  here  by 
every  rank  of  people. 

I  know  not  whether  it  proceeds  from  their  su- 
perior opulence  that  the  English  are  more  chari- 
table than  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  whether  by  being 
possessed  of  all  the  conveniences  of  hfe  themselves, 
they  have  more  leisure  to  perceive  the  uneasy  situ- 
ation of  the  distressed ;  whatever  be  the  motive, 
they  are  not  only  the  most  charitable  of  any  other 
nation,  bur  most  judicious  in  distinguishing  the 
properest  objects  of  compassion. 

In  other  countries,  the  giver  is  generailly  influ- 
enced by  the  immediate  impulse  of  pity ;  his  gener- 
osity is  exerted  as  much  to  relieve  his  own  uneasy 
sensations  as  to  comfort  the  object  in  distress.  In 
England,  benefactions  are  of  a  more  general  na- 
ture. Some  men  of  fortune  and  universal  benevo- 
lence propose  the  proper  objects;  the  wants  and 
the  merits  of  the  petitioners  are  canvassed  by  the 
people ;  neither  passion  nor  pity  find  a  place  iii  the 
cool  discussion ;  and  charity  is  then  only  exerted 
when  it  has  received  the  approbation  of  reason. 

A  late  instance  of  this  finely  directed  benevo- 
lence forces  itself  so  strongly  on  my  imagination, 
that  it  in  a  manner  reconciles  me  to  pleasure,  and 
once  more  makes  me  the  universal  friend  of  man. 

The  English  and  French  have  not  only  politi- 
cal reasons  to  induce  them  to  mutual  hatred,  but 
often  the  more  prevailing  motive  of  private  interest 
to  widen  the  breach.  A  war  between  other  coun- 
tries is  carried  on  collectively ;  army  fights  against 
anny,  and  a  mari*8  own  private  resentment  is  lost 
in  that  of  the  community :  but  in  England  and 
18 


France,  the  individuals  of  each  country  plunder 
each  other  at  sea  without  redress,  and  consequent- 
ly feel  that  animosity  agains.it  each  other  which. 
passengers  do  at  a  robber.  They  have  for  some 
time  carried  on  an  expensive  war ;  and  several  cap- 
tives have  been  taken  on  both  sides :  those  made 
prisoners  by  the  French  have  been  used  with  cruel- 
ty, and  guarded  with  unnecessary  caution ;  those 
taken  by  the  English,  being  much  more  numerous, 
were  confined  in  the  ordinary  manner ;  and  not 
being  released  by  their  countrymen,  began  to  feel 
all  those  inconveniences  which  arise  from  want  of 
covering  and  long  confinement. 

Their  countrymen  were  informed  of  their  de- 
plorable situation ;  but  they,  more  intent  on  annoy- 
ing their  enemies  than  relieving  their  friends,  re- 
fused the  least  assistance.  The  EngUsh  now  saw 
thousands  of  their  fellow-creatures  starving  in 
every  prison,  forsaken  by  those  whose  duty  it  wa^ 
to  protect  them,  labouring  with  disease,  and  with- 
out clothes  to  keep  off  the  severity  of  the  season^ 
National  benevolence  prevailed  over  national  ani- 
mosity; their  prisoners  were  indeed  enemies,  but 
they  were  enemies  in  distress ;  they  ceased  to  be 
hateful,  when  they  no  longer  continued  to  be  formi- 
dable :  forgetting,  therefore,  their  national  hatred, 
the  men  who  were  brave  enough  to  conquer,  were 
generous  enough  to  forgive ;  and  they  whom  all 
the  worid  seemed  to  have  disclaimed,  at  last  found 
pity  and  redress  from  those  they  attempted  to  sub- 
due. A  subscription  was  opened,  ample  charities 
collected,  proper  necessaries  procured,  and  the  poor 
gay  sons  of  a  merry  nation  were  once  more  taught 
to  resume  their  former  gaiety. 

When  I  cast  my  eye  over  the  list  of  those  who 
contributed  on  this  occasion,  I  find  the  names  al- 
most entirely  English;  scarcely  one  foreigner  ap-' 
pears  among  the  number.  It  was  for  Englishmen 
alone  to  be  capable  of  sucb  exalted  virtue.  I  own, 
I  can  not  look  over  this  catalogue  of  good  men  and 
philosophers,  without  thinking  better  of  myself,  be- 
cause it  makes  me  entertain  a  more  favourable 
opinion  of  mankind.  I  am  particularly  struck 
with  one  who  writes  these  words  upon  the  paper 
that  enclosed  his  benefaction:  Th&  mite  of  an 
Englishman,  a  citizen  of  the  world,  to  French- 
men, prisoners  of  war,  and  naked.  I  only  wish 
that  he  may  find  as  much  pleasure  from  his  virtues 
as  I  have  done  in  reflecting  upon  them ;  that  alone 
will  amply  reward  him.  Such  a  one,  my  friend, 
is  an  honour  to  human  nature;  he  makes  no  pri- 
vate distinctions  of  p&rty;  all  that  are  stamped 
with  the  divine  image  of  their  Creator  are  fritends 
to  him;  he  is  a  native  of  the  xoorld;  and  the  em- 
peror of  China  may  be  proud  that  he  has  such  a 
countryman. 

To  rejoice  at  the  destruction  of  our  enemies,  is 
a  foible  grafted  upon  human  nature,  and  we  must 
be  permitted  to  indulge  it ;  the  true  way  of  atoning 


274 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


for  such  an  ill-founded  pleasure,  is  thus  to  turn 
our  triumph  into  an  act  of  benevolence,  and  to 
testify  oui  own  joy  by  endeavouring  to  banish 
anxiety  from  others. 

Hamti,  the  best  and  wisest  emperor  that  ever 
filled  the  throne,  after  having  gained  three  signal 
victories  over  the  Tartars,  who  had  invaded  his 
dominions,  returned  to  Nankin  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  glory  of  his  conquest.  After  he  had  rested  for 
some  days,  the  people,  who  are  naturally  fond  of 
processions,  impatiently  expected  the  triumphant 
entry,  which  emperors  upon  such  occasions  were 
accustomed  to  make :  their  murmurs  came  to  the 
emperor's  ear ;  he  loved  his  people,  and  was  will- 
ing to  do  all  in  his  power  to  satisfy  their  just  de- 
sires. He  therefore  assured  them,  that  he  intend- 
ed, upon  the  next  feast  of  the  Lanterns,  to  exhibit 
one  of  the  most  glorious  triumphs  that  had  ever 
been  seen  in  China. 

The  people  were  in  raptures  at  his  condescen- 
sion; and,  on  the  appointed  day,  assembled  at  the 
gates  of  the  palace  with  the  most  eager  expecta- 
tions. Here  they  waited  for  some  time,  without 
seeing  any  of  those  preparations  which  usually 
precede  a  pageant.  The  lantern,  with  ten  thou- 
sand tapers,  was  not  yet  brought  forth ;  the  fire- 
works, which  usually  covered  the  city  walls,  were 
not  yet  lighted;  the  people  once  more  began  to 
murmur  at  this  delay,  when,  in  the  midst  of  their 
impatience,  the  palace-gates  flew  open,  and  the 
emperor  himself  appeared,  not  in  splendour  or 
magnificence,  but  in  an  ordinary  habit,  followed  by 
the  blind,  the  maimed,  and  the  strangers  of  the 
city,  all  in  new  clothes,  and  each  carrying  in  his 
hand  money  enough  to  supply  his  necessities  for 
the  year.  The  people  were  at  first  amazed,  but 
soon  perceived  the  wisdom  of  their  king,  who 
taught  them,  that  to  make  one  happy  man  was 
more  truly  great  than  having  ten  thousand  captives 
groaning  at  the  wheels  of  his  chariot.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXIV. 


To  the  Same. 


time,  knowledge  of  a  bedfellow,  or  hinderance  o1 

business. 

When  I  consider  the  assiduity  of  this  profession, 
their  benevolence  amazes  me.  They  not  only  in 
general  give  their  medicine  for  half  value,  but  use 
the  most  persuasive  remonstrances  to  induce  the 
sick  to  come  and  be  cured.  Sure,  there  must  be 
something  strangely  obstinate  in  an  English  pa- 
tient, who  refuses  so  much  health  upon  such  easy 
terms :  does  he  take  a  pride  in  being  bloated  with 
a  droi)sy  ?  does  he  find  pleasure  in  the  alternations 
of  an  intermittent  fever?  or  feel  as  much  satisfac- 
tion in  nursing  up  his  gout  as  he  found  pleasure 
in  acquiring  it  ?  He  must,  otherwise  he  would 
never  reject  such  repeated  assurances  of  instant 
relief  What  can  be  more  convincing  than  the 
maimer  in  which  the  sick  are  invited  to  he  welll 
The  doctor  first  begs  the  most  earnest  attention  of 
the  public  to  what  he  is  going  to  propose ;  he  so- 
lemnly affirms  the  pill  was  never  found  to  want 
success;  he  produces  a  list  of  those  who  have  been 
rescued  from  the  grave  by  taking  it :  yet,  notwith- 
standing all  this,  there  are  many  here  who  now 
and  then  think  proper  to  be  sick.  Only  sick,  die 
I  say  7  there  are  some  who  even  think  proper  to 
die!  Yes,  by  the  head  of  Confucius!  they  die; 
though  they  might  have  purchased  the  health- 
restoring  specific  for  half-a-crown  at  every  corner. 

I  am  amazed,  my  dear  Fum  Hoam,  that  these 
doctors,  who  know  what  an  obstinate  set  of  people 
they  have  to  deal  with,  have  never  thought  of  at- 
tempting to  revive  the  dead.  When  the  living 
are  found  to  reject  their  prescriptions,  they  ought 
in  conscience  to  apply  to  the  dead,  from  whom 
they  can  expect  no  such  mortifying  repulses ;  they 
would  find  in  the  dead  the  most  complying  patients 
imaginable:  and  what  gratitude  might  they  not 
expect  from  the  patient's  son,  now  no  longer  an 
heir,  and  his  wife,  now  no  longer  a  widow  ! 

Think  not,  my  friend,  that  there  is  any  thing 
chimerical  in  such  an  attempt;  they  already  per- 
form cures  equally  strange.  What  can  be  more 
truly  astonishing,  than  to  see  old  age  restored  to 
youth,  and  vigour  to  the  most  feeble  constitutions  7 
Yet  this  is  performed  here  every  day :  a  simple 
electuary  effects  these  wonders,  even  without  the 
bungUng  ceremonies  of  having  the  patient  boiled 
up  in  a  kettle,  or  ground  down  in  a  mill. 

Few  physicians  here  go  through  the  ordinary 
courses  of  education,  but  receive  all  their  know- 
ledge of  medicine  by  immediate  inspiration  from 
Some  are  thus  inspired  even  in  the 


Whatever  may  be  the  merits  of  the  English  in 
other  sciences,  they  seem  peculiarly  excellent  in 
the  art  of  healing.  There  is  scarcely  a  disorder 
incident  to  humanity,  against  which  they  are  not 
possessed  with  a  most  infallible  antidote.  The ' 
professors  of  other  arts  confess  the  inevitable  in- ;  Heaven, 
tricacy  of  things ;  talk  with  doubt,  and  decide  with  womb ;  and  what  is  very  remarkable,  understand 
hesitation ;  but  doubting  is  entirely  unknown  in  their  profession  as  well  at  three  years  old  as  at 
medicine ;  the  advertising  professors  here  delight  threescore.  Others  have  spent  a  great  part  of 
in  cases  of  difficulty :  be  the  disorder  never  so  their  lives  unconscious  of  any  latent  excellence, 
desperate  or  radical,  you  will  find  numbers  in  till  a  bankruptcy,  or  a  residence  in  gaol,  have 
every  street,  who,  by  leveUing  a  pill  at  the  part  called  their  miraculous  powers  into  exertion.  And 
affected,  promise  a  certain  cure,  without  loss  of  others  still  there  are  indebted  to  their  superlative 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


Ignorance  alone  for  success ;  the  more  ignorant  the 
practitioner,  the  less  capable  is  he  thought  of  de- 
ceiving. The  people  here  judge  as  they  do  in  the 
East ;  where  it  is  thought  absolutely  requisite  that 
a  man  should  be  an  idiot,  before  he  pretend  to  be 
either  a  conjuror  or  a  doctor. 

When  a  physician  by  inspiration  is  sent  for,  he 
never  perplexes  the  patient  by  previous  examina- 
tion ;  he  asks  very  few  questions,  and  those  only 
for  form  sake.  He  knows  every  disorder  by  in- 
tuition ;  he  administers  the  pill  or  drop  for  every 
distemper ;  nor  is  more  inquisitive  than  the  farrier 
while  he  drenches  a  horse.  If  the  patient  lives, 
then  has  he  one  more  to  add  to  the  surviving  list  j 
if  he  dies,  then  it  may  be  justly  said  of  the  patient's 
disorder,  that  as  it  was  not  cured^  the  disorder  was 
incurable. 


LETTER  XXV. 


tVom  the  Same. 


I  WAS  some  days  ago  in  company  with  a  politi- 
cian, who  very  pathetically  declaimed  upon  the 
miserable  situation  of  his  country :  he  assured  me, 
that  the  whole  political  machine  was  moving  in  a 
wrong  track,  and  that  scarcely  even  abilities  like 
his  own  could  ever  set  it  right  again.  "  What  have 
we,"  said  he,  "  to  do  with  the  wars  on  the  conti- 
nent? we  are  a  commercial  nation  ;  we  have  only 
to  cultivate  commerce,  like  our  neighbours  the 
Dutch ;  it  is  our  business  to  increase  trade  by  set- 
tling new  colonies ;  riches  are  the  strength  of  a  na- 
tion ;  and  for  the  rest,  our  ships,  our  ships  alone, 
will  protect  us."  I  found  it  vain  to  oppose  my 
feeble  arguments  to  those  of  a  man  who  thought 
himself  wise  enough  to  direct  even  the  ministry. 
I  fancied,  however,  that  1  saw  with  more  certainty, 
because  I  reasoned  without  prejudice  :  I  therefore 
begged  leave,  instead  of  argument,  to  relate  a  short 
history.  He  gave  me  a  smile  at  once  of  conde- 
scension and  contempt ;  and  I  proceeded  as  follows, 
to  describe  The  Rise  and  Declension  of  the 
Kingdom  op  Lao. 

Northward  of  China,  and  in  one  of  the  doublings 
of  the  great  wall,  the  fruitful  province  of  Lao  en- 
joyed its  liberty,  and  a  peculiar  government  of  its 
own.  As  the  inhabitants  were  on  all  sides  sur- 
rounded by  the  wall,  they  feared  no  sudden  inva- 
sion from  the  Tartars ;  and  being  each  possessed 
of  property,  they  were  zealous  in  its  defence. 

The  natural  consequence  of  security  and  af- 
fluence in  any  country  is  a  love  of  pleasure  ;  when 
the  wants  of  nature  are  supplied,  we  seek  after  the 
conveniences;  when  possessed  of  these,  we  desire 
the  luxuries  of  life;  and  when  every  luxury  is  pro- 
vided, it  is  then  ambition  takes  up  the  man,  and 
ieaves  him  still  something  to  wish  for  j  the  inhabi- 


tants of  the  country,  from  primitive  simplicity,  gooft 
began  to  aim  at  elegance,  and  from  elegance  pro^ 
ceeded  to  refinement.  It  was  now  found  abso- 
lutely requisite,  for  the  good  of  the  state,  that  the 
people  should  be  divided.  Formerly,  the  same  hand 
that  was  employed  in  tilling  the  grotfnd,  or  in  dress- 
ing up  the  manufactures,  was  also,  in  time  of  need, 
a  soldier ;  but  the  custom  was  now  changed ;  for  it 
was  perceived,  that  a  man  bred  up  from  childhood 
to  the  arts  of  either  peac'e  or  war,  became  more 
eminent  by  this  means  in  his  respective  profession. 
The  inhabitants  were,  therefore,  now  distinguished 
into  artisans  and  soldiers ;  and  while  those  im- 
proved the  luxuries  of  life  these  watched  for  th0 
security  of  the  people. 

A  country  possessed  of  freedom  has  alvl^ays  two 
sorts  of  enemies  to  fear;  foreign  foes,  who  attack  it^ 
existence  from  without,  and  internal  miscreants, 
who  betray  its  liberties  within.  The  inhabitants 
of  Lao  were  to  guard  against  both.  A  country  of 
artisans  were  mest  likely  to  preserve  internal  liber- 
ty; and  a  nation  of  soldiers  were  fittest  to  repel  a 
foreign  invasion.  Hence  naturally  rose  a  division 
of  opinion  between  the  artisans  and  soldiers  of  the 
kingdom.  The  artisans,  ever  complaining  that 
freedom  was  threatened  by  an  armed  internal  force, 
were  for  disbanding  the  soldiers,  and  insisted  that 
their  wallS;  their  walls  alone,  were  sufficient  to  re- 
pel the  most  formidable  invasion  :  the  warriors,  on 
the  contrary,  represented  the  power  of  the  neigh- 
bouring kings,  the  combinations  formed  against 
their  state,  and  the  weakness  of  the  wall,  whicYi 
every  earthquake  might  overturn.  While  this  al- 
tercation continued,  the  kingdom  might  be  justly 
said  to  enjoy  its  greatest  share  of  vigour ;  every  or- 
der in  the  state,  by  being  watchful  over  each  other, 
contributed  to  diifuse  happiness  equally,  and  ba- 
lanced the  state.  The  arts  of  peace  flourished,  nor 
were  those  of  war  neglected  :  the  neighbouring 
powerSj  who  had  nothing  to  apprehend  from  tho 
ambition  of  men  whom  they  only  saw  solicitous, 
not  for  riches  but  freedom,  were  contented  to  traffic 
with  them :  they  sent  their  goods  to  be  manufac- 
tured in  Lao,  and  paid  a  large  price  for  them  upon 
their  return. 

By  these  means,  this  people  at  length  became 
moderately  rich,  and  their  opulence  naturally  in- 
vited the  invader :  a  Tartar  prince  led  an  immense 
army  against  them,  and  they  as  bravely  stood  up 
in  their  own  defence ;  they  were  still  inspired  with 
a  love  of  their  country ;  they  fought  the  barbarous 
enemy  with  fortitude,  and  gained  a  complete  vie* 
tory. 

From  this  moment,  which  they  regarded  as  ther 
completion  of  their  glory,  historians  date  their  down^ 
fal.  They  had  risen  in  strength  by  a  love  of  their 
country,  and  fell  by  indulging  ambition.  The" 
country,  possessed  by  the  invading  Tartars,  seemed 
to  them  a  prize  that  would  not  only  render  ihexp^ 


276 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


more  foimidable  for  the  future,  but  vhich  would 
increase  their  opulence  for  the  present;  it  was 
unanimously  resolved,  therefore,  both  by  soldiers 
and  artisans,  that  those  desolate  regions  should  be 
peopled  by  colonies  from  Lao.  "When  a  trading 
nation  begins  to  act  the  conqueror,  it  is  then  per- 
fectly undone :  it  subsists  in  some  measure  by  the 
support  of  its  neighbours :  while  they  continue  to 
regard  it  without  envy  or  apprehension,  trade  may 
flourish  ;  but  when  once  it  presumes  to  assert  as  its 
right  what  is  only  enjoyed  as  a  favour,  each  coun- 
t'-v  reclaims  that  part  of  commerce  which  it  has 
;<ower  to  take  back,  and  turns  it  into  some  other 
channel  more  honourable,  though  perhaps  less  con- 
venient. 

Every  neighbour  now  began  to  regard  with  jeal- 
ous eyes  this  ambitious  commonwealth,  and  forbade 
their  subjects  any  future  intercourse  with  them.' 
The  inhabitants  of  Lao,  however,  still  pursued  the 
same  ambitious  maxims :  it  was  from  their  colonies 
alone  they  expected  riches ;  and  riches,  said  they, 
are  strength,  and  strength  is  security.  Numberless 
were  the  migrations  of  the  desperate  and  enter- 
prising of  this  country,  to  people  the  desolate  do- 
minions lately  possessed  by  the  Tartar.  Between 
these  colonies  and  the  mother  country,  a  very  ad- 
vantageous traffic  was  at  first  carried  on :  the  re- 
public sent  their  colonies  large  quantities  of  the 
manufactures  of  the  country,  and  they  in  return 
provided  the  republic  with  an  equivalent  in  ivory 
and  ginseng.  By  this  means  the  inhabitants  be- 
came immensely  rich,  and  this  produced  an  equal 
degree  of  voluptuousness ;  for  men  who  have  much 
money  will  always  find  some  fantastical  modes  of 
enjoyment.  How  shall  I  mark  the  steps  by  which 
they  declined  7  Every  colony  in  process  of  time 
spreads  over  the  whole  country  where  it  first  was 
planted.  As  it  grows  more  populous,  it  becomes 
more  polite ;  and  those  manufactures  for  which  it 
was  in  the  beginning  obliged  to  others,  it  learns  to 
dress  up  itself:  such  was  the  case  with  the  colonies 
of  Lao;  they,  in  less  than  a  century,  became  a 
powerful  and  a  polite  people,  and  the  more  polite 
they  grew  the  less  advantageous  was  the  commerce 
which  still  subsisted  between  them  and  others.  By 
this  means  the  mother  country  being  abridged  in 
its  commerce,  grew  poorer  but  not  less  luxurious. 
Their  former  wealth  had  introduced  luxury ;  and 
wherever  luxury  once  fixes,  no  art  can  either  lessen 
or  remove  it.  Their  commerce  with  their  neigh- 
bours was  totally  destroyed,  and  that  with  their 
colonies  was  every  day  naturally  and  necessarily 
declining ;  they  still,  however,  preserved  the  inso- 
lence of  wealth,  without  a  power  to  support  it,  and 
persevered  in  being  luxurious,  while  contemptible 
from  poverty.  In  short,  the  state  resembled  one 
of  those  bodies  bloated  with  disease,  whose  bulk  is 
only  a  symptom  of  its  wretchedness. 

Their  former  opulence  only  rendered  them  more 


impotent,  as  those  individuals  who  are  reduced  from 
riches  to  poverty  are  of  all  men  the  most  unfor- 
tunate and  helpless.  They  had  imagined,  because 
their  colonies  tended  to  make  them  rich  upon  the 
first  acquisition,  they  would  still  continue  to  do  so; 
they  now  found,  however,  that  on  themselves  alone 
they  should  have  depended  for  support ;  that  colo- 
nies ever  afforded  but  temporary  affluence ;  and 
when  cultivated  and  polite,  are  no  longer  useful. 
From  such  a  concurrence  of  circumstances  they 
soon  became  contemptible.  The  Emperor  Honti 
invaded  them  with  a  powerful  army.  Historians 
do  not  say  whether  their  colonies  were  too  remote 
to  lend  assistance,  or  else  were  desirous  of  shaking 
off  their  dependence ;  but  certain  it  is,  they  scarcely 
made  any  resistance :  their  walls  were  now  found 
but  a  weak  defence,  and  they  at  length  were 
obliged  to  acknowledge  subjection  to  the  empire  of 
China. 

Happy,  very  happy  might  they  have  been,  had 
they  known  when  to  bound  their  riches  and  their 
glory :  had  they  known  that  extending  empire  is 
often  diminishing  power ;  that  countries  are  ever 
strongest  which  are  internally  powerful :  that  colo- 
nies, by  draining  away  the  brave  and  enterprising, 
leave  the  country  in  the  hands  of  the  timid  and 
avaricious ;  that  walls  give  little  protection,  unless 
manned  with  resolution ;  that  too  much  commerce 
may  injure  a  nation  as  well  as  too  little ;  and  that 
there  is,  a  wide  difference  between  a  conquering 
and  a  flourishing  empire.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XX  VL 


To  the  Same. 


Though  fond  of  many  acquaintances,  I  desire 
an  intimacy  only  with  a  few.  The  man  in  black 
whom  I  have  often  mentioned,  is  one  whose  friend- 
ship I  could  wish  to  acquire,  because  he  possesses 
my  esteem.  His  manners,  it  is  true,  are  tinctured 
with  some  strange  inconsistencies ;  and  he  may  be 
justlytermed  a  humorist  in  a  nation  of  humorists. 
Though  he  is  generous  even  to  profusion,  he  af- 
fects to  be  thought  a  prodigy  of  parsimony  and 
prudence ;  though  his  conversation  be  replete  with 
the  most  sordid  and  selfish  maxims,  his  heart  is  di- 
lated with  the  most  unbounded  love.  I  have  known 
him  profess  himself  a  man-hater,  while  his  cheek 
was  glowing  with  compassion ;  and,  while  his  looks 
were  softened  into  pity,  I  have  heard  him  use  the 
language  of  the  most  unbounded  ill-nature.  Some 
affect  humanity  and  tenderness,  others  boast  of  hav- 
ing such  dispositions  from  nature;  but  he  is  the 
only  man  I  ever  knew  who  seemed  ashamed  of  his 
natural  benevolence.  He  takes  as  much  pains  to 
hide  his  feelings,  as  any  hypocrite  would  to  conceal 
his  indifference ;  but  on  every  unguarded  moment 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


877 


the  mask  drops  off,  and  reveals  him  to  the  most  su- 
[)erficial  observer. 

In  one  of  our  late  excursions  into  the  country, 
happening  to  discourse  upon  the  provision  that  was 
made  for  the  poor  in  England,  he  seemed  amazed 
how  any  of  his  countrymen  could  be  so  foolishly 
weak  as  to  relieve  occasional  objects  of  charity, 
when  the  laws  had  made  such  ample  provision  for 
their  support.  In  every  parish-house,  says  he,  the 
poor  are  supplied  with  food,  clothes,  fire,  and  a  bed 
to  lie  on ;  they  want  no  more,  I  desire  no  more 
myself;  yet  still  they  seem  discontented.  I  am 
surprised  at  the  inactivity  of  our  magistrates,  in  not 
taking  up  such  vagrants,  who  are  only  a  weight 
upon  the  industrious  :  1  am  surprised  that  the  peo- 
ple are  found  to  relieve  them,  when  they  must  be 
at  the  same  time  sensible  that  it,  in  some  measure, 
encourages  idleness,  extravagance,  and  imposture, 
"Were  I  to  advise  any  man  for  whom  I  had  the  least 
regard,  I  would  caution  him  by  all  means  not  to  be 
imposed  upon  by  their  false  pretences  :  let  me  as- 
sure you,  sir,  they  are  impostors,  every  one  of  them, 
and  rather  merit  a  prison  than  relief. 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  strain  earnestly,  to 
dissuade  me  from  an  imprudence  of  which  I  am 
seldom  guilty,  when  an  old  man,  who  still  had 
about  him  the  remnants  of  tattered  finery,  implored 
our  compassion.  He  assured  us  that  he  was  no 
common  l)eggar,  but  forced  into  the  shameful  pro- 
fession, to  support  a  dying  wife,  and  five  hungry 
children.  Being  prepossessed  against  such  false- 
hoods; his  story  had  not  the  least  influence  upon 
me ;  but  it  was  quite  otherwise  with  the  man  in 
black :  I  could  see  it  visibly  operate  upon  his  coun- 
tenance, and  eflectually  interrupt  his  harrangue. 
I  could  easily  perceive  that  his  heart  burned  to  re- 
lieve the  five'  starving  children,  but  he  seemed 
ashamed  to  discover  his  weakness  to  me.  While 
he  thus  hesitated  between  compassion  and  pride,  I 
pretended  to  look  another  way,  and  he  seized  this 
opportunity  of  giving  the  poor  petitioner  a  piece  of 
silver,  bidding  him  at  the  same  time,  in  order  that 
I  should  not  hear,  go  work  for  his  bread,  and  not 
tease  passengers  with  such  impertinent  falsehoods 
for  the  future. 

As  he  had  fancied  himself  quite  unperceived,  he 
continued,  as  we  proceeded,  to  rail  against  beggars 
with  as  much  animosity  as  before;  he  threw  in  some 
episodes  on  his  own  amazing  prudence  and  econo- 
my, with  his  profound  skill  in  discovering  impos- 
tors ;  he  explained  the  manner  in  which  he  would 
deal  with  beggars  were  he  a  magistrate,  hinted  at 
enlarging  some  of  the  prisons  for  their  reception, 
and  told  two  stories  of  ladies  that  were  robbed  by 
beggar-men.  He  was  beginning  a  third  to  the  same 
purpose,  when  a  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg  once 
more  crossed  our  walks,  desiring  our  pity,  and 
blessing  our  limbs.  I  was  for  going  on  without 
taking  any  notice,  but  my  friend  looking  wistfully 


upon  the  poor  petitioner,  bid  me  stop,  and  he  would 
show  me  with  how  much  ease  he  could  at  any  time 
detect  an  impostor. 

He  now  therefore  assumed  a  look  of  importance, 
and  in  an  angry  tone  began  to  examine  the  sailor, 
demanding  in  what  engagement  he  was  thus  disa- 
bled and  rendered  unfit  for  service.  The  sailor 
replied  in  a  tone  as  angrily  as  he,  that  he  had  been 
an  officer  on  board  a  private  ship  of  war,  and  that 
he  had  lost  his  leg  abroad,  in  defence  of  those  who 
did  nothing  at  home.  At  this  reply,  all  my  friend's 
importance  vanished  in  a  moment;  he  had  not  a 
single  question  more  to  ask;  he  now  only  studied 
what  method  he  should  take  to  relieve  him  unob- 
served. He  had,  however,  no  easy  part  to  act,  as 
he  was  obliged  to  preserve  the  appearance  of  ill- 
nature  before  me,  and  yet  relieve  himself  by  re- 
lieving the  sailor.  Casting,  therefore,  a  furious 
look  upon  some  bundles  of  chips  which  the  fellow 
carried  in  a  string  at  his  back,  my  friend  demanded 
how  he  sold  his  matches ;  but,  not  waiting  for  a 
reply,  desired  in  a  surly  tone  to  have  a  shilling's 
worth.  The  sailor  seemed  at  first  surprised  at  his 
demand,  but  soon  recollected  himself,  and  present- 
ing his  whole  bundle,  "  Here,  master,"  says  he, 
"take  all  my  cargo,  and  a  blessing  into  the  bar 
gain." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  with  what  an  air  of 
triumph  my  friend  marched  off  with  his  new  pur- 
chase :  he  assured  me,  that  he  was  firmly  of  opi- 
nion that  those  fellows  must  have  stolen  their  goods, 
who  could  thus  afford  to  sell  them  for  half  value. 
He  informed  me  of  several  different  uses  to  which 
those  chips  might  be  applied  ;  he  expatiated  largely 
upon  the  savings  that  would  result  from  lighting 
candles  with  a  match,  instead  of  thrusting  them 
into  the  fire.  He  averred,  that  he  would  as  soon 
have  parted  with  a  tooth  as  his  money  to  those 
vagabonds,  unless  for  some  valuable  consideration. 
I  can  not  tell  how  long  this  panegyric  upon  frugality 
and  matches  might  have  continued,  had  not  his  at- 
tention been  called  off  by  another  object  more  dis- 
tressful than  either  of  the  former.  A  woman  in 
rags,  with  one  child  in  her  arms  and  another  on 
her  back,  was  attempting  to  sing  ballads,  but  with 
such  a  mournful  voice,  -that  it  was  difficult  to  de- 
termine whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  A 
wretch,  who  in  the  deepest  distress  still  aimed  at 
good- humour,  was  an  object  my  friend  was  by  no 
means  capable  of  withstanding :  his  vivacity  and 
his  discourse  were  instantly  interrupted  ;  upon  this 
occasion,  his  very  dissimulation  had  forsaken  him. 
Even  in  my  presence  he  immediately  applied  his 
hands  to  his  pockets,  in  order  to  relieve  her;  but 
guess  his  confusion  when  he  found  he  had  already 
given  away  all  the  money  he  carried  about  him  to 
former  objects.  The  misery  painted  in  the  woman's 
visage,  was  not  half  so  strongly  expressed  as  the 
agony  in  his.    He  continued  to  search  for  some 


278 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


time,  but  to  no  purpose,  till,  at  length  recollecting 
himself,  with  a  face  of  ineflable  good-nature,  as  he 
had  no  money,  he  put  into  her  hands  his  shilling's 
worth  of  matches. 


LETTER  XXVIL 


To  the  Same. 


As  there  appeared  to  be  something  reluctantly 
good  in  the  character  of  my  companion,  I  must 
own  it  surprised  me  what  could  be  his  motives  for 
thus  concealing  virtues  which  others  take  such  pains 
to  display.  I  was  unable  to  repress  my  desire  of 
knowing  the  history  of  a  man  who  thus  seemed  to 
act  under  continual  restraint,  and  whose  benevo- 
lence was  rather  the  effect  of  appetite  than  reason. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  after  repeated  solicita- 
tions he  thought  proper  to  gratify  my  curiosity. 
"If  you  are  fond,"  says  he,  "of  hearing  hair- 
breath  escapes,  my  history  must  certainly  please ; 
for  I  have  been  for  twenty  years  upon  the  very 
verge  of  starving,  without  ever  being  starved. 

*'  My  faiher,  the  younger  son  of  a  good  family, 
vWas  possessed  of  a  small  living  in  the  church. 
JEis  education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his  ge- 
nerosity greater  than  his  education.  Poor  as  he 
wa$,  he  had  his  flatterers  still  poorer  than  himself; 
for  every  dinner  he  gave  them,  they  returned  an 
equivalent  in  praise,  and  this  was  all  he  wanted. 
The  same  ambition  that  actuates  a  monarch  at  the 
heaa  of  an  army,  influenced  my  father  at  the  head 
of  his  tables  he  told  the  story  of  the  ivy -tree,  and 
that  was  laughed  at;  he  repeated  the  jest  of  the 
two  scholars  and  one  pair  of  breeches,  and  the 
company  laughed  at  that ;  but  the  story  of  TaiFy 
In  the  sedan-chair  was  sure  to  set  the  table  in  a 
roar :  thus  his  pleasure  increased  in  proportion  to 
the  pleasure  he  gave ;  he  loved  all  the  world,  and 
he  fancied  all  the  world  loved  him. 

"As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to 
the  very  extent  of  it ;  he  had  no  intentions  of  leav- 
ing his  children  money,  for  that  was  dross ;  he  was 
resolved  they  should  have  learning;  for  learning, 
he  used  to  observe,  was  better  than  silver  or  gold. 
For  this  purpose,  he  undertook  to  instruct  us  him- 
fielf;  and  took  as  much  pains  to  form  our  morals  as 
•to  improve  our  understanding.  We  were  told,  that 
universal  benevolence  was  what  first  cemented  so- 
ciety ;  we  were  taught  to  consider  all  the  wants  of 
piankind  as  our  own;  to  regard  the  "human  face 
divine"  with  affection  and  esteem;  he  wound  us 
up  to  be  mere  machines  of  pity,  and  rendered  us 
incapable  of  withstanding  the  slightest  impulse 
made  either  by  real  or  fictitious  distress  ;  in  a  word, 
we  were  perfectly  instructed  in  the  art  of  giving 
away  thousands,  before  we  were  taught  the  more 
necessary  qualifications  of  getting  a  farthing. 


"  I  can  not  avoid  imagining,  that  thus  refined  by 
his  lessons  out  of  all  my  suspicion,  and  divested  of 
even  all  the  little  cunning  which  nature  had  given 
me,  I  resembled,  upon  my  first  entrance  into  the 
busy  and  insidious  world,  one  of  those  gladiators 
who  were  exposed  without  armour  in  the  amphi- 
theatre at  Rome.  My  father,  however,  who  had 
only  seen  the  world  on  one  side,  seemed  to  triumph 
in  my  superior  discernment;  though  my  whole 
stock  of  wisdom  consisted  in  being  able  to  talk  like 
himself  upon  subjects  that  once  were  useful,  be- 
cause they  were  then  topics  of  the  busy  world,  but 
that  now  were  utterly  useless,  because  connected 
with 'the  busy  world  no  longer. 

"The  first  opportunity  he  had  of  finding  his  ex- 
pectations disappointed,  was  in  the  very  middling 
figure  I  made  in  the  university;  he  had  flattered 
himself  that  he  should  soon  see  me  rising  into  the 
foremost  rank  in  literary  reputation,  but  was  mor- 
tified to  find  me  utterly  unnoticed  and  unknown. 
His  disappointment  might  have  been  partly  ascrib- 
ed to  his  having  overrated  my  talents,  and  partly 
to  my  dislike  of  mathematical  reasonings,  at  a  time 
when  my  imagination  and  memory,  yet  unsatisfied, 
were  more  eager  after  new  objects,  than  desirous 
of  reasoning  upon  those  I  knew.  This  did  not, 
however,  please  my  tutor,  who  observed,  indeed, 
that  I  was  a  little  dull ;  but  at  the  same  time  allow- 
ed, that  1  seemed  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  had 
no  harm  in  m.e. 

"After  I  had  resided  at  college  seven  years,  my 
father  died,  and  left  me — his  blessing.  Thus  shoved 
from  shore  without  ill-nature  to  protect,  or  cunning 
to  guide,  or  proper  stores  to  subsist  me  in  so  dan- 
gerous a  voyage,  I  was  obliged  to  embark  in  the 
wide  world  at  twenty-t\^.  But,  in  order  to  settle 
in  life,  ray  friends  advised  (for  they  always  advise 
when  they  begin  to  despise  us),  they  advised  me, 
I  say,  to  go  into  orders. 

"  To  be  obliged  to  wear  a  long  wig,  when  I  liked 
a  short  one,  or  a  black  coat,  when  I  generally 
dressed  in  brown,  I  thought  was  such  a  restraint 
upon  my  liberty,  that  I  absolutely  rejected  the  pro* 
posal.  A  priest  in  England  is  not  the  same  mor- 
tified creature  with  a  bonze  in  China :  with  us,  not 
he  that  fasts  best,  but  eats  best,  is  reckoned  the 
best  liver,*  yet  I  rejected  a  life  of  luxury,  indolence, 
and  ease,  from  no  other  consideration  but  that 
boyish  one  of  dress.  So  that  my  friends  were  now 
perfectly  satisfied  I  was  undone;  and  yet  they 
thought  it  a  pity  for  one  who  had  not  the  least 
harm  in  him,  and  was  so  very  good-natured. 

"Poverty  naturally  begets  dependence,  and  I 
was  admitted  as  flatterer  to  a  great  man.  At  first 
I  was  surprised,  that  the  situation  of  a  flatterer  at 
a  great  man's  table  could  be  thought  disagreeable; 
there  was  no  great  trouble  in  listening  attentively 
when  his  lordship  spoke,  and  laughing  when  ho 
looked  round  for  applause.    This  even  good  man- 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


279 


ners  might  have  obliged  me  to  perform.  I  found 
however,  too  soon,  that  his  lordship  was  a  greater 
dunce  than  myself;  and  from  that  very  moment 
flattery  was  at  an  end,  I  now  rather  aimed  at  set- 
ting him  right,  than  at  receiving  his  absurdities 
with  submission :  to  flatter  those  we  do  not  know, 
is  an  easy  task ;  but  to  flatter  our  intimate  acquaint- 
ances, all  whose  foibles  are  strongly  in  our  eye,  is 
drudgery  insupportable.  Every  time  I  now  open- 
ed my  lips  in  praise,  my  falsehood  went  to  my  con- 
science :  his  lordship  soon  perceived  me  to  be  very 
unfit  for  service ;  I  was  therefore  discharged  ;  my 
patron  at  the  same  time  being  graciously  pleased 
to  observe,  that  he  believed  I  was  tolerably  good- 
natured,  and  had  not  the  least  harm  in  me. 

"  Disappointed  in  ambition,  I  had  recourse  to 
love.  A  young  lady,  who  lived  with  her  aunt,  and 
was  possessed  of  a  pretty  fortune  in  her  own  dis- 
posal, had  given  me,  as  I  fancied,  some  reason  to 
expect  success.  The  symptoms  by  which  I  was 
guided  were  striking.  She  had  always  laugh- 
ed with  me  at  her  awkward  acquaintance,  and  at 
her  aunt  among  the  number;  she  always  observed 
that  a  man  of  sense  would  make  a  better  husband 
than  a  fool,  and  I  as  constantly  applied  the  obser- 
vation in  my  own  favour.  She  continually  talked, 
in  my  company,  of  friendship  and  the  beauties  of 
the  mind,  and  spoke  of  Mr.  Shrimp  my  rival's 
nigh-heeled  shoes  with  detestation.  These  were 
circumstances  which  I  thought  strongly  in  my  fa- 
vour; so,  after  resolving,  and  re-resolving,  I  had 
courage  enough  to  tell  her  my  mind.  Miss  heard 
my  proposal  with  serenity,  seeming  at  the  same 
time  to  study  the  figures  of  her  fan.  Out  at  last 
it  came.  There  was  but  one  small  objection  to 
complete  our  happiness,  which  was  no  more  than 

that  she  was  married  three  months  before  to 

Mr.  Shrimp,  with  high-heeled  shoes !  By  way  of 
«onsjolation,  however,  she  observed,  that  though  I 
was  disappointed  in  her,  my  addresses  to  her  aunt 
would  probably  kindle  her  into  sensibility :  as  the 
old  lady  always  allowed  me  to  be  very  good-natured 
and  not  to  have  the  least  share  of  harm  in  me. 

"Yet  still  I  had  friends,  numerous  friends,  and 
to  them  I  was  resolved  to  apply.  O  Friendship ! 
thou  fond  soother  of  the  human  breast,  to  thee  we 
fly  in  every  calamity ;  to  thee  the  wretched  seek  for 
succour ;  on  thee  the  care-tired  son  of  misery  fond- 
ly relies;  from  thy  kind  assistance  the  unfortunate 
always  hopes  relief,  and  may  be  ever  sure  of — dis- 
appointment !  My  first  application  was  to  a  city- 
scrivener,  who  had  frequently  offered  to  lend  me 
money,  when  he  knew  I  did  not  want  it.  I  in- 
formed him,  that  now,  was  the  time  to  put  his 
friendship  to  the  test ;  that  I  wanted  to  borrow  a 
couple  of  hundreds  for  a  certain  occasion,  and  was 
resolved  to  take  it  up  from  him.  And  pray,  sir, 
cried  my  friend,  do  ypu  want  all  this  money !  In- 
deed I  never  wanted  it  more,  returned  I.    I  am 


sorry  for  that,  cries  the  scrivener,  with  all  my 
heart ;  for  they  who  want  money  when  they  come 
to  borrow,  will  always  want  money  when  they 
should  come  to  pay, 

"From  him  I  flew  with  indignation  to  one  of  the 
best  friends  I  had  in  the  world,  and  made  the  same 
request.  Indeed,  Mr.  Dry-bone,  cries  my  friend, 
I  always  thought  it  would  come  to  this.  You  know, 
sir,  I  would  not  advise  you  but  for  your  own  good  ; 
but  your  conduct  has  hitherto  been  ridiculous  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  some  of  your  acquaintance 
always  thought  you  a  very  silly  fellow.  Let  me 
see,  you  want  two  hundred  pounds.  Do  you  only 
want  two  hundred,  sir,  exactly  7  To  confess  a 
truth,  returned  I,  I  shall  want  three  hundred ;  but 
then  I  have  another  friend,  from  whom  I  can  bor- 
row the  rest.  Why  then,  replied  my  friend,  if  you 
would  take  my  advice  (and  you  know  I  should  not 
presume  to  advise  you  but  for  your  own  good),  1 
would  recommend  it  to  you  to  borrow  the  whole 
sum  from  that  other  friend;  and  thenuiie  note  will 
serve  for  all,  you  know. 

"Poverty  now  began  to  come  fast  upon  me ;  yet 
instead  of  growing  more  provident  or  cautious,  as 
1  grew  poor,  1  became  every  day  more  indolent  and 
simple.  A  friend  was  arrested  for  fifty  pounds  ;  I 
was  unable  to  extricate  him,  except  by  becoming 
his  bail.  When  at  liberty,  he  fled  from  his  credi- 
tors, and  left  me  to  take  his  place.  In  prison  I  ex- 
pected greater  satisfactions  than  I  had  enjoyed  at 
large.  I  hoped  to  converse  with  men  in  this  new 
world,  simple  and  believing  like  myself,  but  I  found 
them  as  cunning  and  as  cautious  as  those  in  the 
world  I  had  left  behind.  They  sponged  up  my 
money  whilst  it  lasted,  borrowed  my  coals,  and 
never  paid  for  them,  and  cheated  me  when  I  play- 
ed at  cribbage.  All  this  was  done  because  they 
believed  me  to  be  very  good-natured,  and  knew  that 
1  had  no  harm  in  me. 

'Upon  my  first  entrance  into  this  mansion, 
which  is  to  some  the  abode  of  despair,  I  felt  no 
sensations  diflferent  from  those  I  experienced  abroad. 
I  was  now  on  one  side  the  door,  and  those  who 
were  unconfined  were  on  the  other :  this  was  all 
the  diflTerence  between  us.  At  first,  indeed,  I  felt 
some  uneasiness,  in  considering  how  I  should  be 
able  to  provide  this  week  for  the  wants  of  the  week 
ensuing ;  but,  after  some  time,  if  I  found  myself 
sure  of  eating  one  day,  I  never  troubled  my  head 
how  I  was  to  be  supplied  another.  I  seized  every 
precarious  meal  with  the  utmost  good-humour; 
indulged  no  rants  of  spleen  at  my  situation ;  never 
called  down  Heaven  and  all  the  stars  to  behold  me 
dining  upon  a  halfpenny-worth  of  radishes ;  my 
very  companions  were  taught  to  believe  that  I  liked 
salad  better  than  mutton.  I  contented  myself  with 
thinking,  that  all  my  Ufe  I  should  either  eat  white 
bread  or  brown ;  considered  all  that  happened  vya» 
best ;  laughed  when  I  was  not  iij  pain,  took  th« 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  world  as  it  went,  and  read  Tacitus  often,  for 
want  of  more  books  and  company. 

"  How  long  I  might  have  continued  in  this  tor- 
pid state  of  simplicity,  I  cai}  not  tell,  had  I  not  been 
roused  by  seeing  an  old  acquaintance,  whom  1 
knew  to  be  a  prudent  blockhead,  preferred  to  a 
place  in  the  government.  I  now  found  that  1  had 
pursued  a  wrong  track,  and  that  the  true  way  of 
being  able  to  reheve  others,  was  first  to  aim  at  in- 
dependence myself:  my  immediate  care,  therefore, 
was  to  leave  my  present  habitation,  and  make  an 
entire  reformation  in  my  conduct  and  behaviour. 
For  a  free,  open,  undesigning  deportment,  I  put 
on  that  of  closeness,  prudence,  and  economy.  One 
of  the  most  heroic  actions  I  ever  performed,  and 
for  which  1  shall  praise  myself  as  long  as  I  live, 
was  the  refusing  half-a-crown  to  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, at  the  time  when  he  wanted  it,  and  I  had  it 
to  spare :  for  this  alone  I  deserve  to  be  decreed  an 
ovation. 

*'  I  now  therefore  pursued  a  course  of  uninter- 
rupted frugality,  seldom  wanted  a  dinner,  arid  was 
consequently  invited  to  twenty.  I  soon  began  to 
get  the  character  of  a  saving  hunks  that  had  money, 
and  insensibly  grew  into  esteem.  Neighbours 
have  asked  my  advice  in  the  disposal  of  their 
daughters ;  and  I  have  always  taken  care  not  to 
give  any.  I  have  contracted  a  friendship  with  an 
alderman,  only  by  observing,  that  if  we  take  a  far- 
thing from  a  thousand  pounds,  it  will  be#  thou- 
sand pounds  no  longer.  I  have  been  invited  to  a 
pawnbroker's  table,  by  pretending  to  hate  gravy ; 
and  am  now  actually  upon  treaty  of  marriage  with 
^  rich  widow,  for  only  having  observed  that  the 
bread  was  rising.  If  ever  I  am  asked  a  question, 
whether  1  know  it  or  not,  instead  of  answering,  I 
pnly  smile  and  look  wise.  If  a  charity  is  proposed, 
I  go  about  with  the  hat,  but  put  nothing  in  myself. 
If  a  wretch  solicits  my  pity,  I  observe  that  the 
world  is  filled  with  impostors,  and  take  a  certain 
method  of  not  being  deceived,  by  never  relieving. 
In  short,  I  now  find  the  truest  way  of  finding  es- 
teem, even  from  the  indigent,  is  to  give  away  no- 
thing, and  thus  have  much  in  our  power  to  give." 


LETTER  Xyill. 

To  the  Santije. 

IRATELY,  m  company  with  my  friend  in  black, 
ffhose  conversation  is  now  both  my  amusement 
;and  instruction,  I  could  not  avoid  observing  the 
great  numbers  of  old  bachelors  and  maiden  ladies 
with  which  this  city  seems  to  be  overrun.  Sure, 
marriage,  said  I,  is  not  sufficiently  encouraged,  or 
we  should  never  behold  such  crowds  of  battered 
beaux,  and  decayed  coquettes,  still  attempting  to 


drive  a  trade  they  have  been  so  long  unfit  for,  and 
swarming  upon  the  gaiety  of  the  age.  I  behold  an 
old  bachelor  in  the  most  contemptible  light,  as  an 
animal  that  lives  upon  the  common  stock  without 
contributing  his  share :  he  is  a  beast  of  prey,  and 
the  laws  should  make  use  of  as  many  stratagems, 
and  as  much  force,  to  drive  the  reluctant  savage 
into  the  toils,  as  the  Indians  when  they  hunt  the 
rhinoceros.  The  mob  should  be  permitted  to 
halloo  after  him,  boys  might  play  tricks  on  him 
with  impunity,  every  well-bred  company  should 
laugh  at  him ;  and  if,  when  turned  of  sixty,  he  of- 
fered to  make  love,  his  mistress  might  spit  in  his 
face,  or,  what  would  be  perhaps  a  greater  punish- 
ment, should  fairly  grant  the  favour. 

As  for  old  maids,  continued  I,  they  should  not 
be  treated  with  so  much  severity,  because  I  sup- 
pose none  would  be  so  if  they  could.  No  lady  in 
her  senses  would  choose  to  make  a  subordinate 
figure  at  christenings  or  lyings-in,  when  she  might 
be  the  principal  herself ;  nor  curry  favour  with  a 
sister-in-law,  when  she  might  command  a  husband; 
nor  toil  in  preparing  custards,  when  she  might  lie 
a-bed,  and  give  directions  how  they  ought  to  be 
made;  nor  stifle  all  her  sensations  in  demure  for- 
mality, when  she  might,  with  matrimonial  free- 
dom, shake  her  acquaintance  by  the  hand,  and 
wink  at  a  double  entendre.  No  lady  could  be  so 
very  silly  as  to  live  single,  if  she  could  help  it.  I 
consider  an  unmarried  lady,  declining  into  the  vale 
of  years,  as  one  of  those  charming  countries  bor- 
dering on  China,  that  lies  waste  for  want  of  proper 
inhabitants.  We  are  not  to  accuse  the  country, 
but  the  ignorance  of  its  neighbours,  who  are  insen- 
sible of  its  beauties,  though  at  liberty  to  enter  and 
cultivate  the  soil. 

"Indeed,  sir,"  replied  my  companion,  "you  are 
very  little  acquainted  with  the  English  ladies,  to 
think  they  are  old  maids  against  their  will.  I  dare 
venture  to  affirm,  that  you  can  hardly  select  one 
of  them  all,  but  has  had  frequent  oflfers  of  mar- 
riage, which  either  pride  or  avarice  has  not  made 
her  reject.  Instead  of  thinking  it  a  disgrace,  they 
take  every  occasion  to  boast  of  their  former  cruel- 
ty :  a  soldier  does  not  exult  more  when  he  counts 
over  the  wounds  he  has  received,  than  a  femak 
veteran  when  she  relates  the  wounds  she  has  for- 
merly given:  exhaustless  when  she  begins  a  nar- 
rative of  the  former  death-dealing  power  of  her 
eyes.  She  tells  of  the  knight  in  gold  lace,  who  died 
with  a  single  frown,  and  never  rose  again  till — he 
was  married  to  his  maid;  of  the  'squire,  who,  being 
cruelly  denied,  in  a  rage  flew  to  the  window,  and 
lifting  up  the  sash,  threw*himself  in  an  agony — 
into  his  arm  chair ;  of  the  parson,  who,  crossed  in 
love,  resolutely  swallowed  opium,  which  banished 
the  stings  of  despised  love— by  making  him  sleep. 
In  short,  she  talks  over  her  former  losses  with 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


S81 


jjeasure,  and,  like  some  tradesmen,  finds  consola- 
tion in  the  many  bankruptcies  she  has  suffered. 

"For  this  reason,  whenever  I  see  a  superan- 
nuated beauty  still  unmarried,  I  tacitly  accuse  her 
either  of  pride,  avarice,  coquetry,  or  affectation. 
There's  Miss  Jenny  Tinderbox,  I  once  remember 
her  to  have  had  some  beauty,  and  a  moderate  for- 
tune. Her  elder  sister  happened  to  marry  a  man 
of  quality,  and  this  seemed  as  a  statute  of  virginity 
against  poor  Jane.  Because  there  was  one  lucky 
liit  in  the  family,  she  was  resolved  not  to  disgrace 
it  by  introducing  a  tradesman.  By  thus  rejecting 
her  equals,  and  neglected  or  despised  by  her  su- 
periors, she  now  acts  in  the  capacity  of  tutoress  to 
her  sister's  children,  and  undergoes  the  drudgery 
of  three  servants,  without  receiving  the  wages  of 
one. 

"  Miss  Squeeze  was  a  pawnbroker's  daughter ; 
her  father  had  early  taught  her  that  money  was  a 
very  good  thing,  and  left  her  a  moderate  fortune  at 
his  death.  She  was  so  perfectly  sensible  of  the 
value  of  what  she  had  got,  that  she  was  resolved 
never  to  part  with  a  farthing  without  an  equality 
on  the  part  of  the  suitor :  she  thus  refused  several 
offers  made  her  by  people  who  wanted  to  better 
themselves,  as  the  saying  is ;  and  grew  old  and  ill- 
natured,  without  ever  considering  that  she  should 
have  made  an  abatement  in  her  pretensions,  from 
her  face  being  pale,  and  marked  with  the  small- 
pox. 

"  Lady  Betty  Tempest,  on  the  contrary,  had 
beauty,  with  fortune  and  family.  But  fond  of 
conquests,  she  passed  from  triumph  to  triumph; 
she  had  read  plays  and  romances,  and  there  had 
learned,  that  a  plain  man  of  common  sense  was  no 
better  than  a  fool ;  such  she  refused,  and  sighed 
only  for  the  gay,  giddy,  inconstant,  and  thought- 
less: after  she  had  thus  rejected  hundreds  who 
liked  her,  and  sighed  for  hundreds  who  despised 
her,  she  found  herself  insensibly  deserted  ;  at  pre- 
sent she  is  company  only  for  her  aunts  and  cou- 
sins, and  sometimes  makes  one  in  a  country  dance, 
with  only  onr  of  the  chairs  for  a  partner,  casts  off 
round  a  joinc-tool,  and  sets  to  a  corner  cupboard. 
In  a  word,  she  is  treated  with  civil  contempt  from 
every  quarter,  and  placed,  like  a  piece  of  old- 
fashioned  lumber,  merely  to  fill  up  a  corner. 

"  But  Sophronia,  the  sagacious  Sophronia,  how 
shall  I  mention  her?  She  was  taught  to  love 
Greek,  and  hate  the  men  from  her  very  infancy 
she  has  rejected  fine  gentlemen  because  they  were 
not  pedants,  and  pedants  because  they  were  not 
fine  gentlemen :  her  exquisite  sensibility  has  taught 
her  to  discover  every  fault  in  every  lover,  and  her 
inflexible  justice  has  prevented  her  pardoning 
them;  thus  she  rejected  several  offers,  till  the 
wrinkles  of  age  had  overtaken  her;  and  now,  with- 
out one  good  feature  in  her  face,  she  talks  inces- 
santly of  the  beauties  of  the  mind."    Farewell. 


LETTER  XXDC. 


From  the  Same. 


Were  we  to  estimate  the  learning  of  the  English 
by  the  number  of  books  that  are  every  day  pub- 
lished among  them,  perhaps  no  country,  not  even 
China  itself,  could  equal  them  in  this  particular. 
I  have  reckoned  not  less  than  twenty-three  new 
books  pubUshed  in  one  day;  which,  upon  compu- 
tation, makes  eight  thousand  three  hundred  and 
ninety-five  in  one  year.  Most  of  these  are  not 
confined  to  one  single  science,  but  embrace  the 
whole  circle.  History,  politics,  poetry,  mathe- 
matics, metaphysics,  and  the  philosophy  of  nature, 
are  all  comprised  in  a  manual  not  larger  than 
that  in  which  our  children  are  taught  the  letters. 
If  then  we  suppose  the  learned  of  England  to  read 
but  an  eighth  part  of  the  works  which  daily  come 
from  the  press  (and  surely  none  can  pretend  to 
learning  upon  less  easy  terms),  at  this  rate  every 
scholar  will  read  a  thousand  books  in  one  year. 
From  such  a  calculation,  you  may  conjecture  what 
an  amazing  fund  of  literature  a  man  must  be  pos- 
sessed of,  who  thus  reads  three  new  books  every 
day,  not  one  of  which  but  contains  all  the  goo<l 
things  that  ever  were  said  or  written. 

And  yet  I  know  not  how  it  happens,  but  the 
English  are  not  in  reality  so  learned  as  would  seem 
from  this  calculation.  We  meet  but  few  who  know 
all  arts  and  sciences  to  perfection;  whether  it  is 
that  the  generality  are  incapable  of  such  extensive 
knowledge,  or  that  the  authors  of  those  books  are 
not  adequate  instructors.  In  China,  the  emperor 
himself  takes  cognizance  of  all  the  doctors  in  the 
kingdom  who  profess  authorship.  In  England, 
every  man  may  be  an  author  that  can  write;  for 
they  have  by  law  a  liberty  not  only  of  saying  what 
they  please,  but  of  being  also  as  dull  as  they  please. 

Yesterday,  I  testified  my  surprise  to  the  man  in 
black,  where  writers  could  be  found  in  sufficient 
number  to  throw  off  the  books  I  daily  saw  crowd- 
ing from  the  press.  I  at  first  imagined  that  their 
learned  seminaries  might  take  this  method  of  in- 
structing the  world.  But,  to  obviate  this  objection, 
my  companion  assured  me,  that  the  doctors  of  col- 
leges never  wrote,  and  that  some  of  them  had 
actually  forgot  their  reading ;  but  if  you  desire, 
continued  he,  to  see  a  collection  of  authors,  I  fancy 
I  can  introduce  you  this  evening  to  a  club,  which 
assembles  every  Saturday  at  seven,  at  the  sign  of 
the  broom,  near  Islington,  to  talk  over  the  business 
of  the  last,  and  the  entertainment  of  the  week 
ensuing.  I  accepted  his  invitation;  we  walked 
together,  and  entered  the  house  some  time  before 
the  usual  hour  for  the  company  assembling. 

My  friend  took  this  opportunity  of  letting  me 
into  the  characters  of  the  principal  members  of  the 
club,  not  even  the  host  excepted;  who,  it  seems. 


282 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


was  once  an  author  himself,  but  preferred  by  a 
bookseller  to  this  situation  as  a  reward  for  his  for- 
mer services. 

The  first  person,  said  he,  of  our  society,  is 
Doctor  Nonentity,  a  metaphysician.  Most  people 
think  him  a  profound  scholar;  but  as  he  seldom 
speaks,  I  can  not  be  positive  in  that  particular :  he 
generally  spreads  himself  before  the  fire,  sucks  his 
pipe,  talks  little,  drinks  much,  and  is  reckoned  very 
good  company.  I'm  told  he  writes  indexes  to  per- 
fection, he  makes  essays  on  the  origin  of  evil,  phi- 
losophical inquiries  upon  any  subject,  and  draws 
up  an  answer  to  any  book  upon  twenty-four  hours' 
warning.  You  may  distinguish  him  from  the  rest 
of  the  company  by  his  long  gray  wig,  and  the  blue 
handkerchief  round  his  neck. 

The  next  to  him  in  merit  and  esteem  is  Tim 
Syllabub,  a  droll  creature  ;  he  sometimes  shines  as 
a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  among  the  choice 
spirits  of  the  age :  he  is  reckoned  equally  excellent 
at  a  rebus,  a  riddle,  a  bawdy  song,  and  a  hymn  for 
the  Tabernacle.  You  will  know  him  by  his  shab- 
by finery,  his  powdered  wig,  dirty  shirt,  and  broken 
silk  stockings. 

After  him  succeeds  Mr.  Tibs,  a  very  useful 
hand;  he  writes  receipts  for  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog, 
and  throws  off  an  eastern  tale  to  perfection:  he 
understands  the  business  of  an  author  as  well  as 
any  man,  for  no  bookseller  alive  can  cheat  him. 
You  may  distinguish  him  by  the  pecuUar  clumsi- 
ness of  his  figure,  and  the  coarseness  of  his  coat : 
however,  though  it  be  coarse  (as  he  frequently  tells 
the  company)  he  has  paid  for  it. 

Lawyer  Squint  is  the  politician  of  the  society; 
he  makes  speeches  for  Parliament,  writes  addresses 
to  his  fellow- subjects,  and  letters  to  noble  com- 
manders; he  gives  the  history  of  every  new  play, 
and  finds  seasonable  thoughts  upon  every  occasion. 
My  companion  was  proceeding  in  his  description 
when  the  host  came  running  in  with  terror  on  his 
countenance  to  tell  us,  that  the  door  was  beset  with 
bailiflTs.  If  that  be  the  case  then,  says  my  com- 
panion, we  had  as  good  be  going ;  for  1  aA  positive 
we  shall  not  see  one  of  the  company  this  night. 
Wherefore,  disappointed,  we  were  both  obliged  to 
return  home,  he  to  enjoy  the  oddities  which  com- 
pose his  character  alone,  and  I  to  write  as  usual  to 
my  friend  the  occurrences  of  the  day.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXX. 

From  the  Same. 
By  my  last  advices  from  Moscow,  I  find  the 
caravan  has  not  yet  departed  for  China:  I  still  con- 
tinue to  write,  expecting  that  you  may  receive  a 
large  number  of  my  letters  at  once.  In  them  you 
will  find  rather  a  minute  detail  of  English  pecu- 
liarities, than  a  general  picture  of  their  manners  or 


dispositions.  Happy  it  were  for  mankind  if  all 
travellers  would  thus,  instead  of  characterizing  a 
people  in  general  terms,  lead  us  into  a  detail  of 
those  minute  circumstances  which  first  influenced 
their  opinion.  The  genius  of  a  country  should  be 
investigated  with  a  kind  of  experimental  inquiry :  by 
this  means,  we  should  have  more  precise  and  just 
notions  of  foreign  nations,  and  detect  travellers 
themselves  when  they  happened  to  form  wrong 
conclusions. 

My  friend  and  I  repeated  our  visit  to  the  club  of 
authors;  where,  upon  our  entrance,  we  found  the 
members  all  assembled,  and  engaged  in  a  loud 
debate. 

The  poet,  in  shabby  finery,  holding  a  manuscript 
in  his  hand,  was  earnestly  endeavouring  to  persuade 
the  company  to  hear  him  read  the  first  book  of  an 
heroic  poem,  which  he  had  composed  the  day 
before.  But  against  this  all  the  .members  very 
warmly  objected.  They  knew  no  reason  why  any 
member  of  the  club  should  be  indulged  with  a 
particular  hearing,  when  many  of  them  had  pub- 
lished whole  volumes  which  had  never  been  looked 
in.  They  insisted,  that  the  law  should  be  observed 
where  reading  in  company  was  expressly  noticed. 
It  was  in  vain  that  the  poet  pleaded  the  peculiar 
merit  of  his  piece;  he  spoke  to  an  assembly  in- 
sensible to  all  his  remonstrances:  the  book  of  laws 
was  opened,  and  read  by  the  secretary,  where  it 
was  expressly  enacted,  "That  whatsoever  poet, 
speech-maker,  critic,  or  historian,  should  presume 
to  engage  the  company  by  reading  his  own  works, 
he  was  to  lay  down  sixpence  previous  to  opening 
the  manuscript,  and  should  be  charged  one,shilIing 
an  hour  while  he  continued  reading:  the  said 
shilling  to  be  equally  distributed  among  the  com- 
pany as  a  recompense  for  their  trouble." 

Our  poet  seemed  at  first  to  shrink  at  the  penalty^ 
hesitating  for  some  time  whether  he  should  deposit 
the  fine,  or  shut  up  the  poem;  but  looking  round, 
and  perceiving  two  strangers  in  the  room,  his  love 
of  fame  outweighed  his  prudence,  and,  laying  down 
t  he  sum  by  law  established,  he  insisted  on  his  pre- 
rogative. 

A  profound  silence  ensuing,  he  began  by  ex- 
plaining his  design.  "  Gentlemen,"  says  he,  "  the 
present  piece  is  not  one  of  your  common  epic  poems, 
which  come  from  the  press  like  paper-kites  in  sum- 
mer: there  are  none  of  your  Turnus's  or  Dido's  in 
it ;  it  is  an  heroical  description  of  Nature.  I  only 
beg  you'll  endeavour  to  make  your  souls  in  unison 
with  mine,  and  hear  with  the  same  enthusiasm 
with  which  1  have  written.  The  poem  begins  with 
the  description  of  an  author's  bedchamber;  the  pic- 
ture was  sketched  in  my  own  apartment :  for  you 
must  know,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  myself  the  hero.'* 
Then  putting  himself  into  the  attitude  of  an  orator, 
with  all  the  emphasis  of  voice  and  action,  he  pro. 
ceeded : 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


"  Where  the  Red  Lion  flaring  o'er  the  way, 
Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay; 
Where  Calvert's  butt,  and  Parson's  black  cham- 

paigne, 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury-lane ; 
There,  in  a  lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 
The  muse  found  Scroggen  stretch' d  beneath  a  rug ; 
A  window  patch'd  with  paper  lent  a  ray, 
That  dimly  show'd  the  state  in  which  he  lay ; 
The  sanded  floor,  that  grits  beneath  the  tread ; 
The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread ; 
The  royal  game  of  goose  was  there  in  view. 
And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew ; 
The  seasons,  framed  with  listii.g,  found  a  placej 
Anu  brave  Prince  William  show'd  his  lamp-black 

face. 
The  morn  was  cold,  he  views  with  keen  desire 
The  rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a  fire; 
With  beer  and  milk  arrears  the  frieze  was  scored, 
And  five  crack'd  tea-cups  dress'd  the  chimney 

board ; 
A  night-cap  deck'd  his  brows  instead  of  bay, 
A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day!'? 

With  this  last  line  he  seemed  so  much  elated, 
that  he  was  unable  to  proceed.  "  There,  gentle- 
men," cries  he,  "there  is  a  description  for  you; 
Rabelais'  bed-chamber  is  but  a  fool  to  it. 

A  cap  by  night — a  stocking  all  the  day  i 

There  is  sound,  and  sense,  and  truth,  and  nature, 
in  the  trifling  compass  often  syllables." 

He  was  too  much  employed  in  self-admiration 
to  observe  the  company;  who  by  nods,  winks, 
shrugs,  and  stifled  laughter,  testified  every  mark 
of  contempt.  He  turned  severally  to  each  for  their 
opinion,  and  found  all,  however,  ready  to  applaud. 
One  swore  it  was  inimitable ;  another  said  it  was 
damn'd  fine ;  and  a  third  cried  out  in  a  rapture, 
Carissimo.  At  last,  addressing  himself  to  the 
president,  "  And  pray,  Mr.  Squint,"  says  he,  *'  let 
us  have  your  opinion."  "  Mine! "  answered  the 
president  (taking  the  manuscript  out  of  the  au- 
thor's hand),  "  May  this  glass  suffocate  me,  but  I 
think  it  equal  to  any  thing  I  have  seen ;  and  I  fan- 
cy (continued  he,  doubling  up  the  poem  and  forcing 
it  into  the  author's  pocket)  that  you  will  get  great 
honour  when  it  comes  out ;  so  I  shall  beg  leave  to 
put  it  in.  We  will  not  intrude  upon  your  good- 
nature, in  desiring  to  hear  more  of  it  at  present ; 
ex  ungue  Herculem,  we  are  satisfied,  perfectly 
satisfied."  The  author  made  two  or  three  attempts 
to  pull  it  out  a  second  time,  and  the  president  made 
as  many  to  prevent  him.  Thus,  though  with  re- 
luctance, he  was  at  last  obliged  to  sit  down,  con- 
tented with  the  commendations  for  which  he  had 
paid. 

When  this  tempest  of  poetry  and  praise  was 
blown  over,  one  of  the  company  changed  the  sub- 


ject, by  wondering  how  any  man  could  be  so  dull 
as  to  write  poetry  at  present,  since  prose  itself 
would  hardly  pay :  "  Would  you  think  it,  gentle- 
men," continued  he,  "  I  have  actually  written  last 
week,  sixteen  prayers,  twelve  bawdy  jests,  and 
three  sermons,  all  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a-piece; 
and  what  is  still  more  extraordinary,  the  bookseller 
has  lost  by  the  bargain.  Such  sermons  would 
once  have  gained  me  a  prebend's  stall ;  but  now, 
alas!  we  have  neither  piety,  taste,  nor  hmnotlir, 
among  us.  Positively,  if  this  season  doeTnot  turn 
out  better  than  it  has  begun,  unless  the  ministry 
commit  some  blunders  to  furnish  us  with  a  new 
topic  of  abuse,  I  shall  resume  my  old  business  of 
working  at  the  press,  instead  of  finding  it  employ- 
ment. 

The  whole  club  seemed  to  join  in  condemning 
the  season  as  one  of  the  worst  that  had  come  for 
some  time  :  a  gentleman  particularly  observed  that 
the  nobility  were  never  known  to  subscribe  worse 
than  at  present.  "  I  know  not  how  it  happens," 
said  he,  "  though  I  follow  them  up  as  close  as  pos- 
sible, yet  I  can  hardly  get  a  single  subscription  in 
a  week.  The  houses  of  the  great  are  as  inaccessi- 
ble as  a  frontier  garrison  at  midnight.  I  never  see 
a  nobleman's  door  half-opened,  that  some  surly 
porter  or  footman  does  not  stand  full  in  the  breach. 
I  was  yesterday  to  wait  with  a  subscription-propo- 
sal upon  my  Lord  Squash  the  Creolin.  I  had 
posted  myself  at  his  door  the  whole  morning,  and 
just  as  he  was  getting  into  his  coach,  thrust  my 
proposal  snug  into  his  hand,  folded  up  in  the  form 
of  a  letter  from  myself.  He  just  glanced  at  the 
superscription,  and  not  knowing  the  hand,  con- 
signed it  to  his  valet  de  chambre ;  this  respectable 
personage,  treated  it  as  his  master,  and  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  the  porter ;  the  porter  grasped  my  pro- 
posal frowning;  and  measuring  my  figure  from 
top  to  toe,  put  it  back  into  my  own  hands  un- 
opened." 

"  To  the  devil  1  pitch  all  the  nobility,"  cries  a  lit- 
tle man  in  a  peculiar  accent,  "  I  am  sure  they  have 
of  late  used  me  most  scurvily.  You  must  know, 
gentlemen,  some  time  ago,  upon  the  arrival  of  a 
certain  noble  duke  from  his  travels,  I  sat  myself 
down,  and  vamped  up  a  fine  flaunting  poetical 
panegyric,  which  I  had  written  in  such  a  strain, 
that  I  fancied  it  would  have  even  wheedled  milk 
from  a  mouse.  In  this  I  represented  the  whole  king 
dom  welcoming  his  grace  to  his  native  soil,  not 
forgetting  the  loss  France  and  Italy  would  sustain 
in  their  arts  by  his  departure.  I  expected  to 
touch  for  a  bank-bill  at  least;  so  folding  up  my 
verses  in  gilt  paper,  1  gave  my  last  half-crown  to 
a  genteel  servant  to  be  the  bearer.  My  letter  was 
safely  conveyed  to  his  grace,  and  the  servant,  after 
four  hours'  absence,  during  which  time  1  led  the 
life  of  a  fiend,  returned  with  a  letter  four  times  as 
big  as  mine.  Guess  my  ecstasy  at  the  prospect  ol 


3S4 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


so  fine  a  return.  I  eagerly  took  the  packet  into 
my  hands,  that  trembled  to  receive  it.  1  kept  it 
some  time  unopened  before  me,  brooding  over  the 
expected  treasure  it  contained ;  when,  opening  it, 
as  1  hope  to  be  saved,  gentlemen,  his  grace  had 
sent  me  in  payment  for  my  poem,  no  bank-bills, 
but  six  copies  of  verse,  each  longer  than  mine,  ad- 
dressed to  him  upon  the  same  occasion." 

"  A  nobleman,"  cries  a  member,  who  had  hith- 
erto been  silent,  "  is  created  as  much  for  the  con- 
fusion of  us  authors,  as  the  catch-pole.  I'll  tell 
you  a  story,  gentlemen,  which  is  as  true  as  that 
this  pipe  is  made  of  clay.  When  I  was  delivered 
of  my  first  book,  I  owed  my  tailor  for  a  suit  of 
clothes;  but  that  is  nothing  new,  you  know,  and 
may  be  any  man's  case,  as  well  as  mine.  Well, 
owing  him  for  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  hearing 
that  my  book  took  very  well,  he  sent  for  his  mo- 
ney, and  insisted  upon  being  paid  immediately: 
though  I  was  at  that  time  rich  in  fame,  for  my 
book  ran  like  wild-fire,  yet  I  was  very  short  in 
money,  and  being  unable  to  satisfy  his  demand, 
prudently  resolved  to  keep  my  chamber,  preferring 
a  prison  of  my  own  choosing  at  home,  to  one  of 
my  tailor's  choosing  abroad.  In  vain  the  bailifls 
used  all  their  arts  to  decoy  me  from  my  citadel ;  in 
vain  they  sent  to  let  me  know  that  a  gentleman 
wanted  to  speak  with  me  at  the  next  tavern ;  in  vain 
they  came  with  an  urgent  message  from  my  aunt 
in  the  jiountry ;  in  vain  1  was  told  that  a  particular 
friend  was  at  the  point  of  death,  and  desired  to 
take  his  last  farewell; — I  was  deaf,  insensible, 
rock,  adamant;  the  bailiffs  could  make  no  impres- 
sion on  my  hard  heart,  for  I  effectually  kept  my 
liberty  by  never  stirring  out  of  the  room. 

"  This  was  very  well  for  a  fortnight ;  when  one 
morning  I  received  a  most  splendid  message  from 
the  Earl  of  Doomsday,  importing,  that  he  had  rea(i 
my  book,  and  was  in  raptures  with  every  line  of  it ; 
he  impatiently  longed  to  see  the  author,  and  had 
some  designs  which  might  turn  out  greatly  to  my 
advantage.  I  paused  upon  the  contents  of  this 
message,  and  found  there  could  be  no  deceit,  for 
the  card  was  gilt  at  the  edges,  and  the  bearer,  I 
was  told,  had  quite  the  looks  of  a  gentleman. 
Witness,  ye  powers,  how  my  heart  triumphed  at 
my  own  importance !  I  saw  a  long  perspective  of 
felicity  before  me ;  I  applauded  the  taste  of  the 
times  which  never  saw  genius  forsaken ;  I  had  pre- 
pared a  set  introductory  speech  for  the  occasion ; 
five  glaring  compliments  for  his  lordship,  and  two 
more  modest  for  myself.  The  next  morning, 
therefore,  in  order  to  be  punctual  to  my  appoint- 
ment, I  took  coach,  and  ordered  the  fellow  to  drive 
to  the  street  and  house  mentioned  in  his  lordship's 
address.  I  had  the  precaution  to  pull  up  the  win- 
dow as  I  went  along,  to  keep  off  the  busy  part  of 
manldnd,  and,  big  with  expectation,  fancied  the 
coach  never  went  fast  enough.     At  length,  how- 


ever, the  wished-for  moment  of  its  stopping  ar 
rived  :  this  for  some  time  I  impatiently  expect:*!, 
and  letting  down  the  window  in  a  transport,  in 
order  to  take  a  previous  view  of  his  lordship's 
magnificent  palace  and  situation,  1  found,  poi- 
son to  my  sight!  1  found  myself,  not  in  an 
elegant  street,  but  a  paltry  lane ;  not  at  a  noble 
man's  door,  but  at  the  door  of  a  sponging  house :  I 
found  the  coachman  had  all  this  while  been  just 
driving  me  to  gaol ;  and  1  saw  the  bailiff,  with  a 
devil's  face,  coming  out  to  secure  me." 

To  a  philosopher,  no  circumstance,  however 
trifling,  is  too  minute  ;  he  finds  instruction  and  en- 
tertainment in  occurrences  which  are  passed  over 
by  the  rest  of  mankind  as  low,  trite,  and  indiffer- 
ent ;  it  is  from  the  number  of  these  particulars, 
which  to  many  appear  insignificant,  that  he  is  at 
last  enabled  to  form  general  conclusions:  this, 
tlierefore,  must  be  my  excuse  for  sending  so  far  as 
China,  accounts  of  manners  and  follies,  which, 
though  minute  in  their  own  nature,  serve  more 
truly  to  characterize  this  people  than  histories  of 
their  public  treaties,  courts,  ministers,  negotiations, 
and  ambassadors.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXL 


From  the  Same. 


The  English  have  not  yet  brought  the  art  of 
gardening  to  the  same  perfection  with  the  Chinese, 
but  have  lately  begun  to  imitate  them ;  nature  is 
now  followed  with  greater  assiduity  than  formerly ; 
the  trees  are  suffered  to  shoot  out  into  the  utmost 
luxuriance ;  the  streams,  no  longer  forced  from  their 
native  beds,  are  permitted  to  wind  along  tue  val- 
leys ;  spontaneous  flowers  take  place  of  the  finished 
parterre,  and  the  enamelled  meadow  of  the  shaven 
green. 

Yet  still  the  English  are  far  behind  us  in  this 
charming  art ;  their  designers  have  not  yet  attained 
a  power  of  uniting  instruction  with  beauty.  A 
European  will  scarcely  conceive  my  meaning,  when 
I  say  that  there  is  scarcely  a  garden  in  China 
which  does  not  contain  some  fine  moral,  couched 
under  the  general  design,  where  one  is  taught  wis- 
dom as  he  walks,  and  feels  the  force  of  some  noble 
truth,  or  delicate  precept,  resulting  from  the  dis- 
position of  the  groves,  streams,  or  grottos.  Permit 
me  to  illustrate  what  I  mean  by  a  description  of  my 
gardens  at  Q,uamsi.  My  heart  still  hovers  round 
those  scenes  of  former  happiness  with  pleasure ; 
and  I  find  a  satisfaction  in  enjoying  them  at  this 
distance,  though  but  in  imagination. 

You  descended  from  the  house  between  two 
groves  of  trees,  planted  in  such  a  manner,  that 
they  were  impenetrable  to  the  eye ;  while  on  each 
hand  the  way  was  adorned  with  all  that  was  beau- 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


tiful  in  porcelain,  statuary,  and  painting.  This 
passage  from  the  house  opened  into  an  area  sur- 
rounded with  rocks,  flowers,  trees,  and  shruhs,  but 
all  so  disposed  as  if  each  was  the  spontaneous  pro- 
duction of  nature.  As  you  proceeded  forward  on 
this  lawn,  to  your  right  and  left  hand  were  two 
gates,  opposite  each  other,  of  very  different  archi- 
tecture and  design,  and  before  you  lay  a  temple, 
built  rather  with  minute  elegance  than  ostenta- 
tion. 

The  right  hand  gate  was  planned  with  the  ut- 
most simplicity,  or  rather  rudeness :  ivy  clasped 
round  the  pillars,  the  baleful  cypress  hung  over  it; 
time  seemed  to  have  destroyed  all  the  smoothness 
and  regularity  of  the  stone;  two  champions  with 
lifted  clubs  appeared  in  the  act  of  guarding  its  ac- 
cess ;  dragons  and  serpents  were  seen  in  the  most 
hideous  attitudes,  to  deter  the  spectator  from  ap- 
proaching ;  and  the  perspective  view  that  lay  be- 
hind, seemed  dark  and  gloomy  to  the  last  degree ; 
the  stranger  was  tempted  to  enter  only  from  the 
motto — Pervia  Virtuti. 

The  opposite  gate  was  formed  in  a  very  different 
manner;  the  architecture  was  light,  elegant,  and 
inviting ;  flowers  hung  in  wreaths  round  the  pil- 
lars; all  was  finished  in  the  most  exact  and  mas- 
terly manner  ;  the  very  stone  of  which  it  was  built 
still  preserved  its  poHsh ;  nymphs,  wrought  by  the 
hand  of  a  master,  in  the  most  alluring  attitudes, 
beckoned  the  stranger  to  ajiproach ;  while  all  that 
lay  behind,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  seemed 
gay,  luxuriant,  and  capable  of  affording  endless 
pleasure.  The  motto  itself  contributed  to  invite 
him ;  for  over  the  gate  were  written  these  words — 
Facilis  Descensus. 

By  this  time  I  fancy  you  begin  to  perceive,  that 
tne  gloomy  gate  was  designed  to  represent  the  road 
to  Virtue ;  the  opposite,  the  more  agreeable  passage 
to  Vice.  It  is  but  natural  to  suppose,  that  the 
spectator  was  always  tempted  to  enter  by  the  gate 
which  offered  him  so  many  allurements.  I  always 
in  these  cases  left  him  to  his  choice;  but  generally 
found  that  he  took  to  the  left,  which  promised  most 
entertainment. 

Immediately  upon  his  entering  the  gate  of  Vice, 
the  trees  and  flowers  were  disposed  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  make  the  most  pleasing  impression ;  but 
as  he  walked  farther  on,  he  insensibly  found  the 
garden  assume  the  air  of  a  wilderness,  the  land- 
scapes began  to  darken,  the  paths  grew  more  intri- 
cate, he  appeared  to  go  downwards,  frightful  rocks 
seemed  to  hang  over  his  head,  gloomy  caverns,  un- 
expected precipices,  awful  ruins,  heaps  of  unburied 
bones,  and  terrifying  sounds,  caused  by  unseen  wa- 
ters, began  to  take  place  of  what  at  first  appeared 
80  lovely ;  it  was  in  vain  to  attempt  returning,  the 
labyrinth  was  too  much  perplexed  for  any  but  my- 
self to  find  the  way  back.  In  short,  when  suffi- 
ciently impressed  with  the  horrors  of  what  he  saw, 


and  the  imprudence  of  his  choice,  I  brought  him  by 
a  hidden  door  a  shorter  way  back  into  the  area 
from  whence  at  first  he  had  strayed. 

The  gloomy  gate  now  presented  itself  before  the 
stranger;  and  though  there  seemed  little  in  its  ap- 
pearance to  tempt  his  curiosity,  yet,  encouraged  by 
the  motto,  he  generally  proceeded.  The  darkness 
of  the  entrance,  the  frightful  figures  that  seemed  to 
obstruct  his  way,  the  trees,  of  a  mournful  green, 
conspired  at  first  to  disgust  him ;  as  he  went  for- 
ward, however,  all  began  to  open  and  wear  a  more 
pleasing  appearance ;  beautiful  cascades,  beds  of 
flowers,  trees  loaded  with  fruit  or  blossoms,  and  un- 
expected brooks  improved  the  scene  :  he  now  found 
that  he  was  ascending,  and,  as  he  proceeded,  all 
nature  grew  more  beautiful,  the  prospect  widened 
as  he  went  higher,  even  the  air  itself  seemed  to  be- 
come more  pure.  Thus  pleased  and'Hiappy  from 
unexpected  beauties,  I  at  last  led  him  to  an  arbour, 
from  whence  he  could  view  the  garden,  and  the 
whole  country  around,  and  where  he  might  own, 
that  the  road  to  Virtue  terminated  in  Happiness. 

Though  from  this  description  you  may  in*agine, 
that  a  vast  tract  of  ground  was  necessary  to  exhibit 
such  a  pleasing  variety  in,  yet  be  assured,  I  have 
seen  several  gardens  in  England  take  up  ten  times 
the  space  which  mine  did,  without  half  the  beauty. 
A  very  small  extent  of  ground  is  enough  for  an 
elegant  taste ;  the  greater  room  is  required  if  mag- 
nificence is  in  view.  There  is  no  spot,  though 
ever  so  little,  which  a  skilful  designer  might  not 
thus  improve,  so  as  to  convey  a  delicate  allegory, 
and  impress  the  mind  with  truths  the  most  useful 
and  necessary.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXIL 


From  the  Same. 


In  a  late  excursion  with  my  friend  into  the  coun- 
try, a  gentleman  with  a  blue  riband  tied  round  his 
shoulder,  and  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  six  horses, 
passed  swiftly  by  us,  attended  with  a  numerous 
train  of  captains,  lacqueys,  and  coaches  filled  with 
women.  When  we  were  recovered  from  the  dust 
raised  by  this  cavalcade,  and  could  continue  our 
discourse  without  danger  of  suffocation,  I  observed 
to  my  companion,  that  all  this  state  and  equipage, 
which  he  seemed  to  despise,  would  in  China  be  re- 
garded with  the  utmost  reverence,  because  such  dis- 
tinctions were  always  the  reward  of  merit;  the 
greatness  of  a  mandarine's  retinue  being  a  most 
certain  mark  of  the  superiority  of  his  abilities  or 
virtue. 

The  gentleman  who  has  now  passed  us,  replied 
my  companion,  has  no  claims  from  his  own  merij 
to  distinction ;  he  is  possessed  neither  of  abilities 
nor  virtue ;  it  is  enough  for  him  that  one  of  his  an- 


S86 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


cestors  was  possessed  of  these  qualities  two  hun- 
dred years  before  him.  There  was  a  time,  indeed, 
when  his  family  deserved  their  title,  but  they  are 
long  since  degenerated;  and  his  ancestors,  for  more 
than  a  century,  have  been  more  and  more  solicitous 
to  keep  up  the  breed  of  their  dogs  and  horses  than 
that  of  their  children.  This  very  nobleman,  sim- 
ple as  he  seems,  is  descended  from  a  race  of  states- 
men and  heroes;  but,  unluckily,  his  great-grand- 
father marrying  a  cook-maid,  and  she  having  a 
trifling  passion  for  his  lordship's  groom,  they  some- 
how crossed  the  strain,  and  produced  an  heir,  who 
took  after  his  mother  in  his  great  love  to  good  eat- 
ing, and  his  father  in  a  violent  affection  tor  korse- 
Jlesh.  These  passions  have  for  some  generations 
passed  on  from  father  to  son,  and  are  now  become 
the  characteristics  of  the  family;  his  present  lord- 
ship being  equally  remarkable  for  his  kitchen  and 
his  stable. 

But  such  a  nobleman,  cried  I,  deserves  our  pity, 
thus  placed  in  so  high  a  sphere  of  life,  which  only 
the  more  exposes  to  contempt.  A  king  may  con 
fer  titles,  but  it  is  personal  merit  alone  that  ensures 
respect.  I  suppose,  added  I,  that  such  men  are 
despised  by  their  equals,  neglected  by  their  infe- 
riors, and  condemned  to  live  among  involuntary 
dependants  in  irksome  solitude. 

You  are  still  under  a  mistake,  replied  my  com- 
panion ;  for  though  this  nobleman  is  a  stranger  to 
generosity ;  though  he  takes  twenty  opportunities 
in  a  day  of  letting  his  guests  know  how  much  he 
despises  them ;  though  he  is  possessed  neither  of 
taste,  wit,  nor  wisdom;  though  incapable  of  im- 
proving others  by  his  conversation,  and  never 
known  to  enrich  any  by  his  bounty;  yet,  for  all 
this,  his  company  is  eagerly  sought  after :  he  is  a 
lord,  and  that  is  as  much  as  most  peojjle  desire  in 
a  companion,  duality  and  title  have  such  allure- 
ments, that  hundreds  are  ready  to  give  up  all  their 
own  importance,  to  cringe,  to  flatter,  to  look  little, 
and  to  pall  every  pleasure  in  constraint,  merely  to 
be  among  the  great,  though  without  the  least  hopes 
of  improving  their  understanding,  or  sharing  their 
generosity:  they  might  be  happy  among  their 
equals,  but  those  are  despised  for  company  where 
they  are  despised  in  turn.  You  saw  what  a  crowd 
of  humble  cousins,  card-ruined  beaux,  and  captains 
on  half-pay,  were  willing  to  make  up  this  great 
man's  retinue  down  to  his  country-seat.  Not  one 
of  all  these  that  could  not  lead  a  more  comfortable 
life  at  home,  in  their  little  lodging  of  three  shillings 
a-week,  with  their  lukewarm  dinner,  served  up  be- 
tween two  pewter  plates  from  a  cook's  shop.  Yet, 
poor  devils !  they  are  willing  to  undergo  the  imper- 
tinence and  pride  of  their  entertainer,  merely  to  be 
thought  to  live  among  the  great :  they  are  willing 
to  pass  the  summer  in  bondage,  though  conscious 
they  an)  taken  down  only  to  approve  his  lordship's 


taste  upon  every  occasion,  to  tag  all  his  stupid  ob- 
servations with  a  very  true,  to  praise  his  stable,  and 
descant  upon  his  claret  and  cookery. 

The  pitiful  humiliations  of  the  gentlemen  you 
are  now  describing,  said  I,  puts  me  in  mind  of  a 
custom  among  the  Tartars  of  Koreki,  not  entirely 
dissimilar  to  this  we  are  now  considering.*  The 
Russians,  who  trade  with  them,  carry  thither  a  kind 
of  mushrooms,  which  they  exchange  for  turs  of 
squirrels,  ermines,  sables,  and  foxes.  These  mush- 
rooms the  rich  Tartars  lay  up  in  large  quantities 
for  the  winter;  and  when  a  nobleman  makes  a 
mushroom-feast,  all  the  neighbours  around  are  in- 
vited. The  mushrooms  are  prepared  by  boiling, 
by  which  the  water  acquires  an  intoxicating  quali- 
ty, and  is  a  sort  of  drink  which  the  Tartars  prize 
beyond  all  other.  When  the  nobility  and  ladies 
are  assembled,  and  the  ceremonies  usual  between 
people  of  distinction  over,  the  mushroom-broth  goes 
freely  round;  they  laugh,  talk  double  entendre, 
grow  fuddled,  and  become  excellent  company.  The 
poorer  sort,  who  love  mushroom-broth  to  distraction 
as  well  as  the  rich,  but  can  not  afford  it  at  the  first 
hand,  post  themselves  on  these  occasions  round  the 
huts  of  the  rich,  and  watch  the  opportunities  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  as  they  come  down  to  pass 
their  liquor ;  and  holding  a  wooden  bowl,  catch  the 
delicious  fluid,  very  little  altered  by  filtration,  being 
still  strongly  tinctured  with  the  intoxicating  quali- 
ty. Of  this  they  drink  with  the  utmost  satisfac- 
tion, and  thus  they  get  as  drunk  and  as  jovial  as 
their  betters. 

Happy  nobility !  cries  my  companion,  who  can 
fear  no  diminution  of  respect,  unless  by  being  seized 
with  strangury,  and  who  when  most  drunk  are 
most  useful.  Though  we  have  not  this  custom 
among  us,  I  foresee,  that  if  it  were  introduced,  we 
might  have  many  a  toad-eater  in  England  ready  to 
drink  from  the  wooden  bowl  on  these  occasions, 
and  to  praise  the  flavour  of  his  lordship's  liquor. 
As  we  have  different  classes  of  gentry,  who  knows 
but  we  may  see  a  lord  holding  the  bowl  to  a  min- 
ister, a  knight  holding  it  to  his  lordship,  and  a 
simple  'squire  drinking  it  double  distilled  from 
loins  of  knighthood  7  For  my  part,  I  shall  never 
for  the  future  hear  a  great  man's  flatterers  harangu- 
ing in  his  praise,  that  I  shall  not  fancy  I  behold 
the  wooden  bowl ;  for  I  can  see  no  reason  why  a 
man,  who  can  live  easily  and  happily  at  home, 
should  bear  the  drudgery  of  decorum,  and  the  im- 
pertinence of  his  entertainer,  unless  intoxicated 
with  a  passion  for  all  that  was  quality;  unless 
he  thought  that  whatever  came  from  the  great  was 
delicious,  and  had  the  tincture  of  the  mushroom  in 
Adieu. 


Van  Stralenberg,  a  writer  of  credit,  gives  the  same  ac- 
count of  this  people.  See  an  Historico-Gec^raphical  Deecrip. 
tlon  of  the  north-eastern  parts  of  Eiirope  and  Asia,  p.  397. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


287 


LETTER  XXXIII. 


From  the  Same. 


I  AM  disgusted,  O  Fum  Hoam,  even  to  sickness 
■disgusted.  Is  it  possible  to  bear  the  presumption 
of  those  islanders,  when  they  pretend  to  instruct 
me  in  the  ceremonies  of  China !  They  lay  it  down 
as  a  maxim,  that  every  person  who  comes  from 
thence  must  express  himself  in  metaphor;  swear 
by  Alia,  rail  against  wine,  and  behave,  and  talk, 
and  write,  like  a  Turk  or  Persian.  They  make 
no  distinction  between  our  elegant  manners,  and 
the  voluptuous  barbarities  of  our  Eastern  neigh- 
bours. Wherever  I  come,  I  raise  either  diffidence 
or  astonishment :  some  fancy  me  no  Chinese,  be- 
cause I  am  formed  more  like  a  man  than  a  monster; 
and  others  wonder  to  find  one  born  five  thousand 
miles  from  England,  endued  with  common  sense. 
Strange,  say  they,  that  a  man  who  has  received 
his  education  at  such  a  distance  from  London, 
should  have  common  sense :  to  be  born  out  of  Eng- 
land, and  yet  have  common  sense!  Impossible! 
He  must  be  some  Englishman  in  disguise;  his 
very  visage  has  nothing  of  the  true  exotic  barbari- 
ty- 

I  yesterday  received  an  invitation  from  a  lady  of 
distinction,  who  it  seems  had  collected  all  her  know- 
ledge of  Eastern  manners  from  fictions  every  day 
propagated  here,  under  the  titles  of  Eastern  tales 
and  Oriental  histories :  she  received  me  very  polite- 
ly, but  seemed  to  wonder  that  I  neglected  bringing 
opium  and  a  tobacco-box ;  when  chairs  were  drawn 
for  the  rest  of  the  company,  1  was  assigned  my 
place  on  a  cushion  on  the  floor.  It  was  in  vain 
that  I  protested  the  Chinese  used  chairs  as  in  Eu- 
rope ;  she  understood  decorums  too  well  to  entertain 
me  with  the  ordinary  civiUties. 

I  had  scarcely  been  seated  according  to  her  di- 
rections, when  the  footman  was  ordered  to  pin  a 
napkin  under  my  chin  :  this  I  protested  against,  as 
being  no  way  Chinese;  however,  the  whole  com- 
pany, who  it  seems  were  a  club  of  connoisseurs, 
gave  it  unanimously  against  me,  and  the  napkin 
Was  pinned  accordingly. 

It  was  impossible  to  be  angry  with  people,  who 
!  seemed  to  err  only  from  an  excess  of  politeness, 
and  I  sat  contented,  expecting  their  importunities 
were  now  at  an  end ;  but  as  soon  as  ever  dinner 
was  served,  the  lady  demanded,  whether  I  was  for 
a  plate  of  Bears'  claws,  or  a  slice  of  Birds'  nests? 
As  these  were  dishes  with  which  I  was  utterly  un- 
acquainted, 1  was  desirous  of  eating  only  what  I 
knew,  and  therefore  begged  to  be  helped  from  a 
piece  of  beef  that  lay  on  the  side-table :  my  request 
it  once  disconcerted  the  whole  company.  A  Chi- 
lese  eat  beef!  that  could  never  be !  there  was  no 
coal  propriety  in  Chinese  beef,  whatever  there 
night  be  in  Chinese  pheasant.    Sir,  said  my  en- 


tertainer, I  think  I  have  some  reasons  to  fancy  my- 
self a  judge  of  these  matters ;  in  short,  the  Chinese 
never  eat  beef;  so  that  I  must  be  permitted  to  re- 
commend the  Pilaw.  There  was  never  better 
dressed  at  Pekin ;  the  saffron  and  rice  are  well 
boiled,  and  the  spices  in  perfection. 

I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  eat  what  was  laid  be- 
fore me  than  1  found  the  whole  company  as  much 
astonished  as  before ;  it  seems  I  made  no  use  of  my 
chop-sticks.  A  grave  gentleman,  whom  I  take  to 
be  an  author,  harangued  very  learnedly  (as  the 
company  seemed  to  think)  upon  the  use  which  was 
made  of  them  in  China.  He  entered  into  a  long 
argument  with  himself  about  their  firstintroduction, 
without  once  appealing  to  me,  who  might  be  sup- 
posed best  capable  of  silencing  the  inquiry.  As 
the  gentleman  therefore  took  my  silence  for  a  mark 
of  his  own  superior  sagacity,  he  was  resolved  to 
pursue  the  triumph :  he  talked  of  our  cities,  moun- 
tains, and  animals,  as  familiarly  as  if  he  had  been 
born  in  Gluamsi,  but  as  erroneously  as  if  a  native 
of  the  moon.  He  attempted  to  prove  that  I  had 
nothing  of  the  true  Chinese  cut  in  my  visage ; 
showed  that  my  cheek-bones  should  have  been 
higher,  and  my  forehead  brpader.  In  short,  he 
almost  reasoned  me  out  of  my  country,  and  effect- 
ually persuaded  the  rest  of  the  company  to  be  of 
his  opinion. 

I  was  going  to  expose  his  mistakes,  when  it  was 
insisted  that  I  had  nothing  of  the  true  Eastern 
manner  in  my  delivery.  This  gentleman's  con- 
versation (says  one  of  the  ladies,  who  was  a  great 
reader)  is  like  our  own,  mere  chit-chat  and  com- 
mon sense :  there  is  nothing  like  sense  in  the  true 
Eastern  style,  where  nothing  more  is  required  but 
sublimity.  Oh !  for  a  history  of  Aboulfaouris,  the 
grand  voyager,  of  genii,  magicians,  rocks,  bags  of 
bullets,  giants,  and  enchanters,  where  all  is  great, 
obscure,  magnificent,  and  unintelligible ! — I  have 
written  many  a  sheet  of  Eastern  tale  myself,  in- 
terrupts the  author,  and  I  defy  the  severest  critic 
to  say  but  that  I  have  stuck  close  to  the  true  man-  ^ 
ner.  I  have  compared  a  lady's  chin  to  the  snow 
upon  the  mountains  of  Bomek ;  a  soldiers  sword, 
to  the  clouds  that  obscure  the  face  of  heaven.  If 
riches  are  mentioned,  I  compared  them  to  the  flocks 
that  graze  the  verdant  Tefllis ;  if  poverty,  to  the 
mists  that  veil  the  brow  of  mount  Baku.  I  have 
used  tfiee  and  thou  upon  all  occasions ;  I  have  de- 
scribed fallen  stars  and  sphtting  mountains,  not 
forgetting  the  little  Houries,  who  make  a  pretty 
figure  in  every  description.  But  you  shall  hear 
how  I  generally  begin:  "  Eben-ben-bolo,  who  was 
the  son  of  Ban,  was  born  on  the  foggy  summits  of 
Benderabassi.  His  beard  was  whiter  than  the 
feathers  which  veil  the  breast  of  the  penguin ;  his 
eyes  were  like  the  eyes  of  doves  when  washed  by 
the  dews  of  the  morning ;  his  hair,  which  hung  like 
the  willow  weeping  over  the  glassy  stream,  was  so 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


beautiful  that  it  seemed  to  reflect  its  own  bright- 
ness ;  and  his  feet  were  as  the  feet  of  a  wild  deer 
which  fleeth  to  the  tops  of  the  mountains."  There, 
there  is  the  true  Eastern  taste  for  you ;  every  ad- 
vance made  towards  sense  is  only  a  deviation  from 
sound.  Eastern  tales  should  alv/ays  be  sonorous, 
lofty,  musical,  and  unmeaning. 

I  could  not  avoid  smiling  to  hear  a  native  of 
England  attempt  to  instruct  me  in  the  true  Eastern 
idiom ;  and  after  he  looked  round  some  time  for 
applause,  I  presumed  to  ask  him,  whether  he  had 
ever  travelled  into  the  East ;  to  which  he  replied  in 
the  negative.  I  demanded  whether  he  understood 
Chinese  or  Arabic ;  to  which  also  he  answered  as 
before.  Then  how,  sir,  said  I,  can  you  pretend  to 
determine  upon  the  Eastern  style,  who  are  en- 
tirely unacquainted  with  the  Eastern  writings? 
Take,  sir,  the  word  of  one  who  is  professedly  a 
Chinese,  and  who  is  actually  acquainted  with  the 
Arabian  writers,  that  what  is  palmed  upon  you 
daily  for  an  imitation  of  Eastern  writing  no  way 
resembles  their  manner,  either  in  sentiment  or  dic- 
tion. In  the  East,  similes  are  seldom  used,  and 
metaphors  almost  wholly  unknown ;  but  in  China 
particularly,  the  very  reverse  of  what  you  allude  to 
takes  place ;  a  cool  phlegmatic  method  of  writing 
prevails  there.  The  writers  of  that  country,  ever 
more  assidious  to  instruct  than  to  please,  address 
rather  the  judgment  than  the  fancy.  Unlike  many 
authors  of  Europe,  who  have  no  consideration  of 
the  reader's  time,  they  generally  leave  more  to  be 
understood  than  they  express. 

Besides,  sir,  you  must  not  expect  from  an  in- 
habitant of  China  the  same  ignorance,  the  same 
unlettered  simplicity,  that  you  find  in  a  Turk, 
Persian,  or  native  of  Peru.  The  Chinese  are 
Versed  in  the  sciences  as  well  as  you,  and  are  mas- 
ters of  several  arts  unknown  to  the  people  of  Eu- 
rope. Many  of  them  are  instructed  not  only  in 
thar  own  national  learning,  but  are  perfectly  well 
acquainted  with  the  languages  and  learning  of  the 
West.  If  my  word  in  such  a  case  is  not  to  be 
taken,  consult  your  own  travellers  on  this  head, 
who  affirm,  that  the  scholars  of  Pekin  and  Siam 
sustain  theological  theses  in  Latin.  The  college 
of  Masprend,  which  is  but  a  league  from  Siam 
(says  one  of  your  travellers,*)  came  in  a  body  to 
salute  our  ambassador.  Nothing  gave  me  more 
sincere  pleasure  than  to  behold  a  number  of  priests^ 
venerable  both  from  age  and  modesty,  followed  by 
a  number  of  youths  of  all  nations,  Chinese,  Ja- 
panese, Tonquivese,  of  Cochin  China,  Pegu,  and 
Siam,  all  willing  to  pay  their  respects  in  the  most 
polite  manner  imaginable.  A  Cochin  Chinese 
made  an  excellent  Latin  oration  upon  this  occa- 


•  Journal  ou  Suite  du  Voyage  de  Siam,  en  forme  de  Let- 
tres  famili^ree,  fait  en  1685  et  16§6,  par  N.  L.  D.  C,  p.  174. 
Edit.  Amstelod  1686. 


sion ;  he  was  succeeded,  and  even  outdone,  by  a 
student  of  Tonquin,  who  was  as  well  skilled  in  the 
Western  learn  ing  as  any  scholar  of  Paris.  Now, 
sir,  if  youths,  who  never  stirred  from  home,  are  so 
perfectly  skilled  in  your  laws  and  learning,  surely 
more  must  be  exi>ected  from  one  like  me,  who  have 
travelled  so  many  thousand  miles;  who  have  con« 
versed  familiarly  for  several  years  with  the  English 
factors  estabUshed  at  Canton,  and  the  missionaries 
sent  us  from  every  part  of  Europe.  The  unaflTect- 
ed  of  every  country  nearly  resemble  each  other, 
and  a  page  of  our  Confucius  and  of  your  Tillotson 
have  scarcely  any  material  difference.  Paltry  af- 
fectation, strained  allusions,  and  disgusting  finery, 
are  easily  attained  by  those  who  choose  to  wear 
them :  and  they  are  but  too  frequently  the  badges 
of  ignorance,  or  of  stupidity,  whenever  it  would 
endeavour  to  please. 

I  was  proceeding  in  my  discourse,  when  looking 
round,  I  perceived  the  company  in  no  way  atten- 
tive to  what  I  attempted,  with  so  much  earnest- 
ness, to  enforce.  One  lady  was  whispering  her 
that  sat  next;'  another  was  studying  the  merits  of 
a  fan,  a  third  began  to  yawn,  and  the  author  him- 
self fell  fast  asleep.  I  thought  it,  therefore,  high  time 
to  make  a  retreat;  nor  did  the  company  seem  to 
show  any  regret  at  my  preparations  for  departure : 
even  the  lady  who  had  invited  me,  with  the  most 
mortifying  insensibility,  saw  me  seize  my  hat,  and 
rise  from  my  cushion  ;  nor  was  1  invited  to  repeat 
my  visit,  because  it  was  found  that  I  aimed  at  ap- 
pearing rather  a  reasonable  creature  than  an  out- 
landish ideot.    Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXIV. 


To  the  Same. 


The  polite  arts  are  in  this  country  subject  to  as 
many  revolutions  as  its  laws  or  politics :  not  only 
the  objects  of  fancy  and  dress,  but  even  of  delicacy 
and  taste,  are  directed  by  the  capricious  influence 
of  fashion.  I  am  told  there  has  been  a  time  when 
poetry  was  universally  encouraged  by  the  great; 
when  men  of  the  first  rank  not  only  patronized  the 
poet,  but  produced  the  finest  models  for  his  imita- 
tion. It  was  then  the  English  sent  forth  those 
glowing  rhapsodies,  which  we  have  so  often  read 
over  together  with  rapture;  poems  big  with  all  the 
sublimity  of  Mentius,  and  supported  by  reasoning 
as  strong  as  that  of  Zimpo. 

The  nobility  are  fond  of  wisdom,  but  they  are 
also  fond  of  having  it  without  study;  to  read  poetry 
required  thought;  and  the  English  nobility  were 
not  fond  of  thinking:  they  soon  therefore  placed 
their  affections  upon  music,  because  in  this  they 
might  indulge  a  happy  vacancy,  and  yet  still  havft 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


pretensions  to  delicacy  and  taste  as  before.  They 
soon  brought  their  numerous  dependants  into  an 
approbation  of  their  pleasures;  who  in  turn  led 
their  thousand  imitators  to  feel  or  feign  a  similitude 
of  passion.  Colonies  of  singers  were  now  im- 
ptirted  from  abroad  at  a  vast  expense;  and  it  was 
expected  the  English  would  soon  be  able  to  set 
examples  to  Europe.  All  these  expectations,  how- 
everj  were  soon  dissipated.  In  spite  of  the  zeal 
which  fired  tjie  great,  the  ignorant  vulgar  refused 
to  be  taught  to  sing;  refused  to  undergo  the  cere- 
monies which  were  to  initiate  them  in  the  singing 
fraternity:  thus  the  colony  from  abroad  dwindled 
by  degrees;  for  they  were  of  themselves  unfortu- 
nately incapable  of  propagating  the  breed. 

Music  having  thus  lost  its  splendour,  painting 
is  now  become  the  sole  object  of  fashionable  care. 
The  title  of  connoisseur  in  that  art  is  at  present 
the  safest  passport  in  every  fashionable  society ;  a 
well-timed  shrug,  an  admiring  attitude,  and  one 
or  two  exotic  tones  of  exclamation,  are  sufficient 
qualifications  for  men  of  low  circumstances  to  curry 
favour.  Even  some  of  the  young  nobility  are 
themselves  early  instructed  in  hantiling  the  pencil, 
while  their  happy  parents, ,  big  with  expectation, 
foresee  the  walls  of  every  apartment  covered  with 
the  manufiictures  of  their  posterity. 

But  many  of  the  English  are  not  content  with 
giving  all  their  time  to  this  art  at  home;  some 
young  men  of  distinction  are  found  to  travel 
through  Europe,  with  no  other  intent  than  that  of 
understanding  and  collecting  pictures,  studying 
seals,  and  describing  statues.  On  they  travel  from 
this  cabinet  of  curiosities  to  that  gallery  of  pictures ; 
waste  the  prime  of  life  in  wonder;  skilful  in  pic- 
tures, ignorant  in  men;  yet  impossible  to  be  re- 
claimed, because  their  follies  take  shelter  under  the 
names  of  delicacy  and  taste. 

It  is  true,  painting  should  have  due  encourage- 
ment; as  the  painter  can  undoubtedly  fit  up  our 
apartments  in  a  much  more  elegant  manner  than 
the  upholsterer;  but  I  should  think  a  man  of  fash- 
ion makes  but  an  indifferent  exchange  who  lays 
out  all  that  time  in  furnishing  his  house  which  he 
should  have  employed  in  the  furniture  of  his  head. 
A  person  who  shows  no  other  symptoms  of  taste 
than  his  cabinet  or  gallery,  might  as  well  boast  to 
me  of  the  furniture  of  his  kitchen. 

I  know  no  other  motive  but  vanity  that  induces 
the  great  to  testify  such  an  inordinate  passion  for 
pictures.  After  the  piece  is  bought,  and  gazed  at 
eight  of  ten  days  successively,  the  purchaser's  plea- 
sure must  surely  be  over;  all  the  satisfaction  he 
can  then  have  is  to  show  it  to  others;  he  may  be 
considered  as  the  guardian  of  a  treasure  of  which 
he  makes  no  manner  of  use;  his  gallery  is  furnish- 
ed not  for  himself  but  the  connoisseur,  who  is  ge- 
nerally some  humble  flatterer,  ready  to  feign  a  rap- 
liu:e  hs  does  i^ot  feel,  and  as  nece-ssary  ta  the  hap- 
19 


j  piness  of  a  picture-buyer  as  gazers  are  to  the  mag- 
nificence of  an  Asiatic  procession. 

I  have  enclosed  a  letter  from  a  youth  of  distinc- 
tion, on  his  travels,  to  his  father  in  England; 
in  which  he  appears  addicted  to  no  vice,  seems 
obedient  to  his  governor,  of  a  good  natural  diS' 
position,  and  fond  of  improvement,  but  at  the 
same  time  early  taught  to  regard  Cabinets  and  gal- 
leries as  the  only  proper  schools  of  improvement, 
and  to  con'sdder  a  skill  in  pictures  as  the  properest 
knowledge  for  a  man  of  quality. 

"  My  Lord, 

"We  have  been  but  two  days  an  Antwerp, 
wherefore  I  have  sat  down  as  soon  as  possible,  ta 
give  you  some  account  of  what  we  have  seen  sinco 
our  arrival,  desirous  of  letting  no  opportunity  pass' 
without  writing  to  so  good  a  father.  Immediately 
upon  alighting  from  our  Rotterdam  machine,  my 
governor,  who  is  immoderately  fond  of  paintings, 
and  at  the  same  time  an  excellent  judge,  would  let 
no  time  pass  till  we  paid  oui*  respects  to  the  church" 
of  the  virgin  mother,  which  contains  treasure  l)e- 
yond  estimation.  We  took  an  infinity  of  pains  in 
knowing  its  exact  dimensions,  and  diflered  half  a 
foot  in  our  calculation ;  so  I  leave  that  to  some 
succeeding  information.  I  really  believe  my  go 
vernor  and  I  could  have  lived  and  died  there. 
There  is  scarce  a  pillar  in  the  whole  church  that 
is  not  adorned  by  a  Reubens,  a  Vander  Meuylen, 
a  Vandyke,  or  a  Wouverman.  What  attitudes, 
carnations,  and  draperies  J  I  am  almost  induced 
to  pity  the  English,  who  have  none  of  those  exqui- 
site pieces  among  them.  As  we  were  willing  to 
let  slip  no  opportunity  of  doing  business,  we  im- 
mediately after  went  to  Vvait  on  Mr.  Hogendorp, 
whom  you  have  so  frequently  commended  for  hi* 
judicious  collection.  His  cameos  are  indeed  be- 
yond price:  his  intaglio^  not  so  good.  He  showed 
us  one  of  an  officiating  flamen,  which  he  tliought 
to  be  an  antique ;  but  my  governor,  who  is  not  to- 
be  deceived  in  these  particulars,  soon  found  it  to  be 
an  arrant  cinque  cento.  I  could  not,  however,' 
sufficiently  admire  the  genius  of  Mr.  Hogendorp, 
who  has  been  able  to  collect,  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  a  thousand  things  which  nobody  knows  the 
use  of.  Except  your  lordship  and'  my  governor, 
I  do  not  know  any  body  I  admire  so  much.  He 
is  indeed  a  surprising  genius.  The  next  morning 
early,  as  we  were  resolved  to  take  the  whole  day 
before  us,  we  sent  our  compliments  to  Mr.  Van 
Sprokken,  desiring  to  see  his  gallery,  which  request 
he  very  politely  complied  with.  His  gallery  mea- 
sures fifty  feet  by  twenty,  and  is  well  filled ;  but 
what  surprised  me  most  of  all,  was  to  see  a  holif 
family  just  like  your  lordship's,  which  this  inge- 
nious gentleman  assures  me  is  the  true  original. 
I  own  this  gave  me  inexpressible  Uneasiness,  and 
I  fear  it  will  to  your  lordship,  as  I  had  flattered 


290 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


myself  that  the  only  original  was  in  your  lodship's 
possession;  I  would  advise  you,  however,  to  take 
your's  down,  till  its  merit  can  be  ascertained,  my 
governor  assuring  me,  that  he  intends  to  write  a 
long  dissertation  to  prove  its  originality.  One 
might  study  in  this  city  for  ages,  and  still  find 
something  new  :  we  went  from  this  to  view  the 
cardinal's  statues,  which  are  really  very  fine ;  there 
were  three  spintria  executed  in  a  very  masterly 
manner,  all  arm  in  arm ;  the  torse  which  I  heard 
you  talk  so  much  of,  is  at  last  discovered  to  be  a 
Hercules  spinning,  and  not  a  Cleopatra  bathing, 
as  your  lordship  had  conjectured ;  there  has  been 
a  treatise  written  to  prove  it. 

"  My  Lord  Firmly  is  certainly  a  Goth,  a  Van- 
dal, no  taste  in  the  world  for  painting.  1  wonder 
how  any  call  him  a  man  of  taste  :  passing  through 
the  streets  of  Antwerp  a  few  days  ago,  and  ob- 
serving the  nakedness  of  the  inhabitants,  he  was 
so  barbarous  as  to  observe,  that  he  thought  the 
best  method  the  Flemings  could  take,  was  to  sell 
their  pictures,  and  buy  clothes.  Ah,  Cogline ! 
We  shall  go  to-morrow  to  Mr.  Carwarden's  cabi- 
net, and  the  next  day  we  shall  see  the  curiosities 
collected  by  Van  Rau,  and  the  day  after  we  shall 

pay  a  visit  to  Mount  Calvary,  and  after  that 

but  I  find  my  paper  finished ;  so,  with  the  most 
sincere  wishes  for  your  lordship's  happiness,  and 
with  hopes,  after  having  seen  Italy,  that  centre  of 
pleasure,  to  return  home  worthy  the  care  and  ex- 
pense which  has  been  generously  laid  out  in  my 
mprovement,  I  remain,  my  Lord,  yours,"  etc. 


LETTER  XXXV. 

Prom  flingpo,  a  Slave  in  Persia,  to  Altangi,  a  travelling  Phi- 
losopher of  China,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

Fortune  has  made  me  the  slave  of  another,  but 
nature  and  inclination  render  me  entirely  subser- 
vient to  you :  a  tyrant  commands  my  body,  but  you 
are  master  of  my  heart.  And  yet  let  not  thy  inflexi- 
ble nature  condemn  me  when  I  confess,  that  I  find 
my  soul  shrink  with  my  circumstances.  I  feel  my 
mind  not  less  than  my  body  bend  beneath  the  ri- 
gours of  servitude ;  the  master  whom  I  serve 
grows  ev€ry  day  more  formidable.  In  spite  of 
reason,  which  should  teach  me  to  despise  him,  his 
hideous  image  fills  even  my  dreams  with  horror. 

A  few  days  ago,  a  Christian  slave,  who  wrought 
in  the  gardens,  happening  to  enter  an  arbour, 
where  the  tyrant  was  entertaining  the  ladies  of  his 
haram  with  coffee,  the  unhappy  captive  was  in- 
stantly stabbed  to  the  heart  for  his  intrusion,  I 
have  been  preferred  to  his  place,  which,  though 
less  laborious  than  my  former  station,  is  yet  more 
ungrateful,  as  it  brings  me  nearer  him  whose  pre- 
sence excites  sensations  at  once  of  disgust  and  ap* 
prehension. 


Into  what  a  state  of  misery  are  the  modern  Per- 
sians fallen !  A  nation  famous  for  setting  the 
world  an  example  of  freedom  is  now  become  a  land 
of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves.  The  houseless 
Tartar  of  Kamtschatka,  who  enjoys  his  herbs  and 
his  fish  in  unmolested  freedom,  may  be  envied,  if 
compared  to  the  thousands  who  pine  here  in  hope- 
less servitude,  and  curse  the  day  that  gave  them 
being.  Is  this  just  dealing,  Heaven!  to  render 
millions  wretched  to  swell  up  the  happiness  of  a 
few  7  can  not  the  powerful  of  this  earth  be  happy 
without  our  sighs  and  tears?  must  every  luxury  of 
the  great  be  woven  from  the  calamities  of  the  poorl 
It  must,  it  must  surely  be,  that  this  jarring  dis- 
cordant life  is  but  the  prelude  to  some  future  har- 
mony :  the  soul  attuned  to  virtue  here  shall  go 
from  hence  to  fill  up  the  universal  choir  where 
Tien  presides  in  person,  where  there  shall  be  no 
tyrants  to  frown,  no  shackles  to  bind,  nor  no  whips 
to  threaten;  where  I  shall  once  more  meet  my 
father  with  rapture,  and  give  a  loose  to  filial  piety; 
where  I  shall  hang  on  his  neck,  and  hear  the  wis- 
dom of  his  Hps,  and  thank  him  for  all  the  happi- 
ness to  which  he  has  introduced  me. 

The  wretch  whom  fortune  has  made  my  master 
has  lately  purchased  several  slaves  of  both  sexes  ; 
among  the  rest  I  hear  a  Christian  captive  talked 
of  with  admiration.  The  eunuch  who  bought 
her,  and  who  is  accustomed  to  survey  beauty  with 
indifference,  speaks  of  her  with  emotion !  Her 
pride,  however,  astonishes  her  attendant  slaves  not 
less  than  her  beauty.  It  is  reported  that  she  re- 
fuses the  warmest  solicitations  of  her  haughty  lord: 
he  has  even  offered  to  make  her  one  of  his  four 
wives  upon  changing  her  religion,  and  conforming 
to  his.  It  is  probable  she  can  not  refuse  such  ex- 
traordinary offers,  and  her  delay  is  perhaps  intend- 
ed to  enhance  her  favours. 

I  have  just  now  seen  her ;  she  inadvertently  ap- 
proached the  place  without  a  veil,  where  1  sat 
writing.  She  seemed  to  regard  the  heavens  alone 
with  fixed  attention ;  there  her  most  ardent  gaze 
was  directed.  Genius  of  the  sun !  what  unex- 
pected softness !  what  animated  grace !  her  beauty 
seemed  the  transparent  covering  of  virtue.  Ce- 
lestial beings  could  not  wear  a  look  of  more  per- 
fection, while  sorrow  humanized  her  form,  and 
mixed  my  admiration  with  pity.  I  rose  from  the 
bank  on  which  I  sat,  and  she  retired ;  happy  that 
none  observed  us;  for  such  an  interview  might 
have  been  fatal. 

I  have  regarded,  till  now,  the  opulence  and  the 
power  of  my  tyrant  without  envy.  I  saw  him 
with  a  mind  incapable  of  enjoying  the  gifts  of  for 
tune,  and  consequently  regarded  him  as  one  loaded 
rather  than  enriched  with  its  favours ;  but  at  pre- 
sent, when  I  think  that  so  much  beauty  is  reserv- 
ed only  for  him ;  that  so  many  charms  should  be 
lavished  on  a  wretch  incapable  of  feeling  the  greats 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


291 


ness  of  the  blessing,  I  own  I  feel  a  reluctance  to 
which  1  have  hitherto  been  a  stranger. 

But  let  not  my  father  impute  those  uneasy  sen- 
sations to  so  trifling  a  cause  as  love.  No,  never 
let  it  be  thought  that  7jour  son,  and  the  pupil  of  the 
wise  Fum  Hoam,  could  stoop  to  so  degrading  a 
passion ;  I  am  only  displeased  at  seeing  so  much 
excellence  so  unjustly  disposed  of. 

The  uneasiness  which  I  feel  is  not  for  myself, 
but  for  the  beautiful  Christian.  When  I  reflect 
on  the  barbarity  of  him  for  whom  she  is  designed, 
1  pity,  indeed  I  pity  her ;  when  I  think  that  she 
must  only  share  one  heartj  who  deserves  to  com- 
mand a  thousand,  excuse  me  if  1  feel  an  emotion 
which  universal  benevolence  extorts  from  me.  As 
I  am  convinced  that  you  take  a  pleasure  in  those 
sallies  of  humanity,  and  particularly  pleased  with 
compassion,  1  could  not  avoid  discovering  the  sen- 
sibility with  which  1  felt  this  beautiful  stranger's 
distress.  I  have  for  a  while  forgot,  in  her's,  the 
miseries  of  my  own  hopeless  situation ;  the  tyrant 
grows  every  day  more  severe  j  and  love,  which  soft- 
ens all  other  minds  into  tenderness,  seems  only  to 
have  increased  his  severity.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXVL 


From  the  Same. 


The  whole  haram  is  filled  with  a  tumultuous 
joy ;  Zelis,  the  beautiful  captive,  has  consented  to 
embrace  the  religion  of  Mahomet,  and  become  one 
of  the  wives  of  the  fastidious  Persian.  It  is  im- 
possible to  describe  the  transport  that  sits  on  every 
face  on  this  occasion.  Music  and  feasting  fill 
every  apartment,  the  most  miserable  slave  seems 
to  fijfget  his  chains,  and  sympathizes  with  the 
happiness  of  Mostadad.  The  herb  we  tread  be- 
neath our  feet  is  not  made  more  for  our  use  than 
every  slave  around  him  for  their  imperious  niaster ; 
mere  machines  of  obedience,  they  wait  with  silent 
assiduity,  feel  his  pains,  and  rejoice  in  his  exuha- 
tion.  Heavens,  how  much  is  requisite  ta  make 
one  man  happy  1 

Twelve  of  the  most  beautiful  slaves,  and  I  among 
the  number,  have  got  orders  to  prepare  for  carry- 
ing him  in  triumph  to  the  bridal  apartment.  The 
blaze  of  perfumed  torches  are  to  imitate  the  day  ; 
the  dancers  and  singers  are  hired  at  a  vast  expense. 
The  nuptials  are  to  be  celebrated  on  the  ap- 
proaching feast  of  Barboura,  when  a  hundred  taels 
of  gold  are  to  be  distributed  among  the  barren 
wives,  in  order  to  pray  for  fertility  from  the  ap- 
proaching union. 

What  will  not  riches  procure !  A  hundred  do- 
mestics, who  curse  the  tyrant  in  their  souls,  are 
commanded  to  wear  a  face  of  joy,  and  they  are 
joyful.  A  hundifed  flatterers  are  ordered  to  attend, 


and  they  fill  his  ears  with  praise.  Beauty,  all-com- 
manding beauty,  sues  for  admittance,  and  scarcely 
receives  an  answer :  even  love  itself  seems  to  wait 
upon  fortune,  or  though  the  passion  be  only  feignedy 
yet  it  wears  every  appearance  of  sincerity :  and 
what  greater  pleasure  can  even  true  sincerity  con- 
fer, or  what  would  jthe  rich  have  more? 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  intended  magnificence 
of  the  bridegroom,  but  the  costly  dresses  of  the  bride  ; 
six  eunuchs,  in  the  most  sumptuous  habits,  are  to 
conduct  him  to  the  nuptial  coUch,  and  wait  hife 
orddfs.  Six  ladies,  in  all  the  magnificence  of  Per- 
sia, are  directed  to  undress  the  bride'.  Their  busi- 
ness is  to  assist,  to  encourage  hef,  to  divest  her  of 
every  encumbering  part  of  hei"  dress,  all  but  the 
last  covering,  which,  by  an  artful  complication  of 
ribands,  is  purposely  made  difficult  to  unloose,  and 
with  which  she  is  to  part  reluctantly  even  to  theJ 
joyful  possessor  of  her  beauty. 

Mostadad,  O  my  father!  is  no  philosopher  ;  and 
yet  he  seems  perfectly  contented  with  ignorance^ 
Possessed  of  numberless  slaves,  camels  and  women, 
he  desires  no  greater  possession.  He  never  open- 
ed the  page  of  Mentius,  and  yet  all  the  slaves  tell 
me  that  he  is  happy. 

Forgive  the  weakness  of  my  nature,  if  I  Some-' 
times  feel  my  heart  rebelliotis  to  the  dictates  of  wis- 
dom, and  eager  for  happiness  like  his.  Yet  why 
wish  for  his  wealth  with  his  ignorance?  to  be  like 
him,  incapable  of  sentimental  pleasures,  incapable 
of  feeling  the  happiness  of  making  others  happy,' 
incapable  of  teaching  the  beautiful  ZeUsphilbsophyt 

Whatl  shall  I  in  a  transport  of  paSSion  give  up' 
the  golden  mean,  the  universal  hkrmony,  the  un-' 
changing  essence,  for  the  possession  of  a  hundred 
camels,  as  many  slaves,  thirty -five  beautiful  horses, 
and  seventy -three  fine  womeni?  First  blast  me  to' 
the  centre!  degrade  me  beneath  the  most  degraded/ 
pare  my  nails,  ye  povvers  of  Heaven!  ere  I  would 
stoop  to  such  an  exchalige.  What!  part  with  phi- 
losophy, ^hich  teaches  me  to  suppreiss  my  passion^ 
instead  of  gratifying  them,  which  teaches  me  evert 
to  divest  my  soul  of  passion,  which  teaches  serenity 
in  the  midst  of  tortures!  philosophy,  by  which  even 
now  I  am  so  very  serene,  and  so  very  much  at  ease^ 
to  be  persuaded  to  part  with  it  for  any  Other  en- 
joyment! Nevef,  never,  even  though  persuasion' 
spoke  in  the  aiccents  of  Zelis! 

A  femate  slave  informs  me  that  the  bride  is  to  be 
arrayed  in  a  tissue  of  silver,  and  her  hair  adorned 
with  the  largest  pearls  of  Ormiis :  but  why  tease' 
you  with  particulars,  in  which  we  both  are  so  little' 
concerned.  The  pain  I  feel  in  separation  throws* 
a  gloom  over  my  mind,  which  in  this  scehe  of  ttm-' 
versal  joy,  I  fear  may  be  attributed  to  som6  ofher 
cause :  how  wretched  are  those  who  are,  like  me, 
denied  even  the  last  ifesoUrce  of  mfeefy,  tlieir  tears! 
Adjeu,^ 


292 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


LETTER  XXX VII. 


From  the  Same. 


I  BEGIN  to  have  doubts  whether  wisdom  be  alone 
suiBcient  to  make  us  happy :  whether  every  step 
we  make  in  refinement  is  not  an  inlet  into  new 
disquietudes.  A  mind  too  vigorous  and  active 
serves  only  to  consume  the  body  to  which  it  is 
joined,  as  the  richest  jewels  are  soonest  found  to 
wear  their  settings. 

When  we  rise  in  knowledge,  as  the  prospect 
widens,  the  objects  of  our  regard  become  more 
obscure ;  and  the  unlettered  peasant,  whose  views 
are  only  directed  to  the  narrow  sphere  around  him, 
beholds  Nature  with  a  finer  relish,  and  tastes  her 
blessings  with  a  keener  appetite  than  the  philoso- 
pher whose  mind  attempts  to  grasp  a  universal 
system. 

As  I  was  some  days  ago  pursuing  this  subject 
among  a  circle  of  my  fellow-slaves,  an  ancient 
Guebre  of  the  number,  equally  remarkable  for  his 
piety  and  wisdom,  seemed  touched  with  my  con- 
versation, and  desired  to  illustrate  what  I  had  been 
saying  with  an  allegory  taken  from  the  Zendavesta 
of  Zoroaster :  by  this  we  shall  be  taught,  says  he, 
that  they  who  travel  in  pursuit  of  wisdom  walk 
only  in  a  circle ;  and  after  all  their  labour,  at  last 
return  to  their  pristine  ignorance ;  and  in  this  also 
we  shall  see,  that  enthusiastic  confidence  or  unsat- 
isfying doubts  terminate  all  our  inquiries. 

In  early  times,  before  myriads^of  nations  covered 
the  earth,  the  whole  human  race  lived  together  in 
one  valley.  The  simple  inhabitants,  surrounded 
on  every  side  by  lofty  mountains,  knew  no  other 
world  but  the  little  spot  to  which  they  were  confin- 
ed. They  fancied  the  heavens  bent  down  to  meet 
the  mountain  tops,  and  formed  an  impenetrable 
wall  to  surround  them.  None  had  ever  yet  veii- 
tured  to  climb  the  steepy  clifif,  in  order  to  explore 
those  regions  that  lay  beyond  it ;  they  knew  the 
nature  of  the  skies  only  from  a  tradition,  which 
mentioned  their  being  made  of  adamant :  traditions 
make  up  the  reasonings  of  the  simple,  and  serve  to 
silence  every  inquiry. 

In  this  sequestered  vale,  blessed  with  all  the 
spontaneous  productions  of  Nature,  the  honeyed 
blossom,  the  refreshing  breeze,  the  gliding  brook, 
and  golden  fruitage,  the  simple  inhabita)its  seemed 
happy  in  themselves,  in  each  other ;  they  desired 
no  greater  pleasures,  for  they  knew  of  none  great- 
er ;  ambition,  pride,  and  envy,  were  vices  unknown 
among  them;  and  from  this  peculiar  simplicity 
of  its  possessors,  the  country  was  called  the  Valley 
of  Ignorance. 

At  length,  however,  an  unhappy  youth,  more 
aspiring  than  the  rest,  undertook  to  climb  the 
mountain's  side,  and  examine  the  summits  which 
were  hitherto  deemed  inaccessible.     The  inhabit- 


ants from  below  gazed  with  Wonder  at  his  intre- 
pidity ;  some  applauded  his  courage,  others  ceusur 
ed  his  folly  ;  still,  however,  he  proceeded  towards 
the  place  where  the  earth  and  heavens  st>emed  to 
unite,  and  at  length  arrived  at  the  wished-for  height 
with  extreme  labour  and  assiduity. 

His  first  surprise  was  to  find  the  skies,  not  as  he 
expected  within  his  reach,  but  still  as  far  off  as  be- 
fore ;  his  amazement  increased  when  he  saw  a  wide 
extended  region  lying  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
mountain,  but  it  rose  to  astonishment  when  he 
beheld  a  country  at  a  distance  more  beautiful  and 
alluring  than  even  that  he  had  just  left  behind. 

As  he  continued  to  gaze  with  wonder,  a  genius, 
with  a  look  of  infinite  modesty,  approaching,  oflTer- 
ed  to  be  his  guide  and  instructor.  The  distant 
country  which  you  so  much  admire,  says  the  an- 
gelic being,  is  called  the  Land  of  Certainty:  in  that 
charming  retreat,  sentiment  contributes  to  refine 
every  sensual  banquet ;  the  inhabitants  are  blessed 
with  every  solid  enjoyment,  and  still  more  blessed 
in  a  perfect  consciousness  of  their  own  felicity :  ig- 
norance in  that  country  is  wholly  unknown ;  all 
there  is  satisfaction  without  allay,  for  every  pleasure 
first  undergoes  the  examination  of  reason.  As  for 
me,  I  am  called  the  Genius  of  Demonstration,  and 
am  stationed  here  in  order  to  conduct  every  adven- 
turer to  that  land  of  happiness,  through  those  inter- 
vening regions  you  see  overhung  with  fogs  and 
darkness,  and  horrid  with  forests,  cataracts,  cav- 
erns, and  various  other  shapes  of  danger.  But  fol- 
low me,  and  in  time  I  may  lead  you  to  that  distant 
desirable  land  of  tranquillity. 

The  intrepid  traveller  immediately  put  himself 
under  the  direction  of  the  genius,  and  both  jour- 
neying on  together  with  a  slow  but  agreeable  pace, 
deceived  the  tediousness  of  the  way  by  conversa- 
tion. The  beginning  of  the  journey  seemed  to 
promise  true  satisfaction,  but  as  they  proceeded 
forward,  the  skies  became  more  gloomy  and  the 
way  more  intricate;  they  often  inadvertently  ap- 
proached the  brow  of  some  frightful  precipice,  or 
the  brink  of  a  torrent,  and  were  obliged  to  measure 
back  their  former  way:  the  gloom  increasing  as 
they  proceeded,  their  pace  became  more  slow ;  they 
paused  at  every  step,  frequently  stumbled,  and  their 
distrust  and  timidity  increased.  The  Genius  of 
Demonstration  now  therefore  advised  his  pupil  to 
grope  upon  hands  and  feet,  as  a  method,  though 
more  slow,  yet  less  liable  to  error. 

In  this  manner  they  attempted  to  pursue  their 
journey  for  some  time,  when  they  were  overtaken 
by  another  genius,  who  with  a  precipitate  pace 
seemed  travelling  the  same  way.  He  was  instant- 
ly known  by  the  other  to  be  the  Genius  of  Proba- 
bility. He  wore  two  wide  extended  wings  at  his 
back,  which  incessantly  waved,  without  increasing 
the  rapidity  of  his  motion;  his  countenance  be- 
trayed a  confidence  that  the  ignorant  might  mia- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


take  for  sincerity,  and  he  had  but  one  eye,  which 
was  rixed  in  the  middle  of  his  forehead. 

Servant  of  Hormizda,  cried  he,  approaching  the 
mortal  pilgrim,  if  thou  art  travelling  to  the  Land 
of  Certainty^  how  is  it  possible  to  arrive  there  un- 
der the  guidance  of  a  genius,  who  proceeds  for- 
ward so  slowly,  and  is  so  Uttle  acquainted  with  the 
way?  Follow  me,  we  shall  soon  perform  the 
journey  to  where  every  pleasure  waits  our  arrival. 

The  peremptory  tone  in  which  this  genius  spoke, 
and  the  speed  with  which  he  moved  forward,  in- 
duced the  traveller  to  change  his  conductor,  and 
leaving  his  modest  companion  behind,  he  proceed- 
ed forward  with  his  more  confident  director,  seem- 
ing not  a  little  pleased  at  the  increased  velocity  of 
his  motion. 

But  soon  he  found  reasons  to  repent.  When- 
ever a  torrent  crossed  their  way,  his  guide  taught 
him  to  despise  the  obstacle  by  plunging  him  in ; 
whenever  a  precipice  presented,  he  was  directed  to 
fling  himself  forward.  Thus  each  moment  miracu- 
lously escaping,  his  repeated  escapes  only  served 
to  increase  his  temerity.  He  led  him  therefore 
forward,  amidst  infinite  difficulties,  till  they  arrived 
at  the  borders  of  an  ocean,  which  appeared  innavi- 
gable from  the  black  mists  that  lay  upon  its  sur- 
face. Its  unquiet  waves  were  of  the  darkest  hue, 
and  gave  a  hvely- representation  of  the  various  agi- 
tations of  the  human  mind. 

The  Genius  of  Probability  now  confessed  his 
temerity,  owned  his  being  an  improper  guide  to  the 
Land  of  Certainty^  a  country  where  no  mortal 
had  ever  been  permitted  to  arrive ;  but  at  the  same 
time  offered  to  supply  the  traveller  with  another 
conductor,  who  should  carry  him  to  the  Land  of 
Confidence,  a  region  where  the  inhabitants  lived 
with  the  utmost  tranquillity,  and  tasted  almost  as 
much  satisfaction  as  if  in^the  Land  of  Certainty. 
Not  waiting  for  a  reply,  he  stamped  three  times  on 
the  ground,  and  called  forth  the  Demon  of  Error, 
a  gloomy  fiend  of  the  servants  of  Arimanes.  The 
yawning  earth  gave  up  the  reluctant  savage,  who 
seemed  unable  to  bear  the  light  of  the  day.  His 
stature  was  enormous,  his  colour  black  and  hideous, 
his  aspect  betrayed  a  thousand  varying  passions, 
and  he  spread  forth  pinions  that  were  fitted  for  the 
most  rapid  flight.  The  traveller  at  first  was  shock- 
ed at  the  spectre;  but  finding  him  obedient  to  su- 
perior power,  he  assumed  his  former  tranquillity. 

I  have  called  you  to  duty,  cries  the  genius  to  the 
demon,  to  bear  on  your  back  a  son  of  mortality 
over  the  Ocean  of  Doubts,  into  the  Land  of  Con- 
fidence: I  expect  you'll  perform  your  commission 
with  punctuality.  And  as  for  you,  continued  the 
genius,  addressing  the  traveller,  when  once  I  have 
bound  this  fillet  round  your  eyes,  let  no  voice  of 
persuasion,  nor  threats  the  most  terrifying,  per- 
fuade  you  to  unbind  it  in  order  to  look  round ;  keep 
the  fillet  fast,  look  not  at  the  ocean  below,  and 


you  may  certainly  expect  to  arrive  at  a  region  of 
pleasure. 

Thus  saying,  and  the  traveller's  eyes  being 
covered,  the  demon,  muttering  curses,  raised  him 
on  his  back,  and  instantly  upborne  by  his  strong 
pinions,  directed  his  flight  among  the  clouds.  Nei- 
ther the  loudest  thunder,  nor  the  most  angry  tem- 
pest, could  persuade  the  traveller  to  unbind  his 
eyes.  The  demon  directed  his  flight  downwards, 
and  skimmed  the  surface  of  the  ocean  j  a  thousand 
voices,  some  with  loud  invectives,  others  in  the 
sarcastic  tones  of  contempt,  vainly  endeavoured  to 
persuade  him  to  look  round ;  but  he  still  continued 
to  keep  his  eyes  covered,  and  would  in  all  proba- 
biUty  have  arrived  at  the  happy  land,  had  not  flat- 
tery eflJected  what  other  means  could  not  perform. 
For  now  he  heard  himself  welcomed  on  every  side 
to  the  promised  land,  and  a  universal  shout  of  joy 
was  sent  forth  at  his  safe  arrival.  The  wearied 
traveller,  desirous  of  seeing  the  long  wished  for 
country,  at  length  pulled  the  fillet  from  his  eyes, 
and  ventured  to  look  round  him.  But  he  had  un- 
loosed the  band  too  soon ;  he  was  not  yet  above 
half-way  over.  The  demon,  who  was  still  hover- 
ing in  the  air,  and  had  produced  those  sounds  only 
in  order  to  deceive,  was  now  freed  from  his  com- 
mission; wherefore  throwing  the  astonished  travel- 
ler from  his  back,  the  unhappy  youth  fell  headlong 
into  the  subjacent  Ocean  of  Doubts,  from  whence 
he  never  after  was  seen  to  rise. 


LETTER  XXXVIII. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin  in  Ciiina. 

When  Parmenio,  the  Grecian,  had  done  some- 
thing which  excited  a  universal  shout  from  the 
surrounding  multitude,  he  was  instantly  struck 
with  the  doubt,  that  what  had  their  approbation 
must  certainly  be  wrong ;  and  turning  to  a  philoso- 
pher who  stood  near  him.  Pray,  sir,  says  he,  par- 
don me;  I  fear  I  have  been  guilty  of  some  ab' 
surdity. 

You  know  that  I  am  not  less  than  him  a  dcspiser 
of  the  multitude ;  you  know  that  I  equally  detest 
flattery  to  the  great ;  yet  so  many  circumstances 
have  concurred  to  give  a  lustre  to  the  latter  part  of 
the  present  English  monarch's  reign,  that  I  can  not 
withhold  my  contribution  of  praise ;  I  can  not  avoid 
the  acknowledging  the  crowd,  for  once,  just  in  their 
unanimous  approbation. 

Yet  think  not  that  battles  gained,  dominion  ex- 
tended, or  enemies  brought  to  submission,  are  the 
virtues  which  at  present  claim  my  admiration. 
Were  the  reigning  monarch  only  famous  for  his 
victories,  I  should  regard  his  character  with  indif 
ference :  the  boast  of  heroism  in  this  enlightened 
age  is  justly  regarded  as  a  qualification  of  a  very 


294 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


subordinate  rank,  and  mankind  now  begin  to  look 
witn  becoming  horror  on  these  foes  to  man.  The 
virtue  in  this  aged  monarch  which  I  have  at  pre- 
sent in  view,  is  one  of  a  much  more  exalted  nature, 
is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  attainment,  is  the  least 
praised  of  all  kingly  virtues,  and  yet  deserves  the 
greatest  praise;  the  virtue  I  mean  is  Justice  ;  strict 
administration  of  justice,  without  severity  and  with- 
out favour. 

Of  all  virtwes  this  is  the  most  difficult  to  be  prac- 
tised by  a  king  who  has  a  power  to  pardon.  All 
men,  even  tyrants  themselves,  lean  to  mercy  when 
unbiassed  by  passions  or  interest ;  the  heart  natural- 
ly persuades  to  forgiveness,  and  pursuing  the  dic- 
tates of  this  pleasing  deceiver,  we  are  led  to  prefer 
'  our  private  satisfaction  to  public  utility.  What  a 
thorough  love  for  the  public,  what  a  strong  com- 
mand over  the  passions,  what  a  finely  conducted 
judgment  must  he  possess,  who  opposes  the  dic- 
tates of  reason  to  those  of  his  heart,  and  prefers  the 
future  interest  of  his  people  to  his  own  immediate 
satisfaction! 

If  still  to  a  man's  own  natural  bias  for  tender- 
derness,  we  add  the  numerous  solicitations  made 
by  a  criminal's  friends  for  mercy ;  if  we  survey  a 
king  not  only  opposing'  his  own  feelings,  but  re- 
luctantly refusing  those  he  regards,  and  this  to 
satisfy  the  public,  whose  cries  he  may  never  hear, 
whose  gratitude  he  may  never  receive,  this  surely 
is  true  greatness !  Let  us  fancy  ourselves  for  a 
moment  in  this  just  old  man's  place,  surrounded 
by  numbers,  all  soliciting  the  same  favour,  a  favour 
that  nature  disposes  us  to  grant,  where  the  induce- 
ments to  pity  are  laid  before  us  in  the  strongest 
light,  suppliants  at  our  feet,  some  ready  to  resent 
a  refusal,  none  opposing  a  compliance;  let  us,  I 
say,  suppose  ourselves  in  such  a  situation,  and  I 
fancy  we  should  find  ourselves  more  apt  to  act  the 
character  of  good-natured  men  than  of  upright 
magistrates. 

What  contributes  to  raise  justice  above  all  other 
kingly  virtues  is,  that  it  is  seldom  attended  with  a 
due  share  of  applause,  and  those  who  practise  it 
must  be  influenced  by  greater  motives  than  empty 
fame:  the  people  are  generally  well  pleased  with  a 
remission  of  punishment,  and  all  that  wears  the 
ijippearance  of  humanity ;  it  is  the  wise  alone  who 
are  capable  of  discerning  that  impartial  justice  is 
the  truest  mercy :  they  know  it  to  be  very  difficult, 
at  once  to  compassionate,  and  yet  condemn  an  ob- 
ject that  pleads  for  tenderness. 

I  have  been  led  into  this  common-place  train  of 
thougnt  by  a  late  striking  instance  in  this  country 
of  the  impartiality  of  justice,  and  of  the  king's  in- 
flexible resolution  of  inflicting  punishment  where 
it  was  justly  due.  A  man  of  the  first  quality,  in 
a  fit  either  of  passion,  melancholy,  or  madness, 
piurdered  his  servant:  it  was  expected  that  his  sta- 
,<4on  in  life  would  have  lessened  the  ignominy  of  his 


punishment ;  however,  he  was  arraigned,  condemn- 
ed, and  underwent  the  same  degrading  death  with 
the  meanest  malefactor.  It  was  well  considered 
that  virtue  alone  is  true  nobility;  and  that  he  whose 
actions  sink  him  even  beneath  the  vulgar,  has  no 
right  to  those  distinctions  which  should  be  the  re- 
ward only  of  merit :  it  was  perhaps  considered  that 
crimes  were  more  heinous  among  the  higher  classes 
of  people,  as  necessity  exposes  them  to  fewer  temp- 
tations. 

Over  all  the  East,  even  China  not  excepted,  a 
person  of  the  same  quality,  guilty  of  such  a  crime, 
might,  by  giving  up  a  share  of  his  fortune  to  the 
judge,  buy  off  his  sentence.  There  are  several 
countries,  even  in  Europe,  where  the  servant  is 
entirely  the  property  of  his  master :  if  a  slave  kills 
his  lord,  he  dies  by  the  most  excruciating  tortures; 
but  if  the  circumstances  are  reversed,  a  small  fine 
buys  off  the  punishment  of  the  offender.  Happy 
the  country  where  all  are  equal,  and  where  those 
who  sit  as  judges  have  too  much  integrity  to  receive 
a  bribe,  and  too  much  honour  to  pity  from  a  simili- 
tude of  the  prisoner's  title  or  circumstances  with 
their  own.  Such  is  England :  yet  think  not  that 
it  was  always  equally  famed  for  this  strict  imparti- 
ality. There  was  a  time,  even  here,  when  title 
softened  the  rigours  of  the  law,  when  dignified 
wretches  were  suflfered  to  live,  and  continue  for 
years  an  equal  disgrace  to  justice  and  nobility. 

To  this  day,  in  a  neighbouring  country,  the  great 
are  often  most  scandalously  pardoned  for  the  most 
scandalous  offences.  A  person  is  still  ahve  among 
them  who  has  more  than  once  deserved  the  most 
ignominious  severity  of  justice.  His  being  of  the 
blood  royal,  however,  was  thought  a  sufficient  atone- 
ment for  his  being  a  disgrace  to  humanity.  This 
remarkable  personage  took  pleasure  in  shooting  at 
the  passengers  below  from  the  top  of  his  palace; 
and  in  this  most  princely  amusement  he  usually 
spent  some  time  every  day.  He  was  at  length  ar- 
raigned by  the  friends  of  a  person  whom  in  this 
manner  he  had  killed,  was  found  guilty  of  the 
charge,  and  condemned  to  die.  His  merciful  mon-r 
arch  pardoned  him,  in  consideration  of  his  rank 
and  quality.  The  unrepenting  criminal  soon  after 
renewed  his  usual  entertainment,  and  in  the  same 
manner  killed  another  man.  He  was  a  second 
time  condemned ;  and,  strange  to  think,  a  second 
time  received  his  majesty's  pardon !  Would  you 
believe  it?  A  third  time  the  very  same  man  was 
guilty  of  the  very  same  offence;  a  third  time,  there- 
fore, the  laws  of  his  country  found  him  guilty: — 1 
wish,  for  the  honour  of  humanity,  I  could  suppress 
the  rest — a  third  time  he  was  pardoned !  Will  you 
not  think  such  a  story  too  extraordinary  for  belief? 
will  you  not  think  me  describing  the  savage  inhabi- 
tants of  Congo?  Alas!  the  story  is  but  too  true; 
and  the  country  where  it  was  transacted  regards 
itself  as  the  politest  in  Europe !  Adieu. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


895 


LETTER  XXXIX. 

ftom  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  *  *  *,  Merchant  in  Amsterdam. 

Ceremonies  are  different  in  every  country;  but 
true  politeness  is  every  where  the  same.  Ceremo- 
nies, which  take  up  so  much  of  our  attention,  are 
only  artificial  helps  which  ignorance  assumes,  in 
order  to  imitate  politeness,  which  is  the  result  of 
good  sense  and  good  nature.  A  person  possessed 
of  those  qualities,  though  he  had  never  seen  a  court, 
is  truly  agreeable ;  and  if  without  them  would  con- 
tinue a  clown,  though  he  had  been  all  his  life  a 
gentleman  usher. 

How  would  a  Chinese,  bred  up  in  the  formalities 
of  an  Eastern  Court,  be  regarded,  should  he  carry 
all  his  good  manners  beyond  the  Great  Wall  7 
How  would  an  Englishman,  skilled  in  all  the  de- 
corums of  Western  good-breeding,  appear  at  an 
Eastern  entertainment — would  he  not  be  reckoned 
more  fantastically  savage  than  even  his  unbred 
tbotman? 

Ceremony  resembles  that  base  coin  which  circu- 
lates through  a  country  by  the  royal  mandate;  it 
serves  every  purpose  of  real  money  at  home,  but  is 
entirely  useless  if  .carried  abroad :  a  person  who 
should  attempt  to  circulate  his  native  trash  in  ano- 
ther country,  would  be  thought  either  ridiculous  or 
culpable.  He  is  truly  well-bred,  who  knows  when 
to  value  and  when  to  despise  those  national  pecu- 
liarities, which  are  regarded  by  some  with  so  much 
observance :  a  traveller  of  taste  at  ontje  perceives 
that  the  wise  are  polite  all  the  world  over,  but  that 
fools  are  polite  only  at  home. 

I  have  now  before  me  two  very  fashionable  let- 
ters upon  the  same  subject,  both  written  by  ladies 
of  distinction ;  one  of  whom  leads  the  fashion  in 
England,  and  the  other  sets  the  ceremonies  of 
China:  they  are  both  regarded  in  their  respective 
countries,  by  all  the  beau  monde,  as  standards  of 
taste,  and  models  of  true  politeness,  and  both  give 
us  a  true  idea  of  what  they  imagine  elegant  in  their 
admirers :  which  of  them  understands  true  polite- 
ness, or  whether  either,  you  shall  be  at  liberty  to 
determine.  The  English  lady  writes  thus  to  her 
female  confidant: — 

As  I  live,  my  dear  Charlotte,  I  believe  the  colo- 
nel will  carry  it  at  last;  he  is  a  most  irresistible  fel- 
low, that  is  flat.  So  well  dressed,  so  neat,  so 
sprightly,  and  plays  about  one  so  agreeably,  that  I 
vow,  he  has  as  much  spirits  as  the  Marquis  of 
Monkeyman's  Italian  greyhound.  I  first  saw  him 
at  Ranelagh;  he  shines  there:  he  is  nothing  v^'ith- 
out  Ranelagh,  and  Ranelagh  nothing  without  him. 
The  next  day  he  sent  a  card  and  compliments,  de- 
siring to  wait  on  mamma  and  me  to  the  music  sub- 
flcription.  He  looked  all  the  time  with  such  irre- 
Mstible  impudence,  that  positively  he  had  something 


in  his  face  gave  me  as  much  pleasure  as  a  pair- 
royal  of  naturals  in  my  own  hand.  He  waited  on 
mamma  and  me  the  next  morning  to  know  how 
we  got  home :  you  must  know  the  insidious  devil 
makes  love  to  us  both.  Rap  went  the  footman  at 
the  door;  bounce  went  my  heart:  I  thought  he 
would  have  rattled  the  house  down.  Chariot  drove 
up  to  the  window,  with  his  footmen  in  the  prettiest 
liveries ;  he  has  infinite  taste,  that  is  flat.  Mamma 
had  spent  all  the  morning  at  her  head ;  but  for  my 
part  I  was  in  an  undress  to  receive  him;  quite  easy, 
mind  that;  no  way  disturbed  at  his  approacli: 
mamma  pretended  to  be  as  degag^e  as  I ;  and  yet 
I  saw  her  blush  in  spite  of  her.  Positively  he  is  a 
most  killing  devil !  We  did  nothing  but  laugh  all 
the  time  he  staid  with  us ;  I  never  heard  so  many 
very  good  things  before  :  at  first  he  mistook  mamma 
for  my  sister ;  at  which  she  laughed :  then  he  mis- 
took my  natural  complexion  for  paint ;  at  which  I 
laughed :  and  then  he  showed  us  a  picture  in  the 
lid  of  his  snuff-box,  at  which  we  all  laughed.  He 
plays  piquet  so  very  ill,  and  is  so  very  fond  of  cards, 
and  loses  with  such  a  grace,  that  positively  he  has 
won  me :  I  have  got  a  cool  hundred ;  but  have  lost 
my  heart.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  he  is  only  a 
colonel  of  the  train-bands.  I  am,  dear  Charlotte, 
yours  for  ever,  Belinda. 

The  Chinese  lady  addresses  ner  confidant,  a  poor 
relation  of  the  family,  upon  the  same  occasion ;  in 
which  she  seems  to  understand  decorums  even  bet- 
ter than  the  Western  beauty.  You,  who  have  re- 
sided so  long  in  China,  will  readily  acknowledge 
the  picture  to  be  taken  from  nature;  and,  by  being 
acquainted  with  the  Chinese  customs,  will  better 
apprehend  the  lady's  meaning. 

FROM  YAOUA  TO  YAYA. 

Papa  insists  upon  one,  two,  three,  four  hundred 
taels  from  the  colonel  my  lover,  before  he  parts 
with  a  lock  of  my  hair.  Ho,  how  I  wish  the  dear 
creature  may  be  able  to  produce  the  money,  and 
pay  papa  my  fortune.  The  colonel  is  reckoned 
the  politest  man  in  all  Shensi.  The  first  visit  he 
paid  at  our  house,  mercy,  what  stooping,  and  cring- 
ing, and  stopping,  and  fidgeting,  and  going  back, 
and  creeping  forward,  there  was  between  him  and 
papa;  one  would  have  thought  he  had  got  the  seven- 
teen books  of  ceremonies  all  by  heart.  When  he 
was  come  into  the  hall  he  flourished  his  hands  three 
times  in  a  very  graceful  manner.  Papa,  who  would 
not  be  outdone  flourished  his  four  times ;  upon  this 
the  colonel  began  again,  and  both  thus  continued 
flourishing  for  some  minutes  in  the  politest  manner 
imaginable.  I  was  posted  in  the  usual  place  be- 
hind the  screen,  where  I  saw  the  whole  ceremony 
through  a  slit.  Of  this  the  colonel  was  sensible, 
for  papa  informed  him.  I  would  have  given  the 
world  to  have  shown  him  my  Uttle  shoes,  but  had 


296 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


no  opportunity.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever 
the  happiness  of  seeing  any  man  but  papa,  and  1 
vow,  my  dear  Yaya,  I  thought  my  three  souls 
would  actually  have  fled  from  my  lips.  Ho,  but 
he  looked  most  charmingly ;  he  is  reckoned  the 
best  shaped  man  in  the  whole  province,  for  he  is 
very  fat,  and  very  short ;  but  even  those  natural 
advantages  are  improved  by  his  dress,  which  is 
fashionable  past  description.  His  head  was  close 
shaven,  all  but  the  crown,  and  the  hair  of  that  was 
braided  into  a  most  beautiful  tail,  that  reached 
dJ)wn  to  his  heels,  and  was  terminated  by  a  bunch 
of  yeJlow  roses.  Upon  his  first  entering  the  room, 
I  could  easily  perceive  he  had  been  highly  perfum- 
ed with  assafoetida.  But  then  his  looks,  his  looks, 
my  dear  Yaya,  were  irresistible.  He  kept  his 
eyes  steadfastly  fixed  on  the  wall  during  the  whole 
ceremony,  and  1  sincerely  believe  no  accident  could 
have  discomposed  his  gravity,  or  drawn  his  eyes 
away.  After  a  polite  silence  of  two  hours,  he 
gallantly  begged  to  hqive  the  singing  women  in- 
troduced, purely  for  my  amusement.  After  one 
of  them  had  for  some  time  entertained  us  with  her 
voice,  the  colonel  and  she  retired  for  some  minutes  to- 
gethLer.  I  thought  they  would  never  have  come  ba^k : 
I  must  own  he  is  a  most  agreeable  creature.  Upon 
his  return,  Jhey  again  renewed  the  concert,  and 
he  continued  to  gaze  upon  the  wall  as  usual,  when 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  more,  ho!  but  he  retired 
out  of  the  room  with  another,  fie  is  indeed  a 
most  agreeable  creature. 

When  he  came  to  take  his  leave,  the  whole 
ceremony  began  afresh ;  papa  would  see  him  to 
the  door,  but  the  colonel  swore  he  would  rather  see 
the  earth  turned  upside  down  than  permit  him  to 
stir  a  single  step,  and  papa  was  at  last  obliged  to 
comply.  As  soon  as  he  was  got  to  the  door,  papf^ 
went  out  to  see  him  on  horseback ;  here  they  con- 
jtinued  half  an  hour  bowing  and  cringing,  before 
one  would  mount  or  the  other  go  in,  but  the  colo- 
pel  was  at  last  victorious.  He  had  scarce  gone  a 
hundred  paces  from  the  house,  when  papa,  run- 
ning out,  halloo'd  after  him,  A  good  journey  ;  up- 
on which  the  colonel  returned,  and  would  see 
papa  into  his  house  before  ever  he  would  depart. 
He  was  no  sooner  got  home  than  he  sent  me  a 
very  fine  present  of  duck  eggs  painted  of  twenty 
different  colours.  His  generosity  I  own  has  won 
jme.  I  have  ever  since  been  trying  over  the  eight 
jietterg  of  good  fortune,  and  have  great  hopes.  All 
J  have  to  apprehend  js,  that  after  hp  has  married 
me,  and  that  I  am  carried  to  his  house  close  shut 
up  in  my  chair,  when  he  comes  to  have  the  first 
sight  of  my  face,  he  may  shut  me  up  a  second  time 
and  send  me  back  to  papa.  However,  I  shall  ap- 
pear as  fine  as  possible :  mamma  and  1  have  been  to 
buy  the  clothes  for  my  wedding.  I  am  to  have  a 
newfong  whang  in  my  hair,  the  beak  of  which 
will  reach  down  to  my  nose ;  the  milliner  from 


whom  we  bought  that  and  our  ribands  cheated  us 
as  if  she  had  no  conscience,  and  so  to  quiet  mine  I 
cheated  her.  All  this  is  fair,  you  know.  I  rcmam, 
my  dear  Yaya,  your  ever  faithful 

Yaoua. 


LETTER  XL. 

From  the  Same. 

Yoa  have  always  testified  the  highest  esteem 
for  the  English  poets,  and  thought,  them  not  infe- 
rior to  the  Greeks,  Romans,  or  even  the  Chinese, 
in  the  art.  But  it  is  now  thought  even  by  the 
English  themselves,  that  the  race  of  their  poets  is 
extinct ;  every  day  produces  some  pathetic  excla- 
mation upon  the  decadence  of  taste  and  genius. 
Pegasus,  say  they,  has  slipped  the  bridle  from 
his  mouth,  and  our  modern  bards  attempt  to  direct 
his  flight  by  catching  him  by  the  tail. 

Yet,  my  friend,  it  is  only  among  the  ignorant 
that  such  discourses  prevail ;  men  of  true  discern- 
ment can  see  several  poets  still  among  the  English 
some  of  whom  equal  if  not  surpass  their  predeces- 
sors. The  ignorant  term  that  alone  poetry  which 
is  couched  in  a  certain  number  of  syllables  in  every 
line,  where  a  vapid  thought  is  drawn  out  into  a 
number  of  verses  of  equal  length,  and  perhaps 
pointed  with  rhymes  at  the  end.  But  glowing 
sentiment,  striking  imagery,  concise  expression, 
natural  description,  and  modulated  periods,  are  full 
sufficient  entirely  to  fill  up  my  idea  of  this  art,  and 
make  way  to  every  passion. 

If  my  idea  of  poetry  therefore  be  just,  the  Eng- 
lish are  not  at  present  so  destitute  of  poetical  merit 
as  they  seem  to  imagine.  I  can  see  several  poets 
in  disguise  among  them ;  men  furnished  with  that 
strength  of  soul,  sublimity  of  sentiment,  and  gran- 
deur of  expression,  which  constitute  the  character. 
Many  of  the  writers  of  their  modern  odes,  sonnets, 
tragedies,  or  rebuses,  it  is  true,  deserve  not  the 
name,  though  they  have  done  nothing  but  clink 
rhymes  and  measure  syllables  for  years  together  : 
their  Johnsons  and  Smollets  are  truly  poets ;  though 
for  aught  I  know  they  never  made  a  single  verse 
in  their  whole  lives.  , 

In  every  incipient  language,  the  poet  and  the 
prosg  writer  are  very  distinct  in  their  qualifica- 
tions; the  poet  ever  proceeds  first;  treading  un- 
beaten paths,  enriching  his  native  funds,  and  em- 
ployed in  new  adventures.  The  other  follows  with 
more  cautious  steps,  and  though  slow  in  his  mo- 
tions', treasures  up  every  useful  or  pleasing  disco- 
very. But  when  once  all  the  extent  and  the  force 
of  the  language  is  known,  the  poet  then  seems  to 
rest  from  his  labour,  and  is  at  length  overtaken  by 
his  assiduous  pursuer.  Both  characters  are  then 
blended  into  one ;  the  historian  and  orator  catch 
all  the  poet's  fire,  and  leave  him  no  real  mark  of 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


ay-/ 


distinction,  except  the  iteration  of  numbers  regu- 
larly returning.  Thus,  in  the  decline  of  ancient 
European  learning,  Seneca,  though  he  wrote  in 
prose,  is  as  much  a  poet  as  Lucan,  and  Longinus, 
though  but  a  critic,  more  sublime  than  Apollonius. 

From  this  then  it  appears,  that  poetry  is  not 
discontinued,  but  altered  among  the  English  at  pre- 
sent ;  the  outward  form  seems  different  from  what 
it  was,  but  poetry  still  continues  internally  the 
the  same:  the  only  question  remains,  whether  the 
metric  feet  used  by  the  good  writers  of  the  last  age 
or  the  prosaic  numbers  employed  by  the  good 
writers  of  this,  be  preferable  1  And  here  the  prac- 
tice of  the  last  age  appears  to  me  superior :  they 
submitted  to  the  restraint  of  numbers  and  similar 
sounds  :  and  this  restraint,  instead  of  diminishing, 
augmented  the  force  of  their  sentiment  and  style. 
Fancy  restrained  may  be  compared  to  a  fountain, 
which  plays  highest  by  diminishing  the  aperture. 
Of  the  truth  ot  this  maxim  in  every  language, 
every  fine  writer  is  perfectly  sensible  from  his  own 
experience,  and  yet  to  explain  the  reason  would 
be  perhaps  as  difficult  as  to  make  a  frigid  genius 
profit  by  the  discovery. 

There  is  still  another  reason  in  favour  of  the 
practice  of  the  last  age,  to  be  drawn  from  the  va- 
riety of  modulation.  The  musical  period  in  prose 
is  confined  to  a  very  few  changes :  the  numbers  in 
verse  are  capable  of  infinite  variation.  1  speak  not 
now  from  the  practice  of  modern  verse-writers,  few 
of  whom  have  any  idea  of  musical  variety,  but  run 
on  in  the  same  monotonous  flow  through  the  whole 
poem ;  but  rather  from  the  example  of  their  former 
poets,  who  were  tolerable  masters  of  this  variety, 
and  also  frotn  a  capacity  in  the  language  of  still 
admitting  various  unanticipated  music. 

Several  rules  have  been  drawn  up  for  varying 
the  poetic  measure,  and  critics  have  elaborately 
talked  of  accents  and  syllables ;  but  good  sense  and 
a  fine  ear,  which  rules  can  never  teach,  are  what 
alone  can  in  such  a  case  determine.  The  raptur- 
ous flowings  of  joy,  or  the  interruptions  of  in- 
dignation, require  accents  placed  entirely  different, 
and  a  structure  consonant  to  the  emotions  they 
would  express.  Changing  passions,  and  numbers 
changing  with  those  passions,  make  the  whole 
secret  of  Western  as  well  as  Eastern  poetry.  In 
a  word,  the  great  faults  of  the  modern  professed 
English  poets  are,  that  they  seem  to  want  numbers 
which  should  vary  with  the  passion,  and  are  more 
employed  in  describing  to  the  imagination  than 
striking  at  the  heart. 


LETTER  XLI. 

From  the  Same. 

,     Some  time  since  I  sent  thee,  O  holy  disciple  of 
Confucius,  an  account  of  the  grand  abbey  or  mau- 


soleum of  the  kings  and  heroes  of  this  nation :  I 
have  since  been  introduced  to  a  temple  not  so  an- 
cient, but  far  superiour  in  beauty  and  magnificence 
In  this,  which  is  the  most  considerable  of  the  em- 
pire, there  are  o  pompous  inscriptions,  no  flattery 
paid  the  dead,  but  all  is  elegant  and  awfully  simple. 
There  are,  however,  a  few  rags  hung  round  the 
walls,  which  have,  at  a  vast  expense,  been  taken 
from  the  enemy  in  the  present  war.  The  silk  of 
which  they  are  composed,  when  new,  might  Do 
valued  at  half  a  string  of  copper  money  in  China ; 
yet  this  wise  people  fitted  out  a  fleet  and  an  army 
in  order  to  seize  them,  though  now  grown  old,  and 
scarcely  capable  of  being  patcntd  up  into  a  hand- 
kerchief. By  this  conquest,  tne  English  are  said 
to  have  gained,  and  the  French  to  have  lost,  much 
honour.  Is  the  honour  of  European  nations  placed 
only  in  tattered  silk  7 

In  this  temple  I  was  permitted  to  remain  during 
the  whole  service ;  and  were  you  not  already  ac- 
quainted with  the  religion  of  the  English,  you 
might,  from  my  description,  be  inclined  to  believe 
them  as  grossly  idolatrous  as  the  disciples  of  Lao. 
The  idol  which  they  seem  to  address,  strides  like  a 
colossus  over  the  door  of  the  inner  temple,  which 
here,  as  with  the  Jews,  is  esteemed  the  most  sacred 
part  of  the  building.  Its  oracles  are  delivered  in  a 
hundred  various  tones,  which  seem  to  inspire  the 
worshippers  with  enthusiasm  and  awe:  an  old 
woman,  who  appeared  to  be  the  priestess,  v^as  em- 
ployed in  various  attitudes  as  she  felt  the  inspira- 
tion. When  it  began  to  speak,  all  the  people  re- 
mained fixed  in  silent  attention,  nodding  assent, 
looking  approbation,  appearing  highly  edified  by 
those  sounds  which  to  a  stranger  might  seem  inar- 
ticulate and  unmeaning. 

When  the  idol  had  done  speaking,  and  the 
priestess  had  locked  up  its  lungs  with  a  key,  ob- 
serving almost  all  the  company  leaving  the  temple, 
I  concluded  the  service  was  over,  and  taking  my 
hat,  was  going  to  walk  away  with  the  crowd,  when 
I  was  stopped  by  the  man  in  black,  who  assured 
me  that  the  ceremony  had  scarcely  yet  begun! 
What,  cried  I,  do  I  not  see  almost  the  whole 
body  of  the  w^orshippers  leaving  the  church? 
Would  you  persuade  me  that  such  numbers  who 
profess  religion  and  morality,  would,  in  this  shame- 
less manner,  quit  the  temple  before  the  service  was 
concluded?  You  surely  mistake:  not  even  the 
Kalmucks  would  be  guilty  of  such  an  indecency, 
though  all  the  object  of  their  worship  was  but  a 
joint-stool.  My  friend  seemed  to  blush  for  his 
countrymen,  assuring  me  that  those  whom  I  saw 
running  away,  were  only  a  parcel  of  musical  block- 
heads, whose  passion  was  merely  for  sounds,  and 
whose  heads  were  as  empty  as  a  fiddle-case:  those 
who  remain  behind,  says  he,  are  the  true  religious; 
they  make  use  of  music  to  warm  their  hearts,  and 
to  lift  \hem  to  a  proper  pitch  of  rapture  :  exaxnine 


298 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


their  behaviour,  and  you  will  confess  there  are  some 
among  us  who  practise  true  devotion. 

1  now  looked  round  me  as  directed,  but  saw 
nothing  of  that  fervent  devotion  which  he  had 
promised :  one  of  the  worshippers  appeared  to  be 
ogling  the  company  through  a  glass ;  another  was 
fervent,  not  in  addresses  to  Heaven,  but  to  his  mis- 
tress; a  third  whispered,  a  fourth  took  snuff,  and 
the  priest  himself,  in  a  drowsy  tone,  read  over  the 
duties  of  the  day. 

Bless  my  eyes,  cried  I,  as  I  happened  to  look  to- 
wards the  door,  what  do  1  see !  one  of  the  worship- 
pers fallen  fast  asleep,  and  actually  sunk  down  on 
his  cushion !  Is  he  now  enjoying  the  benefit  of  a 
trance,  or  does  he  receive  the  influence  of  some 
mysterious  vision?  Alas!  Alas!  replied  my  com- 
panion, no  suck  thing ;  he  has  only  had  the  mis- 
fortune of  eating  too  hearty  a  dinner,  and  finds 
it  impossible  to  keep  his  eyes  open.  Turning  to 
another  part  of  the  temple,  I  .perceived  a  young 
lady  just  in  the  same  circumstances  and  attitude : 
Strange!  cried  I,  can  she  too  have  over-eaten  her- 
self? O  fie !  replied  my  friend,  you  now  grow 
censorious.  She  grow  drowsy  from  eating  too 
m.u/:h!  that  would  be  a  profanation!  She  only 
sleeps  now  from  having  sat  up  all  night  at  a  brag 
party.  Turn  me  where  I  will  then,  says  I,  I  can 
perceive  no  single  syrpptom  of  devotion  among  the 
worshippers,  except  from  that  old  woman  in  the 
corner,  who  sits  groaning  behind  the  long  sticks 
of  a  mourning  fan ;  she  indeed  seems  greatly  edi- 
fied with  what  she  hears.  Ay,  replied  my  friend, 
I  knew  we  should  find  some  to  catch  you;  I  know 
her;  that  is  the  deaf  lady  who  lives  in  the  clois- 
ters. 

In  short,  the  remissness  of  behaviour  in  almost  all 
the  worshippers,  and  some  even  of  the  guardians, 
struck  me  with  surprise.  I  had  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve that  none  were  ever  promoted  to  offices  in  the 
temple,  but  men  remarkable  for  their  superior 
sanctity,  learning,  and  rectitude;  that  there  was 
no  such  thing  heard  of,  as  persons  being  introduced 
into  the  church  merely  to  oblige  a  senator,  or  pro- 
vide for  the  younger  branch  of  a  noble  family :  I 
expected,  as  their  minds  were  continually  set  upon 
heavenly  things,  to  see  their  eyes  directed  there 
also;  and  hoped,  from  their  behaviour,  to  perceive 
their  inclinations  corresponding  with  their  duty. 
But  I  am  since  informed,  that  some  are  appointed 
to  preside  over  temples  they  never  visit;  and, 
while  they  receive  all  the  money,  are  contented 
with  letting  others  do  all  the  good.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XLIL 

From  Fum  Hoam,  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  the  discontented 
Wanderer,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

Must  I  ever  continue  to  condemn  thy  persever- 
ance, and  blame  that  curiosity  wb^  'h  destroys  thy 


happiness!  What  yet  untasted  banquet,  what  lux- 
ury yet  unknown,  has  rewarded  thy  painful  ad- 
ventures? Name  a  pleasure  which  thy  native  coun- 
try could  not  amply  procure ;  frame  a  wish  that 
might  not  have  been  satisfied  in  China!  Why  then 
such  toil,  and  such  danger,  in  pursuit  of  raptures 
within  your  reach  at  home? 

The  Europeans,  you  will  say,  excel  us  in  sci- 
ences and  in  arts;  those  sciences  which  bound  the 
aspiring  wish,  and  those  arts  which  tend  to  gratify 
even  unrestrained  desire.  They  may  perhaps  out- 
do us  in  the  arts  of  building  ships,  casting  cannons, 
or  measuring  mountains ;  but  are  they  superior  in 
the  greatest  of  all  arts,  the  art  of  governing  king- 
doms and  ourselves? 

When  I  compare  the  history  of  China  with  that 
of  Europe,  how  do  I  exult  in  being  a  native  of  that 
kingdom  which  derives  its  original  from  the  sun. 
Upon  opening  the  Chinese  history,  I  there  behold 
an  ancient  extended  empire,  established  by  laws 
which  nature  and  reason  seem  to  have  dictated. 
The  duty  of  children  to  their  parents,  a  duty  which 
nature  implants  in  every  breast,  forms  the  strength 
of  that  government,  which  has  subsisted  for  time 
immemorial.  Filial  obedience  is  the  first  and  great- 
est requisite  of  a  state ;  by  this  we  become  good 
subjects  to  our  emperors,  capable  of  behaving  with 
just  subordination  to  our  superiors,  and  grateful 
dependants  on  Heaven:  by  this  we  become  fonder  J 
of  marriage,  in  order  to  be  capable  of  exacting  1 
obedience  from  others  in  our  turn  :  by  this  we  be- 
come good  magistrates ;  for  early  submission  is  the 
truest  lesson  to  those  who  would  learn  to  rule.  By 
this  the  whole  state  may  be  said  to  resemble  one 
family,  of  which  the  emperor  is  the  protector, 
father,  and  friend. 

In  this  happy  region,  sequestered  from  the  rest 
of  mankind,  I  see  a  succession  of  princes  who  in 
general  considered  themselves  as  the  fathers  of  their 
people ;  a  race  of  philosophers  who  bravely  com- 
bated idolatry,  prejudice,  and  tyranny,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  their  private  happiness  and  immediate 
reputation.  Whenever  a  usurper  or  a  tyrant  in- 
truded into  the  administration,  how  have  all  the 
good  and  great  been  united  agauist  him!  Can  Eu-= 
ropean  history  produce  an  instance  like  that  of  the 
twelve  mandarines,  who  all  resi.lved  to  apprize  the 
vicious  emperor  Tisiang  of  the  irregularity  of  his 
conduct?  He  who  first  undertook  the  dangerous 
task  was  cut  in  two  by  the  emperor's  order;  the 
second  was  ordered  to  be  tormented,  and  then  put 
to  a  cruel  death :  the  third  undertook  the  task  with 
intrepidity,  and  was  instantly  stabbed  by  the  ty- 
rant's hand :  in  this  manner  they  all  suffered  ex- 
cept one.  But  not  to  be  turned  from  his  purpose, 
the  brave  survivor,  entering  the  palace  with  the 
instruments  of  torture  in  his  hand.  Here,  cried  he, 
addressing  himself  to  the  throne,  here,  O  Tisiang^ 
are  the  marks  your  faithful  subjects  receive  fir 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


their  loyalty ;  lam  wearied  with  serving  a  tyrant, 
and  now  come  for  my  reward.  The  emperor, 
struck  with  his  intrepidity,  instantly  forgave  the 
boldness  of  his  conduct,  and  reformed  his  own. 
What  European  annals  can  thus  boast  of  a  tyrant 
thus  reclaimed  to  lenity? 

When  five  brethren  had  set  upon  the  great  em- 
peror Ginsong  alone,  with  his  sabre  he  slew  four 
of  them;  he  was  stuggling  with  the  fifth,  when  his 
guards  coming  up  were  going  to  cut  the  conspi- 
ator  into  a  thousand  pieces.  No,  no,  cried  the 
emperor  with  a  calm  and  placid  countenance,  of  all 
his  brothers  he  is  the  only  one  remaining,  at  least 
let  one  of  the  family  be  svffered  to  live,  that  his 
aged  parents  may  have  somebody  left  to  feed  and 
comfort  them  ! 

When  Haitong,  the  last  emperor  of  the  house 
of  Ming,  saw  himself  besieged  in  his  own  city  by 
the  usurper,  he  was  resolved  to  issue  from  his  pa- 
lace with  six  hundred  of  his  guards,  and  give  the 
enemy  battle ;  but  they  forsook  him.  Being  thus 
without  hopes,  and  choosing  death  rather  than  to 
fall  alive  into  the  hands  of  a  rebel,  he  retired  to  his 
garden,  conducting  his  little  daughter,  an  only 
child,  in  his  hand ;  there,  in  a  private  arbour,  un- 
sheathing his  sword,  he  stabbed  the  young  inno- 
cent to  the  heart,  and  then  dispatched  himself,  leav- 
ing the  following  words  written  with  his  blood  on 
the  border  of  his  vest :  Forsaken  by  my  subjects, 
abandoned  by  my  friends,  use  my  body  as  you 
will,  but  spare,  O  spare  my  people  I 

An  empire  which  has  thus  continued  invariably 
the  same  for  such  a  long  succession  of  ages ;  which, 
though  at  last  conquered  by  the  Tartars,  still  pre- 
serves its  ancient  laws  and  learning,  and  may  more 
properly  be  said  to  annex  the  dominions  of  Tartary 
to  its  empire,  than  to  admit  a  foreign  conquerer;  an 
empire  as  large  as  Europe,  governed  by  one  law,  ac- 
knowledging subjection  to  one  prince,  and  experi- 
encing but  one  revolution  of  any  continuance  in  the 
space  of  four  thousand  years;  this  is  something  so 
peculiarly  great,  that  I  am  naturally  led  to  despise  all 
other  nations  on  the  comparison.  Here  we  see  no 
religious  persecutions,  no  enmity  between  man- 
kind, for  difference  in  opinion.  The  disciples  of 
Lao  Kium,  the  idolatrous  sectaries  of  Fohi,  and  the 
philosophical  children  of  Confucius,  only  strive  tp 
show  by  their  actions  the  truth  of  their  doctrines. 

Now  turn  from  this  happy,  peaceful  scene,  to 
Europe,  the  theatre  of  intrigue,  avarice,  and  ambi- 
tion. How  many  revolutions  does  it  not  experience 
in  the  compass  even  of  one  age !  and  to  what  do 
these  revolutions  tend  but  the  destruction  of  thou- 
sands? Every  great  event  is  replete  with  some  new 
calamity.  The  seasons  of  serenity  are  passed  over 
in  silence,  their  histories  seem  to  speak  only  of  the 
storm. 

There  we  see  the  Romans  extending  their  pow- 
er over  barbarous  nations,  and  in  turn  becoming  a 


prey  to  those  whom  they  had  conquered.  We  see 
those  barbarians,  when  become  Christians,  engaged 
in  a  continual  war  with  the  followers  of  Mahomet; 
or,  more  dreadful  still,  destroying  each  other.  We 
see  councils  in  the  earlier  ages  authorizing  every 
iniquity;  crusades  spreading  desolation  in  the 
country  left,  as  well  as  that  to  be  conquered  ;  ex- 
communications freeing  subjects  from  natural  alle- 
giance, and  persuading  to  sedition ;  blood  flowing 
in  the  fields  and  on  scaffolds;  tortures  used  as  ar- 
guments to  convince  the  recusant;  to  heighten  the 
horror  of  the  piece,  behold  it  shaded  with  wars,  re- 
bellions, treasons,  plots,  poUtics,  and  poison. 

And  what  advantage  has  any  countrwjjf  Europe 
obtained  from  such  calamities?  Scarcely  any.  Their 
dissensions  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  have 
served  to  make  each  other  unhappy,  but  have  enrich- 
ed none.  All  the  great  nations  still  nearly  preserve 
their  ancient  limits ;  none  have  been  able  to  subdue 
the  other,  and  so  terminate  the  dispute.  France, 
in  spite  of  the  conquests  of  EdwartJ  the  Third  and 
Henry  the  Fifth,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of 
Charles  the  Fifth  and  Philip  the  Second,  still  re- 
mains within  its  ancient  limits.  Spain,  Germany, 
Great  Britain,  Poland,  the  States  of  the  North, 
are  nearly  still  the  same.  What  effect  then  has 
the  blood  of  so  many  thousands,  the  destruction  of 
so  many  cities,  produced?  Nothing  either  great  or 
considerable.  The  Christian  princes  have  lost  in- 
deed much  from  the  enemies  of  Christendom,  but 
they  have  gained  nothing  from  each  other.  Their 
princes,  because  they  preferred  ambition  to  justice, 
deserve  the  character  of  enemies  to  mankind  ;  and 
their  priests,  by  neglecting  morality  for  opinion, 
have  mistaken  the  interests  of  f^ociety. 

On  whatever  side  we  regard  the  history  of  Eu- 
rope, we  shall  perceive  it  to  be  a  tissue  of  crimes, 
follies,  and  misfortunes,  of  politics  without  design, 
and  wars  without  consequence :  in  this  long  list  of 
human  infirmity,  a  great  character,  or  a  shining 
virtue,  may  sometimes  happen  to  arise,  as  we  often 
meet  a  cottage  or  a  cultivated  spot  in  the  most 
hideous  wilderness.  But  for  an  Alfred,  an  Alphon- 
so,  a  Frederick,  or  an  Alexander  III.,  we  meet  a 
thousand  princes  who  have  disgraced  humanity. 


LETTER  XLIIL 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  Cliina. 

We  have  just  received  accounts  here,  that  Vol- 
taire, the  poet  and  philosopher  of  Europe,  is  dead ! 
He  is  now  beyond  the  reach  of  the  thousand  ene- 
mies, who,  while  living,  degraded  his  writings,  and 
branded  his  character.  Scarcely  a  page  of  his  lat- 
ter productions,  that  does  not  betray  the  agonies  of 
a  heart  bleeding  under  the  scourge  of  unmerited 


300 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


r«;pr<tech.  Happy,  therefore,  at  last  in  escaping 
from  calumny ;  happy  in  leaving  a  world  that  was 
unworthy  of  him  and  his  writings! 

Let  others,  my  friend,  bestrew  the  hearses  of  the 
great  with  panegyric;  but  such  a  loss  as  the  world 
has  now  suffered,  affects  me  with  stronger  emo- 
tions. When  a  philosopher  dies,  I  consider  my- 
self as  losing  a  patron,  an  instructor,  and  a  friend. 
I  consider  the  world  losing  one  who  might  serve  to 
console  her  amidst  the  desolations  of  war  and  am- 
bition. Nature  every  day  produces  in  abundance 
men  capable  of  filling  all  the  requisite  duties  of  au- 
thority; but  she  is  niggard  in  the  birth  of  an  exalt- 
ed mind,  scarcely  producing  in  a  century  a  single 
genius  to  bless  and  enlighten  a  degenerate  age. 
Prodigal  in  the  production  of  kings,  governors, 
mandarines,  chams,  and  courtiers,  she  seems  to 
have  forgotten,  for  more  than  three  thousand  years, 
the  manner  in  which  she  once  formed  the  brain  of 
a  Confucius ;  and  well  it  is  she  has  forgotten,  when 
a  bad  world  gave  him  so  very  bad  a  reception. 

Whence,  my  friend,  this  malevolence  which  has 
ever  pursued  the  great  even  to  the  tomb?  whence 
this  more  than  iiend-like  disposition  of  embittering 
the  lives  of  those  who  would  make  us  more  wise 
and  more  happy?   . 

When  I  cast  my  eye  over  the  fates  of  several 
philosophers,  who  have  at  different  periods  enlight 
ened  mankind,  1  must  confess  it  inspires  me  with 
the  most  degrading  reflections  on  humanity.  When 
1  read  of  the  stripes  of  Mentius,  the  tortures  of 
Tchin,  the  bowl  of  Socrates,  and  the  bath  of  Sene- 
ca ;  when  1  hear  of  the  persecutions  of  Dante,  the 
imprisonment  of  Galileo,  the  indignities  suffered 
by  Montaigne,  the  banishment  of  Cartesius,  the 
infamy  of  Bacon,  and  that  even  Locke  himself  es- 
caped not  without  reproach ;  when  I  think  on  such 
subjects,  I  hesitate  whether  most  to  blame  the  ig- 
norance or  the  villany  of  my  fellow-creatures. 

Should  you  look  for  the  character  of  Voltaire 
among  the  journalists  and  illiterate  writers  of  the 
age,  you  will  there  find  him  characterized  as  a 
monster,  with  a  head  turned  to  wisdom,  and  a  heart 
incUning  to  vice ;  the  powers  of  his  mind  and  the 
baseness  of  his  principles  forming  a  detestable  con- 
trast. But  seek  for  his  character  among  writers 
like  himself,  and  you  find  him  very  differently  de- 
scribed. You  perceive  him,  in  their  accounts, 
possessed  of  good- nature,  humanity,  greatness  of 
soul,  fortitude,  and  almost  every  virtue;  in  this 
description,  those  who  might  be  supposed  best  ac- 
quainted with  his  character  are  unanimous.  The 
royal  Prussian,*  d' Argents.t  Diderot,?  d' Alembert, 
and  Fontenelle,  conspire,  in  drawing  the  picture, 
in  describing  the  friend  of  man,  and  the  patron  of 
every  rising  genius. 


'  Philosophe  sans  souci     t  Let.  Chin,    t  EncyclopOil 


An  inflexible  perseverance  in  what  he  thought 
was  right,  and  a  generous  detestation  of  flattery, 
formed  the  groundwork  of  this  great  man's  charac- 
ter. From  these  principles  many  strong  virtues 
and  few  faults  arose :  as  he  was  warm  in  his  friend- 
ship, and  severe  in  his  resentment,  all  that  mention 
him  seem  possessed  of  the  same  qualities,  and 
speak  of  him  with  rapture  or  detestation.  A  per- 
son of  his  eminence  can  have  few  indifferent  as  to 
his  character ;  every  reader  must  be  an  enemy  or 
an  admirer. 

This  poet  began  the  course  of  glory  so  early  as 
the  age  of  eighteen,  and  even  then  was  author  of  a 
tragedy  which  deserves  applause.  Possessed  of  a 
small  patrimony,  he  preserved  his  independence  in 
an  age  of  venality,  and  supported  the  dignity  of 
learning,  by  teaching  his  contemporary  writers  to 
Uve  like  him  above  the  favours  of  the  great.  He 
was  banished  his  native  country  for  a  satire  upon 
the  royal  concubine.  He  had  accepted  the  place 
of  historian  to  the  French  king,  but  refused  to  keep 
it,  when  he  found  it  was  presented  only  in  order 
that  he  should  be  the  first  flatterer  of  the  state. 

The  great  Prussian  received  him  as  an  orna- 
ment to  his  kingdom,  and  had  sense  enough  to 
value  his  friendship,  and  profit  by  his  instructions. 
In  this  court  he  continued  till  an  intrigue,  with 
which  the  world  seems  hitherto  unacquainted,  ob- 
liged him  to  quit  that  country.  His  own  happiness, 
the  happiness  of  the  monarch,  of  his  sister,  of  a 
part  of  the  court,  rendered  his  departure  neces- 
sary. 

Tired  at  length  of  courts,  and  all  the  follies  of 
the  great,  he  retired  to  Switzerland,  a  country  of 
liberty,  where  he  enjoyed  tranquillity  and  the  muse. 
Here,  though  without  any  taste  for  magnificence 
himself,  he  usually  entertained  at  his  table  the 
learned  and  polite  of  Europe,  who  were  attracted 
by  a  desire  of  seeing  a  person  from  whom  they  had 
I  received  so  much  satisfaction.  The  entertainment 
I  was  conducted  with  the  utmost  elegance,  and  the 
conversation  was  that  of  philosophers.  Every 
country  that  at  once  united  liberty  and  science,  was 
his  peculiar  favourite.  The  being  an  Englishman 
was  to  him  a  character  that  claimed  admiration 
and  respect. 

Between  Voltaire  and  the  disciples  of  Confucius', 
there  are  many  differences ;  however,  being  of  a 
different  opinion  does  not  in  the  least  diminish  my 
esteem :  I  am  not  displeased  with  my  brother,  be- 
cause he  happens  to  ask  our  father  for  favours  in  a 
different  manner  from  me.  Let  his  errors  rest  in 
peace,  his  excellencies  deserve  admiration ;  let  me 
with  the  wise  admire  his  wisdom ;  let  the  envious 
and  the  ignorant  ridicule  his  foibles :  the  folly  of 
others  is  ever  most  ridiculous  to  those  who  are 
'  themselves  most  foiilish.     Adieu. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


301 


LETTER  XLIV. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  a  Slave  in  Persia. 


j  of  happiness,  that  can  l)e  applied  with  propriety  to 
every  condition  of  life.  The  man  of  pleasure,  the 
man  of  business,  and  the  philosopher,  are  equally 
interested  in  its  disquisition.     If  we  do  not  finil 


It  is  impossible  to  form  a  philosophic  system  of  happiness  in  the  present  moment,  in  what  shall  we 
happiness,  which  is  adapted  to  every  condition  in  find  it?  either  in  reflecting  on  the  past,  or  prognos- 
life,  since  every  person  who  travels  in  this  great  ticating  the  future.  But  let  us  see  how  these  arc 
pursuit  takes  a  separate  road.  The  differing  colours  capable  of  producing  satisfaction, 
which  suit  different  complexions,  are  not  more  A  remembrance  of  what  is  past,  and  an  antici- 
various  than  the  different  pleasures  appropriated  to  j  pation  of  what  is  to  come,  seem  to  be  the  two  facul- 
different  minds.  The  various  sects  who  have  pre-  ties  by  which  man  differs  most  from  other  animals, 
tended  to  give  lessons  to  instruct  me  in  happiness.  Though  brutes  enjoy  them  in  a  limited  degree,  yet 
have   described  their  own    particular  sensations  their  whole  life  seems  taken  up  in  the  present,  re- 


without  considering  ours,  have  only  loaded  their 
disciples  with  constraint,  without  adding  to  their 
real  felicity. 

If  I  find  pleasure  in  dancing,  how  ridiculous 
would  it  be  in  me  to  prescribe  such  an  amusement 
for  the  entertainment  of  a  cripple :  should  he,  on 
the  other  hand,  place  his  chief  delight  in  painting, 
yet  would  he  be  absurd  ill  recommending  the  same 
relish  to  one  who  had  lost  the  power  of  distinguish- 
ing colours.  General  directions  are,  therefore,  com- 
monly useless :  and  to  be  particular  would  exhaust 
volumes,  since  each  individual  may  require  a  par- 
ticular system  of  precepts  to  direct  his  choice. 

Every  mind  seems  capable  of  entertaining  a  cer- 
tain quantity  of  happiness,  which  no  institutions 
can  increase,  no  circumstances  alter,  and  entirely 
independent  of  fortune.  Let  any  man  compare  his 
present  fortune  with  the  past,  and  he  will  probably 
find  himself,  upon  the  whole,  neither  better  nor 
worse  than  formerly. 

Gratified  ambition,  or  irreparable  calamity,  may 
produce  transient  sensations  of  pleasure  or  distress. 
Those  storms  may  discompose  in  proportion  as 
they  are  strong,  or  the  mind  is  pliant  to  their  im- 
pression. But  the  soul,  though  at  first  lifted  up 
by  the  event,  is  every  day  operated  upon  with  di 
minished  influence,  and  at  length  subsides  into  th( 
level  of  its  usual  tranquillity.  Should  some  unex 
pected  turn  of  fortune  take  thee  from  fetters,  and 
place  thee  on  a  throne,  exultation  would  be  natural 
upon  the  change;  but  the  temper,  like  the  face, 
would  soon  resume  its  native  serenity. 

Every  wish,  therefore,  which  leads  us  to  expect 
happiness  somewhere  else  but  where  we  are,  every 
institution  which  teaches  us  that  we  should  be  bet 
ter  by  being  possessed  of  something  new,  which 
promises  to  Hft  us  a  step  higher  than  we  are,  only 
lays  a  foundation  for  uneasiness,  because  it  con- 
tracts debts  which  we  can  not  repay ;  it  calls  that 
a  good,  which,  when  we  have  found  it,  will,  in  fact, 
add  nothing  to  our  happiness. 

To  enjoy  the  present,  without  regret  for  the  past 
or  solicitude  for  the  future,  has  been  the  advice  ra- 
ther of  poets  than  philosophers.  And  yet  the  pre- 
cept seems  more  rational  than  is  generally  imagined. 
It  Is  the  only  general  precept  respecting  the  pursuit 


gardless  of  the  past  and  the  future.  Man,  on  the 
contrary,  endeavours  to  derive  his  happiness,  and 
experiences  most  of  his  miseries,  from  these  two 
sources. 

Is  this  superiority  of  reflection  a  prerogative  of 
which  we  should  boast,  and  for  which  we  should 
thank  nature ;  or  is  it  a  misfortune  of  which  we 
should  complain  and  be  humble  ?  Either  from  the 
abuse,  or  from  the  nature  of  things,  it  certainly 
makes  our  condition  more  miserable. 

Had  we  a  privilege  of  calling  up,  by  the  power 
of  memory,  only  such  passages  as  were  pleasing, 
unmixed  with  such  as  were  disagreeable,  we  might 
then  excite  at  pleasure  an  ideal  happiness,  per- 
haps more  poignant  than  actual  sensation.  But 
this  is  not  the  case :  the  past  is  never  represented 
without  some  disagreeable  circumstance,  which 
tarnishes  all  its  beauty ;  the  remembrance  of  an  evil 
carries  in  it  nothing  agreeable,  and  to  remember  a 
good  is  always  accompanied  with  regret.  Thus 
we  lose  more  than  we  gain  by  the  remembrance. 

And  we  shall  find  our  expectation  of  the  future 
to  be  a  gift  more  distressful  even  than  the  former. 
To  fear  an  approaching  evil  is  certainly  a  most 
disagreeable  sensation:  and  in  expecting  an  ap- 
proaching good,  we  experience  the  inquietude  oi 
wanting  actual  possession. 

Thus,  whichever  way  we  look,  the  prospect  is 
disagreeable.  Behind,  we  have  left  pleasures  we 
shall  never  more  enjoy,  and  therefore  regret ;  and 
before,  we  see  pleasures  which  we  languish  to  pos- 
sess, and  are  consequently  uneasy  till  we  possess 
them.  Was  there  any  method  of  seizing  the  pre- 
sent, unembittered  by  such  reflections,  then  would 
our  state  be  tolerably  easy. 

This,  indeed,  is  the  endeavour  of  all  mankind, 
who,  untutored  by  philosophy,  pursue  as  much  as 
they  can  a  life  of  amusement  and  dissipation. 
Every  rank  in  life,  and  every  size  of  understand- 
ing, seems  to  follow  this  alone ;  or  not  pursuing  it, 
deviates  from  happiness.  The  man  of  pleasure 
pursues  dissipation  by  profession ;  the  man  of  busi- 
ness pursues  it  not  less,  as  every  voluntary  labour 
he  undergoes  is  only  dissipation  in  disguise.  The 
philosopher  himself,  even  while  he  reasons  upon  the 
subject,  does  it  unknowingly,  with  a  view  of  dissi- 


302 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


pating  the  thoughts  of  what  he  was,  or  what  he 
must  be. 

The  subject  therefore  comes  to  this :  which  is 
the  most  perfect  sort  of  dissipation — pleasure,  busi- 
ness, or  philosophy  7  Which  best  serves  to  exclude 
those  uneasy  sensations  which  memory  or  antici- 
pation produce  ? 

The  enthusiasm  of  pleasure  charms  only  by  in- 
tervals. The  highest  rapture  lasts  only  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  and  all  the  senses  seem  so  combined  as  to 
be  soon  tired  into  languor  by  the  gratification  of 
any  one  of  them.  It  is  only  among  the  poets  we 
hear  of  men  changing  to  one  delight,  when  satiated 
with  another.  In  nature  it  is  very  different :  the 
glutton,  when  sated  with  the  full  meal,  is  unquali- 
fied to  feel  the  real  pleasure  of  drinking ;  the  drunk- 
ard in  turn  finds  few  of  those  transports  which 
lovers  boast  in  enjoyment;  and  the  lover,  when 
cloyed,  finds  a  diminution  of  every  other  appetite. 
Thus,  after  a  full  indulgence  of  any  one  sense,  the 
man  of  pleasure  finds  a  languor  in  all,  is  placed  in 
a  chasm  between  past  and  expected  enjoyment, 
perceives  an  interval  which  must  be  filled  up.  The 
present  can  give  no  satisfaction,  because  he  has 
already  robbed  it  of  every  charm :  a  mind  thus  left 
without  immediate  employment,  naturally  recurs 
to  the  past'or  future ;  the  reflector  finds  that  he  was 
happy,  and  knows  that  he  can  not  be  so  now ;  he 
sees  that  he  may  yet  be  happy,  and  wishes  the  hour 
was  come :  thus  every  period  of  his  continuance  is 
miserable,  except  that  very  short  one  of  immediate 
gratification.  Instead  of  a  life  of  dissipation,  none 
has  more  frequent  conversations  with  disagreeable 
self  than  he ;  his  enthusiasms  are  but  few  and 
transient;  his  appetites,  like  angry  creditors,  con- 
tinually making  fruitless  demands  for  what  he  is 
unable  to  pay;  and  the  greater  his  former  pleasure, 
the  more  strong  his  regret,  the  more  impatient  his 
expectations.  A  life  of  pleasure  is  therefore  the 
most  unpleasing  Ufe  in  the  world. 

Habit  has  rendered  the  man  of  business  more 
cool  in  his  desires ;  he  finds  less  regret  for  past 
pleasures,  and  less  solicitude  for  those  to  come. 
The  life  he  now  leads,  though  tainted  in  some 
measure  with  hope,  is  yet  not  aflflicted  so  strongly 
with  regret,  and  is  less  divided  between  short-lived 
rapture  and  lasting  anguish.  The  pleasures  he 
has  enjoyed  are  not  so  vivid,  and  those  he  has  to 
expect  can  not  consequently  create  so  much  anxiety. 
The  philosopher,  who  extends  his  regard  to  all 
mankind,  must  still  have  a  smaller  concern  for  what 
has  already  affected,  or  may  hereafter  affect  him- 
self: the  concerns  of  others  make  his  whole  study, 
and  that  study  is  his  pleasure ;  and  this  pleasure  is 
continuing  in  its  nature,  because  it  can  be  changed 
at  will,  leaving  but  few  of  these  anxious  intervals 
which  are  employed  in  remembrance  or  anticipa- 
tion. The  philosopher  by  this  means  leads  a  Ufe 
of  almost  continued  dissipation;  and  reflection, 


which  makes  the  uneasiness  and  misery  of  others, 
serves  as  a  companion  and  instructor  to  him. 

In  a  word,  positive  happiness  is  constitutional, 
and  incapable  of  increase;  misery  is  artificial,  and 
generally  proceeds  from  our  folly.  Philosophy  can 
add  to  our  happiness  in  no  other  manner,  but  by 
diminishing  our  misery :  it  should  not  pretend  to 
increase  our  present  stock,  but  make  us  economists 
of  what  we  are  possessed  of.  The  great  source  of 
calamity  lies  in  regret  or  anticipation;  he,  therefore, 
is  most  wise,  who  thinks  of  the  present  alone,  re- 
gardless of  the  past  or  the  future.  This  is  impos- 
sible to  the  man  of  pleasure ;  it  is  difficult  to  the 
man  of  business ;  and  is  in  some  measure  attainable 
by  the  philosopher.  Happy  were  we  all  born 
philosophers,  all  born  with  a  talent  of  thus  dissi- 
pating our  own  cares,  by  spreading  them  upon  all 
mankind!     Adieu. 


LETTER  XLV. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangl,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

Though  the  frequent  invitations  I  receive  from 
men  of  distinction  here  might  excite  the  vanity  of 
some,  I  am  quite  mortified,  however,  when  1  con- 
sider the  motives  that  inspire  their  civility.  I  am 
sent  for  not  to  be  treated  as  a  friend,  but  to  satisfy 
curiosity ;  not  to  be  entertained  so  much  as  wonder- 
ed at ;  the  same  earnestness  which  excites  them  to 
see  a  Chinese,  would  have  made  them  equally 
proud  of  a  visit  from  the  rhinoceros. 

From  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  this  people  seem 
fond  of  sights  and  monsters.  I  am  told  of  a  person 
here  who  gets  a  very  comfortable  livelihood  by 
making  wonders,  and  then  selling  or  showing  them 
to  the  people  for  money ;  no  matter  how  insigni- 
ficant they  were  in  the  beginning,  by  locking  them 
up  close,  and  showing  for  money,  they  soon  be- 
come prodigies !  His  first  essay  in  this  way  was 
to  exhibit  himself  as  a  wax-work  figure  behind  a 
glass  door  at  a  puppet-show.  Thus,  keeping  the 
spectators  at  a  proper  distance,  and  having  his  head 
adorned  with  a  copper  crown,  he  looked  extremely 
natural^  and  very  like  the  life  itself.  He  continued 
this  exhibition  with  success,  till  an  involuntary  fit 
of  sneezing  brought  him  to  life  before  all  the  spec- 
tators, and  consequently  rendered  him  for  that  time 
as  entirely  useless  as  the  peaceable  inhabitant  of  a 
catacomb. 

Determined  to  act  the  statue  no  more,  he  next 
levied  contributions  under  the  figure  of  an  Indian 
king;  and  by  painting  his  face,  and  counterfeiting 
the  savage  howl,  he  frighted  several  ladies  and 
children  with  amazing  success :  in  this  manner, 
therefore,  he  might  have  lived  very  comfortably^ 
had  he  not  been  arrested  for  a  debt  that  was  ron- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


303 


Iracted  when  he  was  the  figure  in  wax- work :  thus 
his  face  underwent  an  involuntary  ablution,  and 
he  found  himself  reduced  to  his  primitive  complex- 
ion and  indigence. 

After  some  time,  being  freed  from  gaol,  he  was 
now  grown  wiser,  and  instead  of  making  himself  a 
wonder,  was  resolved  only  to  make  wonders.  He 
learned  the  art  of  pasting  up  mummies;  was  never 
iat  a  loss  for  an  artificial  lusus  naturcB ;  nay,  it  has 
heen  reported,  that  he  has  sold  seven  petrified  lob- 
sters of  his  own  manufacture  to  a  noted  collector  of 
rarities;  but  this  the  learned  CracoviusPutridus  has 
undertaken  to  refute  in  a  very  elaborate  dissertation. 

His  last  wonder  was  nothing  more  than  a  halter, 
yet  by  this  halter  he  gained  more  than  by  all  his 
former  exhibitions.  The  people,  it  seems,  had  got 
it  in  their  heads,  that  a  certain  noble  criminal  was 
to  be  hanged  with  a  silken  rope.  Now  there  was 
nothing  they  so  much  wished  to  see  as  this  very 
rope ;  and  he  was  resolved  to  gratify  their  curiosity  : 
he  therefore  got  one  made,  not  only  of  silk,  but  to 
Jender  it  more  striking,  several  threads  of  gold  were 
intermixed.  The  people  paid  their  money  only  to 
see  silk,  but  were  highly  satisfied  when  they  found 
it  was  mixed  with  gold  into  the  bargain.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  mention,  that  the  projector 
sold  his  silken  rope  for  almost  what  it  had  cost 
him,  as  soon  as  the  criminal  was  known  to  be 
hanged  in  hempen  materials. 

By  their  fondness  of  sights,  one  would  be  apt  to 
imagine,  that  instead  of  desiring  to  see  things  as 
•they  should  be,  they  are  rather  solicitous  of  seeing 
them  as  they  ought  not  to  be.  A  cat  with  four 
legs  is  disregarded,  though  never  so  useful ;  but  if 
it  has  but  two,  and  is  consequently  incapable  of 
catching  mice,  it  is  reckoned  inestimable,  and  every 
man  of  taste  is  ready  to  raise  the  auction.  A  man, 
though  in  his  person  faultless  as  an  aerial  genius, 
might  starve;  but  if  stuck  over  with  hideous  warts 
hke  a  porcupine,  his  fortune  is  made  for  ever,  and 
he  may  propagate  the  breed  with  impunity  and 
applause. 

A  good  woman  in  my  neighbourhood,  who  was 
bred  a  habit-maker,  though  she  handled  her  needle 
tolerably  well,  could  scarcely  get  employment.  But 
being  obliged,  by  an  accident,  to  have  both  her 
hands  cut  off  from  the  elbows,  what  would  in 
another  country  have  been  her  ruin,  made  her  for- 
tune here:  she  now  was  thought  more  fit  for  her 
trade  than  before ;  business  flowed  in  apace,  and  all 
people  paid  for  seeing  the  mantua-maker  who 
wrought  without  hands. 

A  gentleman  showing  me  his  collection  of  pic- 
tures, stopped  at  one  with  peculiar  admiration: 
there,  cries  he,  is  an  inestimable  piece.  I  gazed  at 
'the  picture  for  some  time,  but  could  see  none  of 
those  graces  with  which  he  seemed  enraptured; 
it  appeared  to  me  the  most  paltry  piece  of  the  whole 
l^icollection :  I  therefore  demanded  where  those  beau- 


ties lay,  of  which  I  was  yet  insensible.  Sir,  cries 
he,  the  merit  does  not  consist  in  the  piece,  but  in 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  done.  The  painter 
drew  the  whole  with  his  foot,  and  held  the  pencil 
between  his  toes:  I  bought  it  at  a  very  great  price; 
for  peculiar  merit  should  ever  be  rewarded. 

But  these  people  are  not  more  fond  of  wonders, 
than  Hberal  in  rewarding  those  who  show  them. 
From  the  wonderful  dog  of  knowledge,  at  present 
under  the  patronage  of  the  nobility,  down  to  the 
man  with  the  box,  who  professes  to  show  the  best 
imitation  of  Nature  that  was  ever  seen,  they  all 
live  in  luxury.  A  singing-woman  shall  collect 
subscriptions  in  her  own  coach  and  six  ;  a  fellow 
shall  make  a  fortune  by  tossing  a  straw  from  his  toe 
to  his  nose ;  one  in  particular  has  found  that  eating 
fire  was  the  most  ready  way  to  live ;  and  another 
who  jingles  several  bells  fixed  to  his  cap,  is  the 
only  man  that  I  know  of,  who  has  received  emolu- 
ment from  the  labours  of  his  head. 

A  young  author,  a  man  of  good-nature  and 
learning,  was  complaining  to  me  some  nights  ago 
of  this  misplaced  generosity  of  the  times.  Here, 
says  he,  have  I  spent  part  of  my  youth  in  attempt- 
ing to  instruct  and  amuse  my  fellow-creatures,  anil 
all  my  reward  has  been  solitude,  poverty,  and  re- 
proach ;  while  a  fellow,  possessed  of  even  the  small- 
est share  of  fiddling  merit,  or  who  has  perhaps 
learned  to  whistle  double,  is  rewarded,  applauded, 
and  caressed!  Pr'ythee,  young  man,  says  I  to  him, 
are  you  ignorant,  that  in  so  large  a  city  as  this,  it 
is  better  to  be  an  amusing  than  a  useful  member  of 
society?  Can  you  leap  up,  and  touch  your  feet 
four  times  before  you  come  to  the  ground?  No, 
sir.  Can  you  pimp  for  a  man  of  quality?  No^ 
sir.  Can  you  stand  upon  two  horses  at  full  speed? 
No,  sir.  Can  you  swallow  a  pen-knife?  lean  do 
none  of  these  tricks.  Why  then,  cried  I,  there  is 
no  other  prudent  mean  of  subsistence  left,  but  to 
apprise  the  town  that  you  speedily  intend  to  eat 
up  your  own  nose,  by  subscription. 

1  have  frequently  regretted  that  none  of  our 
Eastern  posture-masters,  or  showmen,  have  ever 
ventured  to  England.  I  should  be  pleased  to  see 
that  money  circulate  in  Asia,  which  is  now  sent  to 
Italy  and  France,  in  order  to  bring  their  vagabonds 
hither.  Several  of  our  tricks  would  undoubtedly 
give  the  English  high  satisfaction.  Men  of  fashion 
would  be  greatly  pleased  with  the  postures  as  well 
as  the  condescension  of  our  dancing-girls;  and  the 
ladies  would  equally  admire  the  conductors  of  our 
fire-works.  What  an  agreeable  surprise  would  it 
be  to  see  a  huge  fellow  with  whiskers  flash  a 
charged  blunderbuss  full  in  a  lady's  face,  without 
singeing  her  hair,  or  melting  her  pomatum.  Per- 
haps, when  the  first  surprise  was  over,  she  might 
then  grow  familiar  with  danger;  and  the  ladies 
might  vie  with  each  other  in  standing  fire  with  in- 
trepidity. 


304 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


But  of  all  the  wonders  of  the  East,  the  most  use- 
ful, and  1  should  fancy  the  most  pleasing,  would 
be  the  looking-glass  of  Lao,  which  reflects  the 
mind  as  well  as  the  body.  It  is  said  that  the  Em- 
perorChusi,  used  to  make  his  concubines  dress  their 
heads  and  their  hearts  in  one  of  these  glasses  eve- 
ry morning :  while  the  lady  was  at  her  toilet,  he 
would  frequently  look  over  her  shoulder ;  and  it 
is  recorded,  that  among  the  three  hundred  which 
composed  his  seraglio,  not  one  was  found  whose 
mind  was  not  even  more  beautiful  than  her  per- 
son. 

I  make  no  doubt  but  a  glass  in  this  country 
would  have  the  very  same  effect.  The  English 
ladies,  concubines  and  all,  would  undoubtedly  cut 
very  pretty  figures  in  so  faithful  a  monitor.  There 
should  we  happen  to  peep  over  a  lady's  shoulder 
while  dressing,  we  might  be  able  to  see  neither 
gaming  nor  ill-nature  ;  neither  pride,  debauchery, 
nor  a  love  of  gadding.  We  should  find  her,  if 
any  sensible  defect  appeared  in  the  mind,  more 
careful  in  rectifying  it,  than  plastering  up  the  ir- 
reparable decays  of  the  person ;  nay,  I  am  even 
apt  to  fancy,  that  ladies  would  find  more  real  plea- 
sure in  this  utensil  in  private,  than  in  any  other 
bauble  imported  from  China,  though  ever  so  ex- 
pensive or  amusing. 


LETTER  XLVI. 


To  the  Same. 


Upon  finishing  my  last  letter,  I  retired  to  rest, 
reflecting  upon  the  wonders  of  the  glass  of  Lao, 
wishing  to  be  possessed  of  one  here,  and  resolved 
in  such  a  case  to  oblige  every  lady  with  a  sight  of 
it  for  nothing.  What  fortune  denied  me  waking, 
fancy  supplied  in  a  dream  :  the  glass,  I  know  not 
how,  was  put  into  possession,  and  I  could  perceive 
several  ladies  approaching,  some  voluntarily,  others 
driven  forward  against  their  wills,  by  a  set  of  dis- 
contented genii,  whom  by  intuition  I  knew  were 
their  husbands. 

The  apartment  in  which  I  was  to  show  away 
was  filled  with  several  gaming-tables,  as  if  just  for- 
saken :  the  candles  were  burnt  to  the  socket,  and 
the  hour  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Placed 
at  one  end  of  the  room,  which  was  of  prodigious 
length,  I  could  more  easily  distinguish  every  female 
figure  as  she  marched  up  from  the  door ;  but  guess 
my  surprise,  when  I  could  scarcely  perceive  one 
blooming  or  agreeable  face  among  the  number. 
This,  however,  I  attributed  to  the  early  hour,  and 
kindly  considered  that  the  face  of  a  lady  just  risen 
from  bed,  ought  always  to  find  a  compassionate 
advocate. 

The  first  person  who  came  up  in  order  to  view 
her  intellectual  face  was  a  commoner's  wife,  who, 
as  I  afterward  found,  being  bred  up  during  her 


virginity  in  a  pawnbroker's  shop,  now  attempted 
to  make  up  the  defects  of  breeding  and  sentiment 
by  the  magnificence  of  her  dress,  and  the  expen- 
siveness  of  her  amusements.  Mr.  ShowmaU; 
cried  she,  approaching,  I  am  told  you  has  some- 
thing to  show  in  that  there  sort  of  magic- lantern, 
by  which  folks  can  see  themselves  on  the  inside  : 
I  protest,  as  my  Lord  Beetle  says,  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  vastly  pretty,  for  I  have  never  seen  any  thing 
like  it  before.  But  how ;  are  we  to  strip  off  our 
clothes  and  be  turned  inside  out?  if  so,  as  Lord 
Beetle  says,  I  absolutely  declare  off;  for  I  would 
not  strip  for  the  world  before  a  man's  face,  and  so 
I  tells  his  lordship  almost  every  night  of  my  life. 
I  informed  the  lady  that  I  would  dispense  with  the 
ceremony  of  stripping,  and  immediately  presented 
my  glass  to  her  view. 

As  when  a  first-rate  beauty,  after  having  with 
difficulty  escaped  the  small-pox,  revisits  her  fa- 
vourite mirror — that  mirror  which  had  repeated 
the  flattery  of  every  lover,  and  even  added  force 
to  the  compliment, — expecting  to  see  what  had 
so  often  given  her  pleasure,  she  no  longer  beholds 
the  cherry  lip,  the  polished  forehead,  and  speaking 
blush  ;  but  a  hateful  phiz,  quilted  into  a  thousand 
seams  by  the  hand  of  deformity ;  grief,  resentment, 
and  rage,  fill  her  bosom  by  turns :  she  blames  the 
fates  and  the  stars,  but  most  of  all,  the  unhappy 
glass  feels  her  resentment :  so  it  was  with  the  lady 
in  question ;  she  had  never  seen  her  own  mind  be- 
fore, and  was  now  shocked  at  its  deformity.  One 
single  look  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  her  curiosity ; 
I  held  up  the  glass  to  her  face,  and  she  shut  her 
eyes ;  no  entreaties  could  prevail  upon  her  to  gaze 
once  more.  She  was  even  going  to  snatch  it  from 
my  hands  and  break  it  in  a  thousand  pieces.  I 
found  it  was  time,  therefore,  to  dismiss  her  as  incor- 
rigible, and  show  away  to  the  next  that  offered. 

This  was  an  unmarried  lady,  who  contiaued  in 
a  state  of  virginity  till  thirty-six,  and  then  admitted 
a  lover  when  she  despaired  of  a  husband.  No 
woman  was  louder  at  a  revel  than  she,  perfectly 
freehearted,  and  almost  in  every  respect  a  man: 
she  understood  ridicule  to  perfection,  and  was  once 
known  even  to  sally  out  in  order  to  beat  the  watch. 
"  Here,  you  my  dear  with  the  outlandish  face 
(said  she,  addressing  me),  let  me  take  a  single 
j)eep.  Not  that  I  care  three  damns  what  figure  I 
may  cut  in  the  glass  of  such  an  old-fashioned  crea- 
ture ;  if  I  am  allowed  the  beauties  of  the  face  by 
people  of  fashion,  I  know  the  world  will  be  com- 
plaisant enough  to  toss  me  the  beauties  of  the 
mind  into  the  bargain."  I  held  my  glass  before 
her  as  she  desired,  and  must  confess  was  shocked 
with  the  reflection.  The  lady,  however,  gazed  for 
some  time  with  the  utmost  complacency  ;  and  at 
last,  turning  to  me,  with  the  most  satisfied  smile 
said,  she  never  could  think  she  had  been  half  so 
handsome. 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


30i> 


Upon  her  dismission,  a  lady  of  distinction  was 
reluctantly  hauled  along  to  the  glass  by  her  hus- 
band. In  bringing  her  forward,  as  he  came  first 
to  the  glass  himself,  his  mind  appeared  tinctured 
with  immoderate  jealousy,  and  1  was  going  to  re- 
proach him  for  using  her  with  such  severity  ;  but 
when  the  lady  came  to  present  herself,  I  immedi- 
atelj'  retracted ;  for,  alas !  it  was  seen  that  he  had 
but  too  much  reason  for  his  suspicions. 

The  next  was  a  lady  who  usually  teased  all  her 
acquaintance  in  desiring  to  be  told  of  her  faults, 
and  then  never  mended  any.  Upon  approaching 
the  glass,  I  could  readily  perceive  vanity,  aifecta- 
tion,  and  some  other  ill-looking  blots  on  her  mind ; 
wherefore,  by  my  advice,  she  immediately  gtet 
about  mending.  But  I  could  easily  find  she  vvas 
not  earnest  in  the  work  ;  for  as  she  repaired  them 
on  one  side,  they  generally  broke  out  on  another. 
Thus,  after  three  or  four  attempts,  she  began  to 
make  the  ordinary  use  of  the  glass  in  settling  her 
hair. 

The  company  now  made  room  for  a  woman  of 
learning,  who  approached  with  a  slow  pace  and 
solemn  countenance,  which,  for  her  own  sake,  1 
could  wish  had  been  cleaner.  Sir,"  cried  the  lady, 
flourishing  her  hand,  which  held  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
"  1  shall  be  enraptured  by  having  presented  to  my 
view  a  mind  with  which  I  have  so  long  studied  to 
be  acquainted  ;  but,  in  order  to  give  the  sex  a  pro- 
per example,  I  must  insist,  that  all  the  company 
may  be  permitted  to  look  over  my  shoulder."  I 
bowed  assent,  and  presenting  the  glass,  showed  the 
lady  a  mind  by  no  means  so  fair  as  she  had  expect- 
ed to  see.  Ill-nature,  ill-placed  pride,  and  spteen, 
were  too  legible  to  be  mistaken.  N  othing  could  be 
more  amusing  than  the  mirth  of  her  female  com- 
panions who  had  looked  over.  They  had  hated 
her  from  the  beginning,  and  now  the  apartment 
echoed  with  a  universal  laugh.  Nothing  but  a 
fortitude  like  her's  could  have  withstood  their  rail- 
lery :  she  stood  it,  however ;  and  when  the  burst 
was  exhausted,  with  great  tranquillity  she  assured 
the  company,  that  the  whole  was  a  deceptio  visus, 
and  that  she  was  too  well  acquainted  with  her  own 
mind  to  believe  any  false  representations  from 
another.  Thus  saying,  she  retired  with  a  sullen 
satisfaction,  resolved  not  to  mend  her  faults,  but  to 
write  a  criticism  on  the  mental  reflector. 

I  must  own,  by  this  time,  I  began  myself  to  sus- 
pect the  fidelity  of  my  mirror ;  for,  as  the  ladies  ap- 
peared at  least  to  have  the  merit  of  rising  early, 
since  they  were  up  at  five,  I  was  amazed  to  find 
nothing  of  this  good  quaUty  pictured  upon  their 
minds  in  the  reflection ;  I  was  resolved,  therefore, 
\  to  communicate  ray  suspicions  to  a  lady  whose  in- 
"<  tellectual  countenance  appeared  more  fair  than  any 
of  the  rest,  not  having  above  seventy -nine  spots  in 
?  all,  besides  slips  and  foibles.     I  ov<rn,  young  wo- 
I  man,"  said  I,  "  that  there  are  some  virtues  upoW 
20 


that  mind  of  yours  ;  but  there  is  still  one  which  I 
do  not  see  represented,  I  mean  that  of  rising  })e- 
times  in  the  morning :  1  fancy  the  glass  false  in 
that  particular."  The  young  lady  smiled  at  my 
simplicity  ;•  and  with  a  blush  confessed,  that  she 
and  the  whole  company  had  been  up  all  night 
gaming. 

By  this  time  all  the  ladies,  except  one,  had  seen 
themselves  successively,  and  disliked  the  show  or 
scolded  the  showman ;  I  was  resolved,  however, 
that  she  who  seemed  to  neglect  herself,  and  was 
neglected  by  the  rest,  should  take  a  view ;  and' 
going  up  to  a  corner  of  the  room  where  she  still 
continued  sitting,  I  presented  my  glass  full  in  her 
face.  Here  it  was  that  I  exulted  in  my  success  ;• 
no  blot,  no  stain,  appeared  on  any  part  of  the  faith- 
ful mirror.  As  when  the  large  unwritten  page' 
presents  its  snowy  spotless  bosom  to  the  writer's* 
hand,  so  appeared  the  glass  to  my  view.  Here,  O 
ye  daughters  of  English  ancestors,  cried  I,  turn' 
hither,  a"nd  behold  an  object  worthy  imitation  ; 
look  upoA  the  mirror  now,  and  acknowledge  its 
justice,  and  this  woman's  pre-eminence !  The  la- 
dies, obeying  the  summons,  came  up  in  a  group,- 
and  looking  on,  acknowledged  there  was  some 
truth  iri  the  picture,  as  the  person  now  represent- 
ed had  been  deaf,  dumb,  and  a  fool  from  her 
cradle  t 

This  much  of  my  dream  I  distinctly  remember  f 
the  rest  was  filled  with  chimeras,  enchanted  cas- 
tles, and  flying  dragons,  as  usual.  As  you,  my 
dear  Fum  Hoam,  are  particularly  versed  in  the  in- 
terpretation of  those  midnight  warnings,  what 
pleasure  should  I  find  in  your  explanation !  But 
that  our  distance  prevents ;  I  make  no  doubt,  how- 
ever, but  that,  from  my  descri'ption,  you  will  very 
much  venerate  the  good  quaUties  of  the  English' 
ladies  in  genei»al,  since  dreams,  you  know,  go  al- 
ways by  conti'aries.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XLtn. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Hingpo,  a  State  in  Persia.* 

Your  last  letters  betray  a  mind  seemingly  fond' 
of  wisdom,  yet  tempested  up  by  a  tliousand  various' 
passions.  You  would  fondly  persuade  me,  that 
my  former  lessons  still  influence  your  conduct,  anrf 
yet  your  mind  seems  not  less  enslaved  than  your 
body.  Knowledge,  wisdom,  erudition,  arts,  and 
elegance,  what  ate  they  but  the  mere  trappings  of 
the  mind,  if  they  do  not  serve  to  increase  the  hap- 
piness of  the  possessor  ?  A  mind  rightly  instituted 
in  the  school  of  philosophy,  acquires  at  once  the 
stability  of  the  oak,  and  the  flexibiUty  of  the  osier. 


*  This  letter  appears  to  be  little  more  than  a  rhapsody  of  sen- 
timents from  Confuciufi.    Vide  die  latin  translation. 


306 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


The  truest  manner  of  lessening  our  agonies,  is  to 
shrink  from  their  pressure ;  is  to  confess  that  we 
feel  them. 

The  fortitude  of  European  sages  is  but  a  dream; 
for  where  Hes  the  merit  in  being  insensible  to  the 
strokes  of  fortune,  or  in  dissembhng  our  sensibility  ? 
If  we  are  insensible,  that  arises  only  from  a  happy 
constitution ;  that  is  a  blessing  previously  granted 
by  Heaven,  and  which  no  art  can  procure,  no  in- 
stitutions improve. 

If  we  dissemble  our  feelings,  we  only  artificially 
endeavour  to  persuade  others  that  we  enjoy  privi- 
leges which  we  actually  do  not  possess.  Thus, 
while  we  endeavour  to  appear  happy,  we  feel  at 
once  all  the  pangs  of  internal  misery,  and  all  the 
self-reproaching  consciousness  of  endeavouring  to 
deceive. 

I  know  but  of  two  sects  of  philosophers  in  the 
world  that  have  endeavoured  to  inculcate  that  for- 
titude is  but  an  imaginary  virtue ;  I  mean  the  fol- 
lowers of  Confucius,  and  those  who  profess  the 
doctrines  of  Christ.  All  other  sects  teach  pride 
under  misfortunes;  they  alone  teach  humility. 
Night,  says  our  Chinese  philosopher,  not  more 
surely  follows  the  day,  than  groans  and  tears  grow 
out  of  pain ;  when  misfortunes  therefore  oppress, 
when  tyrants  threaten,  it  is  our  interest,  it  is  our 
duty  to  fly  even  to  dissipation  for  support,  to  seek 
redress  from  friendship,  or  seek  redress  from  the 
best  of  friends  who  loved  us  into  being. 

Philosophers,  my  son,  have  long  declaimed 
against  the  passions,  as  being  the  source  of  all  our 
miseries :  they  are  the  source  of  all  our  misfortunes, 
I  own ;  but  they  are  the  source  of  our  pleasures 
too ;  and  every  endeavour  of  our  lives,  and  all  the 
institutions  of  philosophy,  should  tend  to  this,  not 
to  dissemble  an  absence  of  passion,  but  to  repel 
those  which  lead  to  vice,  by  those  which  direct  to 
virtue. 

The  soul  may  be  compared  to  a  field  of  battle, 
where  two  armies  are  ready  every  moment  to  en- 
counter ;  not  a  single  vice  but  has  a  more  powerful 
opponent,  and  not  one  virtue  but  may  be  overborne 
by  a  combination  of  vices.  Reason  guides  the 
bands  of  either  host ;  nor  can  it  subdue  one  pas- 
sion but  by  the  assistance  of  another.  Thus  as  a 
bark,  on  every  side  beset  with  storms,  enjoys  a 
state  of  rest,  so  does  the  mind,  when  influenced  by 
a  just  equipoise  of  the  passions,  enjoy  tranquillity. 
I  have  used  such  means  as  my  little  fortune 
would  admit  to  procure  your  freedom.  I  have 
lately  written  to  the  governor  of  Argun  to  pay 
your  ransom,  though  at  the  expense  of  all  the 
wealth  I  brought  with  me  from  China.  If  we  he- 
come  poor,  we  shall  at  least  have  the  pleasure  of 
bearing  poverty  together;  for  what  is  fatigue  or 
famine,  when  weighed  against  friendship  and  free- 
dom.   Adieu. 


LETTER  XLVIII.  * 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to ,  Merchant  in  Amsterdam. 

Happening  some  days  ago  to  call  at  a  painter's, 
to  amuse  myself  in  examining  some  pictures  (I 
had  no  design  to  buy),  it  surprised  me  to  see  a 
young  Prince  in  the  working-room,  dressed  in  a 
painter's  apron,  and  assiduously  learning  the  trade. 
We  instantly  remembered  to  have  seen  each  other ; 
and,  after  the  usual  com[»liments,  I  stood  by  while 
he  continued  to  paint  on.  As  every  thing  done 
by  the  rich  is  praised  ;  as  Princes  here,  as  well  as 
in  China,  are  never  without  followers,  three  or  four 
persons,  who  had  the  appearance  of  gentlemen, 
were  placed  behind  to  comfort  and  applaud  him  at 
every  stroke. 

Need  I  tell,  that  it  struck  me  with  very  disa- 
greeable sensations,  to  see  a  youth,  who,  by  his  sta- 
tion in  life,  had  it  in  his  power  to  be  useful  to 
thousands,  thus  letting  his  mind  run  to  waste  upon 
canvass,  and  at  the  same  time  fancying  himself 
improviyig  in  taste,  and  filing  his  rank  with  pro- 
per decorum. 

As  seeing  an  error,  and  attempting  to  redress  it, 
are  only  one  and  the  same  with  me,  I  took  occa- 
sion, upon  his  lordship's  desiring  my  opinion  of  a 
Chinese  scroll,  intended  for  the  frame  of  a  picture, 
to  assure  him,  that  a  mandarine  of  China  thought 
a  minute  acquaintance  with  such  mechanical  trifles 
below  his  dignity. 

This  reply  raised  the  indignation  of  some,  and 
the  contempt  of  others :  I  could  hear  the  names  of 
Vandal,  Goth,  taste,  polite  arts,  delicacy,  and  fire, 
repeated  in  tones  of  ridicule  or  resentment.  But 
considering  that  it  was  in  vain  to  argue  against 
people  who  had  so  much  to  say  without  contradict- 
ing them,  I  begged  leave  to  repeat  a  fairy  tale. 
This  request  redoubled  their  laughter;  but,  not 
easily  abashed  at  the  raillery  of  boys,  I  persisted, 
observing,  that  it  would  set  the  absurdity  of  placing 
our  affections  upon  trifles  in  the  strongest  point  of 
view;  and  adding,  that  it  was  hoped  the  moral 
would  compensate  for  its  stupidity.  For  Heaven's 
sake,  cried  the  great  man,  washing  his  brush  in 
water,  let  us  have  no  morality  at  present ;  if  we 
must  have  a  story,  let  it  be  without  any  moral.  I 
pretended  not  to  hear ;  and,  while  he  handled  the 
brush,  proceeded  as  follows : — 

In  the  kingdom  of  Bonbobbin,  which,  by  the 
Chinese  annals,  appears  to  have  flourished  twenty 
thousand  years  ago,  there  reigned  a  prince  en- 
dowed with  every  accomplishment  which  generally 
distinguishes  the  sons  of  kings.  His  beauty  was 
brighter  than  the  sun.  The  sun,  to  which  he  was 
nearly  related,  would  sometimes  stop  his  course,  in 
order  to  look  down  and  admire  him. 

His  mind  was  not  less  perfect  than  his  body :  he 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


307 


knew  aB  things,  without  having  ever  read :  phi 
losophers,  pot;ts,  and  historians,  submitted  their 
works  to  his  decision  ;  and  so  penetrating  was  he, 
that  he  could  tell  the  merit  of  a  book,  by  looking 
on  the  cover.  He  made  epic  poems,  tragedies,  and 
pastorals,  with  surprising  facility ;  song,  epigram, 
or  rebus,  was  all  one  to  him,  though  it  was  observ- 
ed he  could  never  finish  an  acrostic.  In  short,  the 
fairy  who  had  presided  at  his  birth  endowed  him 
with  almost  every  perfection,  or  what  was  just  the 
same,  his  subjects  were  ready  to  acknowledge  he 
possessed  them  all ;  and,  for  his  own  part,  he  knew 
nothing  to  the  contrary.  A  Prince  so  accomplish- 
ed, received  a  name  suitable  to  his  merit ;  and 
he  was  called  Bonbennin-bonbcbbin-bonbobbinet, 
which  signifies,  Enlightener  of  the  Sun, 

As  he  was  very  powerful,  and  yet  unmarried,  all 
the  neighbouring  kings  earnestly  sought  his  alli- 
ance. Each  sent  his  daughter,  dressed  out  in  the 
most  magnificent  manner,  and  with  the  most 
sumptuous  retinue  imaginable,  in  order  to  allure 
the  Prince ;  so  that  at  one  time  there  were  seen  at 
his  court  not  less  than  seven  hundred  foreign  Prin- 
cesses, of  exquisite  sentiment  and  beauty,  each 
alone  sufficient  to  make  seven  hundred  ordinary 
men  happy. 

Distracted  in  such  a  variety,  the  generous  Bon- 
bennin,  had  he  not  been  obliged  by  the  laws  of  the 
empirie  to  make  choice  of  one,  would  very  willingly 
have  married  them  all,  for  none  understood  gal- 
lantry better.  He  spent  numberless  hours  of  soli- 
citude in  endeavouring  to  determine  whom  he 
should  choose ;  one  lady  was  possessed  of  every 
perfection,  but  he  dishked  her  eyebrows ;  another 
was  brighter  than  the  morning  star,  but  he  disap^ 
proved  her  fimg-whang;  a  third  did  not  lay  white 
enough  on  her  cheek ;  and  a  fourth  did  not  suffi- 
ciently blacken  her  nails.  At  last,  after  number- 
less disappointments  on  the  one  side  and  the  other, 
he  made  choice  of  the  incomparable  Nanhoa, 
Glueen  of  the  scarlet  dragons. 

The  preparations  for  the  royal  nuptials,  or  the 
envy  of  the  disappointed  ladies,  needs  no  descrip- 
tion ;  both  the  one  arid  the  other  w<;re  as  great  as 
they  conld  be:  the  beautiful  Princess  was  con- 
ducted amidst  admiring  multitudes  to  the  royal 
couch,  where,  after  being  divested  of  every  encum- 
bering ornament,  she  was  placed,  in  expectance 
of  the  youthful  bridegroom,  who  did  not  keep  her 
long  in  expectation.  He  came  more  cheerful  than 
the  morning,  and  printing  on  her  lips  a  burning 
kiss,  the  attendants  took  this  as  a  proper  signal  to 
withdraw. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  in  the  be- 
gining,  that,  among  several  other  qualifications, 
the  Prince  was  for»d  of  collecting  and  breeding 
mice,  which,  being  a  harmless  pastime,  none  of  his 
counsellors  thought  proper  to  dissuade  him  from ; 
he  therefore  kept  a  great  variety  of  these  pretty 


little  animals  in  the  most  beautiful  cages  enriched 
with  diamonds,  rubies,  emeralds,  pearls,  and  other 
precious  stones:  thus  he  innocently  spent  four 
hours  each  day,  in  fvjntemplating  their  innocent 
little  pastimes. 

But  to  proceed.  The  Prince  and  Princess  were 
now  in  bed ;  one  with  all  the  love  and  expectation, 
the  other  with  all  the  modesty  and  fear,  which  is 
natural  to  suppose ;  both  willing,  yet  afraid  to  be- 
gin ;  when  the  Prince,  happening  to  look  towards 
the  outside  of  the  bed,  perceived  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  animals  in  the  world,  a  white  mouse  with 
green  eyes,  playing  about  the  floor,  and  performing 
a  hundred  pretty  tricks.  He  was  already  master 
of  blue  mice,  red  mice,  and  even  white  mice,  with 
yellow  eyes ;  but  a  white  mouse  with  green  eyes, 
was  what  he  had  long  endeavoured  to  possess  j 
wherefore,  leaping  from  bed  with  the  utmost  im- 
patience and  agility,  the  youthful  Prince  attempted 
to  seize  the  Httle  charmer,  but  it  was  fled  in  a  mo- 
ment ;  for,  alas !  the  mouse  was  sent  by  a  discon- 
tented Princess,  and  was  itself  a  fairy. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  agony  of  the 
Prince  upon  this  occasion ;  he  sought  round  and 
round  every  part  of  the  room,  even  the  bed  where 
the  Princess  lay  was  not  exempt  from  the  inquiry  :• 
he  turned  the  Princess  on  one  side  and  the  other,, 
stripped  her  quite  naked,  but  no  mouse  was  to  be 
found :  the  Princess  herself  was  kind  enough  to 
assist,  but  still  to  no  purpose. 

Alas,  cried  the  young  Prince  in  an  agony,  how 
unhappy  am  I  to  be  thus  disappointed!  never  sure 
was  so  beautiful  an  animal  seen :  I  would  give  half 
my  kingdom,  and  my  Princess,  to  him  that  would 
find  it.  The  Princess,  though  not  much  pleased 
with  the  latter  part  of  his  offer,  endeavoured  to 
comfort  him  as  well  as  she  could  :  she  let  him  know 
that  he  had  a  hundred  mice  already,  which  ought 
to  be  at  least  sufficient  to  satisfy  any  philosopher 
hke  him.  Though  none  of  them  had  green  eyes, 
yet  he  should  learn  to  thank  heaven  that  they  had 
eyes.  She  told  him  (for  she  was  a  profound  mo- 
ralist), that  incurable  evils  must  be  borne,  and  that 
useless  lamentations  were  vain,  and  that  man  was 
born  to  misfortunes :  she  even  entreated  him  to  re- 
turn to  bed,  and  she  would  endeavour  to  lull  him 
on  her  bosom  to  repose ;  but  still  the  Prince  con- 
tinued inconsolable;  and  regarding  her  with  a 
stem  air,  for  which  his  family  was  remarkable,  ho 
vowed  never  to  sleep  in  the  royal  palace,  or  irn 
dulge  himself  in  the  innocent  pleasures  of  matri-* 
mony,  till  he  had  found  the  white  mouse  with  the 
green  eyes. 

Prithee,  Colonel  Leech,  cried  his  lordship,  in- 
terrupting me,  how  do  you  like  that  nose  ?  don't 
you  think  there  is  something  of  the  manner  of 
Rembrandt  in  it  1 — A  prince  in  all  this  agony  for 
a  white  mouse,  O  ridiculous ! — Dont  you  think, 
Major  Vampyre,  that  eyebrow  stippled  very  pret- 


308 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORfeS. 


tily? — but  pray,  what  are  the  green  eyes  to  the 
purpose,  except  to  amuse  children?  I  would  give 
a  thousand  guineas  to  lay  on  the  colouring  of  this 
cheek  more  smoothly.  But  I  ask  pardon ;  pray 
sir,  proceed. 


LETTER  XLIX. 

From  the  Same. 

Kings,  continued  I,  at  that  time  were  different 
from  what  they  are  now;  they  then  never  engaged 
their  word  for  any  thing  which  they  did  not  rigor- 
ously intend  to  perform.  This  was  the  case  of 
Bonbennin,  who  continued  all  night  to  lament  his 
misfortunes  to  the  Princess,  who  echoed  groan  for 
groan.  When  morning  came,  he  published  an 
edict,  offering  half  his  kingdom,  and  his  Princess. 
to  the  person  who  should  catch  and  bring  him  the 
white  mouse  with  the  green  eyes. 

The  edict  was  scarcely  published,  when  all  the 
traps  in  the  kingdom  were  baited  with  cheese; 
numberless  mice  were  taken  and  destroyed;  but 
still  the  much-wished-for  mouse  was  not  among 
the  number.  The  privy-council  was  assembled 
more  than  once  to  give  their  advice ;  but  all  their 
deliberations  came  to  nothing;  even  though  there 
were  two  complete  vermin -killers,  and  three  pro- 
fessed rat-catchers  of  the  number.  Frequent  ad- 
dresses, as  is  usual  on  extraordinary  occasions, 
were  sent  from  all  parts  of  the  empire ;  but  though 
these  promised  well,  though  in  them  he  received  an 
assurance,  that  his  faithful  subjects  would  assist  in 
his  search  with  their  lives  and  fortunes,  yet,  with 
all  their  loyalty,  they  failed  when  the  time  came 
that  the  mouse  was  to  be  caught. 

The  Prince,  therefore,  was  resolved  to  go  him- 
self in  search,  determined  never  to  lie  two  nights 
in  one  place,  till  he  had  found  what  he  sought  for 
Thus,  quitting  his  palace  without  attendants,  he 
set  out  upon  his  journey,  and  travelled  through 
many  a  desert,  and  crossed  many  a  river,  over  high 
hills,  and  down  along  vales,  still  restless,  still  in- 
quiring wherever  he  came;  but  no  white  mouse 
was  to  be  found. 

As  one  day,  fatigued  with  his  journey,  he  was 
shading  himself  from  the  heat  of  the  mid-day  sun, 
under  the  arching  branches  of  a  banana  tree,  medi- 
tating on  the  object  of  his  pursuit,  he  perceived  an 
old  woman,  hideously  deformed,  approaching  him ; 
by  her  stoop,  and  the  wrinkles  of  her  visage,  she 
seemed  at  least  five  hundred  years  old ;  and  the 
spotted  toad  was  not  more  freckled  than  was  her 
skin.  "  Ah  !  Prince  Bonbennin-bonbobbin-bon- 
bobbinet,"  cried  the  creature,  "  what  has  led  you 
so  many  thousand  miles  from  your  own  kingdom  7 
what  is  it  you  look  for,  and  what  induces  you  to 
travel  into  the  kingdom  of  the  Emmets?  The 
Prince,  who  was  excessively  complaisant,  told  her , 


the  whole  story  three  times  over ;  for  she  was  hard 
of  hearing.  "  Well,"  says  the  old  fairy,  for  such 
she  was,  "  1  promise  to  put  you  in  possession  of 
the  white  mouse  with  green  eyes,  and  that  imme- 
diately too,  upon  one  condition."  '« One  condi- 
tion," cried  the  prince  in  a  rapture,  "  name  a  thou- 
sand ;  I  shall  undergo  them  all  with  pleasure." 
"Nay,"  interrupted  the  old  fairy,  "  I  ask  but  one, 
and  that  not  very  mortifying  neither;  it  is  only 
that  you  instantly  consent  to  marry  me." 

It  is  impossible  to  express  the  Prince's  confusion 
at  this  demand ;  he  loved  the  mouse,  but  he  detest- 
ed the  bride ;  he  hesitated ;  he  desired  time  to  think 
upon  the  proposal :  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
consult  his  friends  on  such  an  occasion.  "  INfeiy, 
nay,"  cried  the  odious  fairy,  "if  you  demur,  I  re- 
tract my  promise  ;  I  do  not  desire  to  force  my  fa- 
vours on  any  man.  Here,  you  my  attendants," 
cried  she,  stamping  with  her  foot,  "let  my  ma- 
chine be  driven  up ;  Barbacela,  Clueen  of  Emmets, 
is  not  used  to  contemptuous  treatment."  She  had 
no  sooner  spoken,  than  her  fiery  chariot  appeared 
in  the  air,  drawn  by  two  snails ;  and  she  was  just 
going  to  step  in,  when  the  Prince  reflected,  that 
now  or  never  was  the  time  to  be  possessed  of  the 
white  mouse ;  and  quite  forgetting  his  lawful  Prin- 
cess Nanhoa,  falling  on  his  knees,  he  implored 
forgiveness  for  having  rashly  rejected  so  much 
beauty.  This  well-timed  compliment  instantly  ap- 
peased the  angry  fairy.  She  affected  a  hideous 
leer  of  approbation,  and  taking  the  young  Prince 
by  the  hand,  conducted  him  to  a  neighbouring 
church,  where  they  were  married  together  in  a 
moment.  As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  perform- 
ed, the  prince,  who  was  to  the  last  degree  desirous 
of  seeing  his  favourite  mouse,  reminded  the  bride 
of  her  promise.  "  To  confess  a  truth,  my  Prince." 
cried  she,  "  I  myself  am  that  very  white  mouse 
you  saw  on  your  wedding-night  in  the  royal  apart- 
ment. I  now,  therefore,  give  you  the  choice,  whe- 
ther you  would  have  me  a  mouse  by  day^  and  a 
woman  by  night,  or  a  mouse  by  night,  and  a  wo- 
man by  day."  Though  the  Prince  was  an  excel- 
lent casuist,  he  was  quite  at  a  loss  how  to  deter- 
mme,  but  at  last  thought  it  most  prudent  to  have 
recourse  to  a  blue  cat  that  had  followed  him  from 
his  own  dominions,  and  frequently  amused  him 
with  its  conversation,  and  assisted  him  with  its  ad- 
vice; in  fact,  this  cat  was  no  other  than  the  faith- 
ful Princess  Nanhoa  herself,  who  had  shared  with 
him  all  his  hardships  in  this  disguise. 

By  her  instructions  he  was  determined  in  his 
choice,  and  returning  to  the  old  fairy,  prudently 
observed,  that  as  she  must  have  been  sensible  he 
had  married  her  only  for  the  sake  of  what  she  had, 
and  not  for  her  personal  qualifications,  he  thought 
it  would  for  several  reasons  be  most  convemeni,  if 
she  continued  a  woman  by  day  and  appeared  a 
mouse  by  night 


^;?r 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


The  old  fairy  was  a  good  deal  mortified  at  her 
hubband's  want  of  gallantry,  though  she  was  re- 
luctantly obliged  to  comply :  the  day  was  therefore 
spent  in  the  most  polite  amusements,  the  gentleman 
talked  smut,  the  ladies  laughed,  and  were  angry. 
At  last,  the  happy  night  drew  near,  the  blue  cat 
still  stuck  by  the  side  of  its  master,  and  even  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  bridal  apartment.  Barbacela  en- 
tered the  chamber,  wearing  a  train  fifteen  yards 
long,  supported  by  porcupines,  and  all  over  beset 
with  jewels,  which  served  to  render  her  more  de- 
testable. She  was  just  stepping  into  bed  to  the 
Prince,  forgetting  her  promise,  when  he  insisted 
upon  seeing  her  in  the  shape  of  a  mouse.  She 
had  promised,  and  no  fairy  can  break  her  word ; 
wherefore,  assuming  the  figure  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful mouse  in  the  world,  she  skipped  and  played 
about  with  an  infinity  of  amusement.  The  Prince, 
in  an  agony  of  rapture,  was  desirous  of  seeing  his 
pretty  play-fellow  move  a  slow  dance  about  the 
floor  to  his  own  singing;  he  began  to  sing,  and  the 
mouse  immediately  to  perform  with  the  most  per- 
fect knowledge  of  time,  and  the  finest  grace  and 
greatest  gravity  imaginable ;  it  only  began,  for  Nan- 
hoa,  who  had  long  waited  for  the  opportunity  in 
the  shape  of  a  cat,  flew  upon  it  instantly  without 
remorse,  and  eating  it  up  in  the  hundredth  part  of 
a  moment,  broke  the  charm,  and  then  resumed  her 
natural  figure. 

The  Prince  now  found  that  he  had  all  along  been 
under  the  power  of  enchantment,  that  his  passion 
for  the  white  mouse  was  entirely  fictitious,  and  not 
the  genuine  complexion  of  his  soul ;  he  now  saw 
that  his  earnestness  after  mice  was  an  illiberal 
amusement,  and  much  more  becoming  a  rat-catcher 
than  a  Prince.  All  his  meannesses  now*  stared 
him  in  the  face;  he  begged  the  discreet  Princess's 
pardon  a  hundred  times.  The  Princess  very  rea- 
dily forgave  him ;  and  both  returning  to  their  pa- 
lace in  Bonbobbin,  lived  very  happily  together,  and 
reigned  many  years  with  all  that  wisdom,  which, 
.  by  the  story,  they  appear  to  have  been  possessed 
;  of;  perfectly  convinced,  by  their  former  adventures, 
that  they  who  place  their  affections  on  trijles  at 
Jirstfor  amusement,  will  find  those  trijles  at  last 
becoTne  their  Ttiost  serious  concern.    Adieu. 


LETTER  L. 

From  lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of 
the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

Ask  an  Englishman  what  nation  in  the  world 
enjoys  most  freedom,  and  he  imrtftdiately  answers, 
his  own.  Ask  him  in  what  that  freedom  princi- 
pally consists,  and  he  is  instantly  silent.  This 
happy  pre-eminence  does  not  arise  from  the  peo- 
ple's ei^oying  a  larger  share  in  legislation  than 


elsewhere ;  for,  in  this  particular,  several  states  in 
Europe  excel  them ;  nor  does  it  arise  from  a  greater 
exemption  from  taxes,  for  few  countries  pay  more ; 
it  does  not  proceed  from  their  being  restrained  by 
fewer  laws,,  for  no  people  are  burdened  with  so 
many;  nor  does  it  particularly  consist  in  the  se- 
curity of  their  property,  for  property  is  pretty  well 
secured  in  every  polite  state  in  Europe. 

How  then  are  the  English  more  free  (for  more 
free  they  certainly  are)  than  the  people  of  any 
other  country,  or  under  any  other  form  of  govern 
ment  whatever?  Their  freedom  consists  in  their 
enjoying  all  the  advantages  of  democracy,  with 
this  superior  prerogative  borrowed  from  monarchy, 
that  the  severity  of  their  laws  may  be  relaxed 
without  endangering  the  constitution. 

In  a  monarchical  state,  in  which  the  constitution 
is  strongest,  the  laws  may  be  relaxed  without  dan- 
ger; for  though  the  people  should  be  unanimous  in 
the  breach  of  any  one  in  particular,  yet  still  there 
is  an  effective  power  superior  to  the  people,  capable 
of  enforcing  obedience,  whenever  it  may  be  proper 
to  inculcate  the  law  either  towards  the  support  or 
welfare  of  the  community. 

But  in  all  those  governments  where  laws  derive 
their  sanction  from  the  people  alone,  transgressions 
can  not  be  overlooked  without  bringing  the  consti- 
tution into  danger.  They  who  transgress  the  law- 
in  such  a  case,  are  those  who  prescribe  it,  by  which 
means  it  loses  not  only  its  influence  but  its  sanc- 
tion. In  every  republic  the  laws  must  be  strong, 
because  the  constitution  is  feeble;  they  must  resem- 
ble an  Asiatic  husband,  who  is  justly  jealous,  be- 
cause he  knows  himself  impotent.  Thus  in  Hol- 
land, Switzerland,  and  Genoa,  new  laws  are  not 
frequently  enacted,  but  the  old  ones  are  observed 
with  unremitting  severity.  In  such  republics,  there- 
fore, the  people  are  slaves  to  laws  of  their  own 
making,  little  less  than  in  unmixed  monarchies, 
where  tliey  are  slaves  to  the  will  of  one,  subject  to 
frailties  like  themselves. 

In  England,  from  a  variety  of  happy  accidents, 
their  constitution  is  just  strong  enough,  or,  if  you 
will,  monarchical  enough  to  permit  a  relaxation  of 
the  severity  of  laws,  and  yet  those  laws  still  to  re- 
main sufficiently  strong  to  govern  the  people.  This 
is  the  most  perfect  state  of  civil  liberty  of  which  we 
can  form  any  idea :  here  we  see  a  greater  number 
of  laws  than  in  any  other  country,  while  the  people 
at  the  same  time  obey  only  such  as  are  immedi- 
ately conducive  to  the  interests  of  society;  several 
are  unnoticed,  many  unknown;  some  kept  to  be 
revived  and  enforced  upon  proper  occasions,  others 
left  to  grow  obsolete,  even  without  the  necessity 
of  abrogation. 

There  is  scarcely  an  Englishman  who  docs  not 
almost  every  day  of  his  life  offend  with  impunity 
against  some  express  law,  and  for  which,  in  a  cer- 
tain conjuncture  of  circumstances,  he  would  not 


310 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


receive  punishment.  Gaming-houses,  preaching 
at  prohibited  places,  assembled  crowds,  nocturnal 
amusements,  public  shows,  and  a  hundred  other 
instances,  are  forbid  and  frequented.  These  pro 
hibitions  are  useful;  though  it  be  prudent  in  their 
magistrates,  and  happy  for  the  people,  that  they 
are  not  enforced,  and  none  but  the  venal  or  merce- 
nary attempt  to  enforce  them. 

The  law  in  this  case,  like  an  indulgent  parent, 
still  keeps  the  rod,  though  the  child  is  seldom  cor- 
rected. Were  those  pardoned  offences  to  rise  into 
enormity,  were  they  likely  to  obstruct  the  happiness 
of  society,  or  endanger  the  state,  it  is  then  that  jus- 
tice would  resume  her  terrors,  and  punish  those 
faults  she  had  so  often  overlooked  with  indulgence. 
It  is  to  this  ductility  of  the  laws  that  an  English- 
man owes  the  freedom  he  enjoys  superior  to  others 
in  a  more  popular  government:  every  step  there- 
fore the  constitution  takes  towards  a  democratic 
form,  every  diminution  of  the  legal  authority  is,  in 
fact,  a  diminution  of  the  subject's  freedom;  but 
every  attempt  to  render  the  government  more  popu- 
lar, not  only  impairs  natural  liberty,  but  even  will 
at  last  dissolve  the  political  constitution. 

Every  popular  government  seems  calculated  to 
last  only  for  a  time;  it  grows  rigid  with  age,  new 
'aws  aYe  multiplying,  and  the  old  continue  in  force; 
the  subjects  are  oppressed,  and  burdened  with  a 
multiplicity  of  legal  injunctions;  there  are  none 
from  whom  to  expect  redress,  and  nothing  but  a 
strong  convulsion  in  the  state  can  vindicate  them 
into  former  liberty:  thus,  the  people  of  Rome,  a 
few  great  ones  excepted,  found  more  real  freedom 
under  their  emperors,  though  tyrants,  than  they 
had  experienced  in  the  old  age  of  the  common- 
wealth, in  which  their  laws  were  become  numerous 
and  painful,  in  which  new  laws  were  every  day 
enacting,  and  the  old  ones  executed  with  rigour. 
They  even  refused  to  be  reinstated  in  their  former 
prerogatives,  upon  an  offer  made  them  to  this  pur- 
pose; for  they  actually  found  emperors  the  only 
means  of  softening  the  rigours  of  their  constitu- 
tion. 

The  constitution  of  England  is  at  present  pos- 
sessed of  the  strength  of  its  native  oak,  and  the 
flexibility  of  the  bending  tamarisk ;  but  should  the 
people  at  any  time,  with  a  mistaken  zeal,  pant  after 
an  imaginary  freedom,  and  fancy  that  abridging 
monarchy  was  increasing  their  privileges,  they 
would  be  very  much  mistaken,  since  every  jewel 
plucked  from  the  crown  of  majesty  would  only  be 
made  use  of  as  a  bribe  to  corruption ;  it  might  en- 
rich the  few  who  shared  it  among  them,  but  would 
in  fact  impoverish  the  public. 

As  the  Roman  senators,  by  slow  and  impercepti- 
ble degrees,  became  masters  of  the  people,  yet  still 
flattered  them  with  a  show  of  freedom,  while  them- 
selves only  were  free ;  so  it  is  possible  for  a  body 
of  men,  while  they  stand  up  for  privileges,  to  grow 


mto  an  exuberance  of  power  themselves,  and  the 
public  become  actually  dependent,  while  some  of  its 
individuals  only  governed. 

If  then,  my  friend,  there  should  in  this  country 
ever  be  on  the  throne  a  king,  who,  through  good- 
nature or  age,  should  give  up  the  smallest  part  of 
his  prerogative  to  the  people;  if  there  should  come 
a  minister  of  merit  and  popularity — but  I  have 
room  for  no  more.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LL 


To  the  Same. 


As  I  was  yesterday  seated  at  bieakfast  over  a 
pensive  dish  of  tea,  my  meditations  were  interrupt- 
ed by  my  old  friend  and  companion,  who  introduced 
a  stranger,  dressed  pretty  much  like  himself.  The 
gentleman  made  several  apologies  for  his  visit,  beg- 
ged of  me  to  impute  his  intrusion  to  the  sincerity 
of  his  respect,  and  the  warmth  of  his  curiosity. 

As  I  am  very  suspicious  of  my  company  when 
I  find  them  very  civil  without  any  apparent  reason, 
I  answered  the  stranger's  caresses  at  first  with  re- 
serve ;  which  my  friend  perceiving,  instantly  let  me 
into  my  visitant's  trade  and  character,  asking  Mr. 
Fudge,  whether  he  had  lately  published  any  thing 
new?  I  now  conjectured  that  my  guest  was  no 
other  than  a  bookseller,  and  his  answer  confirmed 
my  suspicions. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  says  he,  "  it  is  not  the  season ; 
books  have  their  time  as  well  as  cucumbers.  I 
would  no  more  bring  out  a  new  work  in  summer 
than  I  would  sell  pork  in  the  dog-days.  Nothing 
in  my  way  goes  off  in  summer,  except  very  light 
goods  indeed.  A  review,  a  magazine,  or  a  sessions 
paper,  may  amuse  a  summer  reader ;  but  all  our  stock 
of  value  we  reserve  for  a  spring  and  winter  trade." 
/  must  confess^  sir,  says  I,  a  cvriosity  to  know  what 
you  call  a  valuable  stuck,  which  can  only  bear  a 
winter  perusal.  "  Sir,"  replied  the  bookseller,  "  it 
is  not  my  way  to  cry  up  my  own  goods ;  but,  with- 
out exaggeration,  I  will  venture  to  show  with  any 
of  the  trade;  my  books  at  least  have  the  peculiar 
advantage  of  being  always  new;  and  it  is  my  way 
to  clear  off  my  old  to  the  trunk-makers  every  sea- 
son, I  have  ten  new  title-^pages  now  about  me, 
which  only  want  books  to  be  added  to  make  them 
the  finest  things  in  nature.  Others  may  pretend 
to  direct  the  vulgar;  but  that  is  not  my  way;  I  al- 
was  let  the  vulgar  direct  me;  wherever  popular 
clamour  arises,  1  always  echo  the  million.  For 
instance,  should  the  poople  in  general  say,  that 
such  a  man  is  a  rogue,  I  instantly  give  orders  to  set 
him  down  in  print  a  villain ;  thus  every  man  buys 
the  book,  not  to  learn  new  sentiments,  but  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  own  reflected."  Bui,  sir, 
interrupted  I,  you  speak  as  if  you  yourself  tDrote 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


311 


the  books  you  published  ;  may  Ibe  so  bold  as  to  ask 
a  sight  of  some  of  those  intended  publications  which 
are  shortly  to  surprise  the  world?  "  As  to  that, 
sir,"  replied  the  talkative  bookseller,  "  I  only  draw 
out  the  plans  myself;  and,  though  I  am  very  cau- 
tious of  communicating  them  to  any,  yet,  as  in  the 
end  I  have  a  favour  to  ask,  you  shall  see  a  fev^r  of 
them.  Here,  sir,  here  they  are ;  diamonds  of  the  first 
water,  I  assure  you.  Imprimis,  a  translation  of 
several  medical  precepts  for  the  use  of  such  physi- 
cians as  do  not  understand  Latin.  Item,  the  young 
clergyman's  art  of  placing  patches  regularly,  with 
a  dissertation  on  the  different  manners  of  smiling 
without  distorting  the  face.  Item,  the  whole  art 
of  love  made  perfectly  easy,  by  a  broker  of 'Change 
Alley.  Item,  the  proper  manner  of  cutting  black- 
lead  pencils,  and  making  crayons;  by  the  Right  Hon. 
the  Earl  of  ***.  Item,  the  muster-master-general, 
or  the  review  of  reviews — "  Sir,  cried  I,  inter- 
rupting him,  my  curiosity  with  regard  to  title- 
pages  is  satisfied;  I  should  be  glad  to  see  some 
longer  manuscript,  a  history  or  an  epic  poem. 
"  Bless  me,"  cries  the  man  of  industry,  "now you 
speak  of  an  epic  poem,  you  shall  see  an  excellent 
farce.  Here  it  is ;  dip  into  it  where  you  will,  it 
will  be  found  replete  with  true  modern  humour. 
Strokes,  sir ;  it  is  filled  with  strokes  of  wit  and 
satire  in  every  line."  Do  you  call  these  dashes 
of  the  pen,  strokes,  replied  I,  for  I  must  confess  I 
can  see  no  other?  "  And  pray,  sir,"  returned  he, 
"  what  do  you  call  them?  Do  you  see  any  thing 
good  now-a-days,  that  is  not  filled  with  strokes — 

and  dashes? Sir,  a  well-placed  dash  makes  half 

the  wit  of  our  writers  of  modern  humour.  I  bought 
a  piece  last  season  that  had  no  other  merit  upon 
.earth  than  nine  hundred  and  ninety-five  breaks, 
seventy-two  ha  ha's,  three  good  things,  and  a  gar- 
ter. And  yet  it  played  off,  and  bounced,  and 
cracked,  and  made  more  sport  than  a  fire-work." 
I  fancy,  then,  sir,  you  were  a  considerable  gainer? 
"It  must  be  owned  the  piece  did  pay;  but  upon 
the  whole,  I  can  not  much  boast  of  last  winter's 
success :  I  gained  by  two  murders;  but  then  I  lost 
by  an  ill-timed  charity  sermon.  I  was  a  considera- 
ble sufferer  by  my  Direct  Road  at  an  Estate,  but 
the  Infernal  Guide  brought  me  up  again.  Ah,  sir, 
that  was  a  piece  touched  off  by  the  hand  of  a  mas- 
ter ;  filled  with  good  things  from  one  end  to  the 
other.  The  author  had  nothing  but  the  jest  in 
view;  no  dull  moral  lurking  beneath,  nor  ill-natur- 
ed satire  to  sour  the  reader's  good-humour;  he 
wisely  considered,  that  moral  and  humour  at  the 
same  time  were  quite  overdoing  the  business."  To 
what  purpose  was  the  book  then  published?  "  Sir, 
the  book  was  published  in  order  to  be  sold ;  and 
no  book  sold  better,  except  the  criticisms  upon  it, 
which  came  out  soon  after;  of  all  kind  of  writings 
that  goes  off  best  at  present;  and  I  generally  fasten 
a  criticism  upon  every  selUng  book  that  is  published. 


"  I  once  had  an  author  who  never  left  the  least 
opening  for  the  critics !  close  was  the  word,  always 
very  right,  and  very  dull,  ever  on  the  safe  side  of  an 
argument;  yet  with  all  his  qualifications  incapable 
of  coming  into  favour.  I  soon  perceived  that  his 
bent  was  for  criticism;  and,  as  he  was  good  for  no- 
thing else,  supplied  him  with  pens  and  paper,  and 
planted  him  at  the  beginning  of  every  month  as  a 
censor  on  the  works  of  others.  In  short,  I  found  him 
a  treasure;  no  merit  could  escape  him  :  but  what  is 
most  remarkable  of  all,  he  ever  wrote  best  and  bit- 
terest when  drunk."  But  are  there  not  some 
works,  interrupted  I,  that  from  the  very  manner 
of  their  composition,  must  be  exempt  from  criti- 
cism; particularly  such  as  profess  to  disregard 
its  laws? .  '•'  There  is  no  work  whatsoever  but  what 
he  can  criticise,"  replied  the  bookseller;  "even 
though  you  wrote  in  Chinese  he  would  have  a  pluck 
at  you.  Suppose  you  should  take  it  into  your  head 
to  publish  a  book,  let  it  be  a  volume  of  Chinese  let- 
ters, for  instance:  write  how  you  will,  he  shall 
show  the  world  you  could  have  written  better. 
Should  you,  with  the  most  local  exactness,  stick  to 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  country  from 
whence  you  come;  should  you  confine  yourself  to 
the  narrow  limits  of  Eastern  knowledge,  and  be 
perfectly  simple,  and  perfectly  natural,  he  has  then 
the  strongest  reason  to  exclaim.  He  may  with  a 
sneer  send  you  back  to  China  for  readers.  He  may 
observe,  that  after  the  first  or  second  letter,  the 
iteration  of  the  same  simplicity  is  insupportably  te- 
dious; but  the  worst  of  all  is,  the  public  in  such  a 
case  will  anticipate  his  censures,  and  leave  you, 
with  all  your  uninstructive  simpUcity,  to  be  mauled 
at  discretion." 

Yes,  cried  I,  but  in  order  to  avoid  his  indig- 
nation, and  what  I  should  fear  more,  that  of  the 
public,  I  would,  in  such  a  case,  write  with  all  the 
knowledge  I  was  master  of  As  lam  not  possessed 
of  much  learning,  at  least  I  would  not  suppress 
what  little  I  had;  nor  would  I  appear  more  stupid 
than  nature  has  made  me.  "  Here  then,"  cries 
the  bookseller,  "we  should  have  you  entirely 
in  our  power :  unnatural,  uneastern ;  quite  out  of 
character ;  erroneously  sensible  would  be  the  whole 
cry ;  sir,  we  should  then  hunt  you  down  like  a  rat." 
Head  of  my  father!  said  I,  sure  there  are  but  two 
ways;  the  door  must  either  be  shut,  or  it  must  be 
open.  I  must  be  either  natural  or  unnatural. 
"  Be  what  you  will,  we  shall  criticise  you,"  return- 
ed the  bookseller,  "and  prove  you  a  dunce  in  spite 
of  your  teeth.  But,  sir,  it  is  time  that  I  should 
come  to  business.  I  have  just  now  in  the  press  a  his- 
tory of  China ;  and  if  you  will  but  put  your  name  to 
it  as  the  author,  I  shall  repay  the  obligation  with 
gratitude."  What,  sir,  replied  I,  put  my  name  to 
a  work  which  I  have  not  ihritten!  Never,  while  1 
retain  a  proper  respect  for  the  public  and  myself 
The  bluntness  of  my  reply  quite  abated  the  ardour 


313 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


of  the  bookseller's  conversation ;  and  after  about 
half  an  hour's  disagreeable  reserve,  he  with  some 
ceremony,  took  his  leave,  andwitljdrew.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LIL 


To  the  Same. 


In  att  other  countries,  my  dear  F»m  Hoam,  the 
rich  are  distinguished  by  their  dress.  In  Persia, 
China,  and  most  parts  of  Europe,  those  who  are 
possessed  of  much  gold  or  silver,  put  some  of  it 
upon  their  clothes;  but  in  England,  those  who 
carry  much  upon  their  clothes  are  remarked  for 
having  but  little  in  their  pockets.  A  tawdry  out- 
side is  regarded  as  a  badge  of  poverty  ;  and  those 
who  can  sit  at  home,  and  gloat  over  their  thousands 
in  silent  satisfaction,  are  generally  found  to  do  it  in 
plain  clothes. 

This  diversity  of  thinking  from  the  rest  of  the 
world  which  prevails  here,  I  was  at  first  at  a  loss 
to  account  for ;  but  am  since  informed,  that  it  was 
introduced  by  an  intercourse  between  them  and 
their  neighbours  the  French ;  who,  whenever  they 
came  in  order  to  pay  these  islanders  a  visit,  were 
generally  very  well  dressed,  and  very  poor,  daubed 
with  lace,  but  all  the  gilding  on  the  outside.  By 
this  means,  laced  clothes  have  been  brought  so 
much  into  contempt,  that  at  present  even  their 
mandarines  are  ashamed  of  finery. 

I  must  own  myself  a  convert  to  English  sim- 
plicity; I  am  no  more  for  ostentation  of  wealth 
than  of  learning:  the  person  who  in  company 
should  pretend  to  be  wiser  than  others,  I  am  apt 
to  regard  as  illiterate  and  ill-bred ;  the  person  whose 
clothes  are  extremely  fine,  I  am  too  apt  to  consider 
as  not  being  possessed  of  any  superiority  of  fortune, 
but  resembling  those  Indians  who  are  found  to 
wear  all  the  gold  they  have  in  the  world,  in  a  bob 
at  the  nose. 

I  was  lately  introduced  into  a  company  of  the 
best  dressed  men  I  have  seen  since  my  arrival. 
Upon  entering  the  room,  I  was  struck  with  awe  at 
the  grandeur  of  the  different  dresses.  That  per- 
sonage, thought  I,  in  blue  and  gold,  must  be  some 
emperor's  son ;  that  in  green  and  silver,  a  prince 
of  the  blood :  he  in  embroidered  scarlet,  a  prime 
minister ;  all  first-rate  noblemen,  I  suppose,  and 
well-looking  noblemen  too.  I  sat  for  some  time 
with  that  uneasiness  which  conscious  inferiority 
produces  in  the  ingenuous  mind,  all  attention  to 
their  discourse.  However,  I  found  their  conversa- 
tion more  vulgar  than  I  could  have  expected  from 
personages  of  such  distinction :  if  these,  thought  I 
to  myself,  be  princes,  they,  are  the  most  stupid 
princes  I  have  ever  conversed  with :  yet  still  I  con- 
tinued to  venerate  their  dress ;  for  dress  has  a  kind 
of  mechanical  influence  on  the  mind. 


My  friend  in  black,  indeed,  did  not  behave  with 
the  same  deference,  but  contradicted  the  finest  of 
them  all  in  the  most  peremptory  tones  of  contempt. 
But  I  had  scarcely  time  to  wonder  at  the  impru- 
dence of  his  conduct,  when  I  found  occasion  to  be 
equally  surprised  at  the  absurdity  of  theirs ;  for, 
upon  the  entry  of  a  middle-aged  man,  dressed  in  a 
cap,  dirty  shirt,  and  boots,  the  whole  circle  seemed 
diminished  of  their  former  importance,  and  con- 
tended who  should  be  first  to  pay  their  obeisance 
to  the  stranger.  They  somewhat  resembled  a 
circle  of  Kalmucs  offering  incense  to  a  bear. 

Eager  to  know  the  cause  of  so  much  seeming 
contradiction,  I  whispered  my  friend  out  of  the 
room,  and  found  that  the  august  company  consist- 
ed of  no  other  than  a  dancing-master,  two  fiddlers, 
and  a  third-rate  actor,  all  assembled  in  order  to 
make  a  set  at  country-dances;  and  the  middle-aged 
gentleman  whom  I  saw  enter  was  a  'squire  from 
the  country,  and  desirous  of  learning  the  new  man- 
ner of  footing,  and  smoothing  up  the  rudiments  of 
his  rural  minuet. 

I  was  no  longer  surprised  at  the  authority  which 
my  friend  assumed  among  them,  nay,  was  even 
displeased  (pardon  ray  Eastern  education)  that  he 
had  not  kicked  every  creature  of  them  down  stairs. 
"What,"  said  I,  "shall  a  set  of  such  paltry  fellows 
dress  themselves  up  like  sons  of  kings,  and  claim 
even  the  transitory  respect  of  half  an  hour !  There 
should  be  some  law  to  restrain  so  manifest  a  breach 
of  privilege ;  they  should  go  from  house  to  house, 
as  in  China,  with  the  instruments  of  their  pro- 
fession strung  round  their  necks ;  by  this  means 
we  might  be  able  to  distinguish  and  treat  them  in  a 
style  of  becoming  contempt."  Hold,  my  friend, 
replied  my  companion,  were  your  reformation  to 
take  place,  as  dancing-masters  and  fiddlers  now 
mimic  gentlemen  in  appearance,  we  should  then 
find  our  fine  gentlemen  conforming  to  theirs.  A 
beau  might  be  introduced  to  a  lady  of  fashion,  with 
a  fiddle-case  hanging  at  his  neck  by  a  red  riband ; 
and  instead  of  a  cane,  might  carry  a  fiddle-stick. 
Though  to  be  as  dull  as  a  first-rate  dancing-master, 
might  be  used  with  proverbial  justice ;  yet,  dull  as 
he  is,  many  a  fine  gentleman  sets  him  up  as  the 
proper  standard  of  politeness ;  copies  not  only  the 
pert  vivacity  of  his  air,  but  the  flat  insipidity  of  his 
conversation.  In  short,  if  you  make  a  law  against 
dancing-masters  imitating  the  fine  gentleman,  you 
should  with  as  much  reason  enact,  that  no  fine 
gentleman  shall  imitate  the  dancing-master. 

After  I  had  left  my  friend,  I  made  towards  home, 
reflecting  as  I  went  upon  the  difficulty  of  distin- 
guishing men  by  their  appearance.  Invited,  how- 
ever, by  the  freshness  of  the  evening,  I  did  not  re- 
turn directly,  but  went  to  ruminate  on  what  had 
passed  in  a  public  garden  belonging  to  the  city 
Here,  as  I  sat  upon  one  of  the  benches,  and  felt 
the  pleasing  sympathy  which  nature  in  bloom  in- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


313 


spires,  a  disconsolate  figure,  who  sat  on  the  other 
end  of  the  seat,  seemed  no  way  to  enjoy  the  sereni- 
ty of  the  season. 

His  dress  was  miserable  beyond  description :  a 
threadbare  coat  of  the  rudest  materials;  a  shirt, 
though  clean,  yet  extremely  coarse;  hair  that 
seemed  to  have  been  long  unconscious  of  the  comb ; 
and  all  the  rest  of  his  equipage  impressed  with  the 
marks  of  genuine  poverty. 

As  he  continued  to  sigh,  and  testify  every  symp- 
tom of  despair,  1  was  naturally  led,  from  a  motive 
of  humanity,  to  offer  comfort  and  assistance.  You 
know  my  heart ;  and  that  all  who  are  miserable 
may  claim  a  place  there.  The  pensive  stranger 
at  first  declined  my  conversation ;  but  at  last,  per- 
ceiving a  peculiarity  in  my  accent  and  manner  of 
thinking,  he  began  to  unfold  himself  by  degrees. 

I  now  found  that  he  was  not  so  very  miserable 
as  he  at  first  appeared ;  upon  my  oflfering  him  a 
small  piece  of  money,  he  refused  my  favour,  yet 
without  appearing  displeased  at  my  intended  gener- 
osity. It  is  true,  he  sometimes  interrupted  the 
conversation  with  a  sigh,  and  talked  pathetically  of 
neglected  merit ;  yet  still  I  could  perceive  a  serenity 
in  his  countenance,  that,  upon  a  closer  inspection, 
bespoke  inward  content. 

Upon  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  I  was  going 
to  take  my  leave,  when  he  begged  I  would  favour 
him  with  my  company  home  to  supper.  I  was 
surprised  at  such  a  demand  from  a  person  of  his 
appearance,  but  willing  to  indulge  curiosity,  I  ac- 
cepted his  invitation ;  and,  though  I  felt  some  re- 
pugnance at  being  seen  with  one  who  appeared  so 
very  wretched,  went  along  with  seeming  alacrity. 

Still  as  he  approached  nearer  home,  his  good  hu- 
mour proportionably  seemed  to  increase.  At  last 
he  stopped,  not  at  the  gate  of  a  hovel,  but  of  a  mag- 
nificent palace!  When  I  cast  my  eyes  upon  all  the 
sumptuous  elegance  which  every  where  presented 
upon  entering,  and  then  when  I  looked  at  my  seem- 
ing miserable  conductor,  I  could  scarcely  think  that 
all  this  finery  belonged  to  him ;  yet  in  fact  it  did. 
Numerous  servants  ran  through  the  apartments 
with  silent  assiduity;  several  ladies  of  beauty,  and 
magnificently  dressed,  came  to  welcome  his  return ; 
a  most  elegant  supper  was  provided :  in  short,  I 
found  the  person  whom  a  little  before  I  had  sin- 
cerely pitied,  to  be  in  reality  a  most  refined  epicure, 
— one  who  courted  contempt  abroad,  in  order  to 
/eel  with  keener  gust  the  ■pleasure  of  pre-eminence 
at  home.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LIII. 

From  the  Same. 


How  often  have  we  admired  the  eloquence  of 
Europe !  that  strength  of  thinking,  that  delicacy  of 


imagination,  even  beyond  the  efforts  of  the  Chinese 
themselves.  How  were  we  enraptured  with  those 
bold  figures  which  sent  every  sentiment  with  force 
to  the  heart.  How  have  we  spent  whole  days  to- 
gether, in  learning  those  arts  by  which  European 
writers  got  within  the  passions,  and  led  the  reader 
as  if  by  enchantment. 

But  though  we  have  learned  most  of  the  rhetori- 
cal figures  of  the  last  age,  yet  there  seems  to  be  one 
or  two  of  great  use  here,  which  have  not  yet  travel- 
led to  China.  The  figures  I  mean  are  called 
Bawdry  and  Pertness:  none  are  more  fashionable; 
none  so  sure  of  admirers ;  they  are  of  such  a  na- 
ture, that  the  merest  blockhead,  by  a  proper  use  of 
them,  shall  have  the  reputation  of  a  wit ;  they  lie 
level  to  the  meanest  capacities,  and  address  those 
passions  which  all  have,  or  would  be  ashamed  to 
disown. 

It  has  been  observed,  and  I  believe  with  some  truth, 
that  it  is  very  difficult  for  a  dunce  to  obtain  the  re- 
putation of  a  wit ;  yet,  by  the  assistance  of  the 
figure  Bawdry,  this  may  be  easily  effected,  and  a 
bawdy  blockhead  often  passes  for  a  fellow  of  smart 
parts  and  pretensions.  Every  object  in  nature 
helps  the  jokes  forward,  without  scarcely  any  effort 
of  the  imagination.  If  a  lady  stands,  something 
very  good  may  be  said  upon  that ;  if  she  happens 
to  fall,  with  the  help  of  a  little  fashionable  prurien- 
cy, there  are  forty  sly  things  ready  on  the  occa- 
sion. But  a  prurient  jest  has  always  been  found 
to  give  most  pleasure  to  a  few  very  old  gentlemen, 
who,  being  in  some  measure  dead  to  other  sensa- 
tions, feel  the  force  of  the  allusion  with  double 
violence  on  the  organs  of  risibility. 

An  author  who  writes  in  this  manner  is  general- 
ly sure  therefore  of  having  the  very  old  and  the 
impotent  among  his  admirers;  for  these  he  may 
properly  be  said  to  write,  and  from  these  he  ought 
to  expect  his  reward ;  his  works  being  often  a  very 
proper  succedaneum  to  cantharides.  or  an  asafoeti- 
da  pill.  His  pen  should  be  considered  in  the  same 
light  as  the  squirt  of  an  apothecary,  both  being 
directed  to  the  same  generous  end. 

But  though  this  manner  of  writing  be  perfectly 
adapted  to  the  taste  of  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
fashion  here,  yet  still  it  deserves  greater  praise  in 
being  equally  suited  to  the  most  vulgar  apprehen- 
sions. The  very  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  Benin 
or  Caffraria  are  in  this  respept  tolerably  polite,  and 
might  relish  a  prurient  joke  of  this  kind  with  criti- 
cal propriety ;  probably  too  with  higher  gust,  as 
they  wear  neither  breeches  nor  petticoats  to  inter- 
cept the  application. 

It  is  certain  I  never  could  have  thought  the  la- 
dies here,  biassed  as  they  are  by  education,  capable 
at  once  of  bravely  throwing  off  their  prejudices, 
and  not  only  applauding  books  in  which  this  figure 
makes  the  only  merit,  but  even  adopting  it  in  their 
own  conversation.     Yet  so  it  is :  the  pretty  inno- 


314 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


cents  now  carry  those  books  openly  in  their  hands, 
which  formerly  were  hid  under  the  cushion  :  they 
now  lisp  their  double  meanings  with  so  much  grace, 
and  talk  over  the  raptures  they  bestow  with  such 
little  reserve,  that  1  am  sometimes  reminded  of  a 
custom  among  the  entertainers  in  China,  who  think 
it  a  piece  of  necessary  breeding  to  whet  the  appe- 
tites of  their  guests,  by  letting  them  smell  dinner 
in  the  kitchen,  before  it  is  served  up  to  table. 

The  veneration  we  have  for  many  things,  en 
tirely  proceeds  from  their  being  carefully  concealed. 
Were  the  idolatrous  Tartar  permitted  to  lift  the 
veil  which  keeps  his  idol  from  view,  it  might  be  a 
certain  method  to  cure  his  future  superstition :  with 
what  a  noble  spirit  of  freedom,  therefore,  must  that 
,  writer  be  possessed,  who  bravely  paints  things  as 
they  are,  who  lifts  the  veil  of  modesty,  who  dis- 
plays the  most  hidden  recesses  of  the  temple,  and 
shows  the  erring  people  that  the  object  of  their  vows 
is  either,  perhaps,  a  mouse  or  a  monkey ! 

However,  though  this  figure  be  at  present  so 
much  in  fashion ;  though  the  professors  of  it  are  so 
much  caressed  by  the  great,  those  perfect  judges 
of  literary  excellence ;  yet  it  is  confessed  to  be  only 
a  revival  of  what  was  once  fashionable  here  before. 
There  was  a  time,  when  by  this  very  manner  of 
writing,  the  gentle  Tom  Durfey,  as  I  read  in  En- 
glish authors,  acquired  his  great  reputation,  and 
became  the  favourite  of  a  king. 

The  works  of  this  original  genius,  though  they 
never  travelled  abroad  to  China,  and  scarcely  have 
reached  posterity  at  home,  were  once  found  upon 
every  fashionable  toilet,  and  made  the  subject  of 
polite,  I  mean  very  polite  conversation.  "  Has  your 
grace  seen  Mr.  Durfei/s  last  new  thing,  the  Oylet 
Hole  7  A  most  facetiovs  piece ! — Sure,  my  lord, 
all  the  world  must  have  seen  it ;  Durfey  is  cer- 
tainly the  most  comical  creature  alive.  It  is  im- 
possible to  read  his  things  and  live.  Was  there 
ever  any  thing  so  natural  and  pretty,  as  when  the 
*  Squire  and  Bridget  meet  in  the  cellar?  And 
then  the  difficulties  they  both  find  in  broaching 
the  beer-barrel  are  so  arch  and  so  ingenious :  We 
have  certainly  nothing  of  this  kind  in  the  lan- 
guage.'' In  this  manner  they  spoke  then,  and  in 
this  manner  they  speak  now;  for  though  the  suc- 
cessor of  Durfey  does  not  excel  him  in  wit,  the 
world  must  confess  he  outdoes  him  in  obscenity. 

There  are  several  very  dull  fellows,  who,  by  a 
few  mechanical  helps,  sometimes  learn  to  become 
extremely  brilliant  and  pleasing,  with  a  little  dex- 
terity in  the  management  of  the  eyebrows,  fingers, 
and  nose.  By  imitating  a  cat ;  a  sow  and  pigs;  by 
a  loud  laugh,  and  a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  the  most 
ignorant  are  furnished  out  for  conversation.  But 
the  writer  finds  it  impossible  to  throw  his  winks, 
his  shrugs,  or  his  attitudes,  upon  paper;  he  may 
borrow  some  assistance,  indeed,  by  printing  his  face 


of  ingenuity,  no  other  mechanical  help  but  Jown- 
right  obscenity  will  suffice.  By  speaking  of  some 
peculiar  sensations,  we  are  always  sure  of  exciting 
laughter,  for  the  jest  does  not  lie  in  the  writer,  but 
in  the  subject. 

But  Bawdry  is  often  helped  on  by  another  figure, 
called  Pertness;  and  few  indeed  are  found  to  excel 
in  one  that  are  not  possessed  of  the  other. 

As  in  common  conversation,  the  best  way  to 
make  the  audience  laugh  is  by  first  laughing  your- 
self; so  in  writing,  the  properest  manner  is  to  show 
an  attempt  at  humour,  which  will  pass  upon  most 
for  humour  in  reality.  To  effect  this,  readers  must 
be  treated  with  the  most  perfect  familiarity:  in  one 
page  the  author  is  to  make  them  a  low  bow,  and 
in  the  next  to  pull  them  by  the  nose;  he  must  talk 
in  riddles,  and  then  send  them  to  bed  in  order  to 
dream  for  the  solution.  He  must  speak  of  himsell^ 
and  his  chapters,  and  his  manner,  and  what  he 
would  be  at,  and  his  own  importance,  and  his  mo- 
ther's importance,  with  the  most  unpitying  prolixi- 
ty; and  now  and  then  testifying  his  contempt  for 
all  but  himself,  smiling  without  a  jest,  and  without 
wit  professing  vivacity.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LIV. 


From  the  Same. 


Though  naturally  pensive,  yet  I  am  fond  of  gay 
company,  and  take  every  opportunity  of  thus  dis- 
missing the  mind  from  duty.  From  this  motive, 
I  am  often  found  in  the  centre  of  a  crowd ;  and 
wherever  pleasure  is  to  be  sold,  am  always  a  pur- 
chaser. In  those  places,  without  being  remarked 
by  any,  I  join  in  whatever  goes  forward  ;  work  my 
passions  into  a  similitude  of  frivolous  earnestness, 
shout  as  they  shout,  and  condemn  as  they  happen 
to  disapprove.  A  mind  thus  sunk  for  a  while  be- 
low its  natural  standard,  is  qualified  for  stronger 
flights,  as  those  first  retire  who  would  spring  for- 
ward with  greater  vigour. 

Attracted  by  the  serenity  of  the  evening,  my 
friend  and  I  lately  went  to  gaze  upon  the  company 
in  one  of  the  public  walks  near  the  city.  Here  we 
sauntered  together  for  some  time,  either  praising' 
the  beauty  of  such  as  were  handsome,  or  the 
dresses  of  such  as  had  nothing  else  to  recommend 
them.  We  had  gone  thus  deliberately  forward  for 
some  time,  when  stopping  on  a  sudden,  my  friend 
caught  me  by  the  elbow,  and  led  me  out  of  the 
public  walk.  I  could  perceive  by  the  quickness  of 
his  pace,  and  by  his  frequently  looking  behind,  that 
he  was  attempting  to  avoid  somebody  who  followed: 
we  now  turned  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left ;  as  we 
went  forward  he  still  went  faster,  but  in  vain ;  the 


,    ^  ^  ^  person  whom  he  attempted  to  escape  hunted  us 

at  the  title-page;  but  without  wit,  to  pass  for  a  man  [through  every  doubling,  and  gained  upon  us  each 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


315 


moment ;  so  that  at  last  we  fairly  stood  still,  re- 
solving to  face  what  we  could  not  avoid. 

Our  pursuer  soon  came  up,  and  joined  us  with 
all  the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance.  "  My 
dear  Drybone,"  cries  he,  shaking  my  friend's  hand, 
"  where  have  you  been  hiding  this  half  a  century  7 
Positively  I  had  fancied  you  were  gone  to  cultivate 
matrimony  and  your  estate  in  the  country."  Dur- 
ing the  reply,  I  had  an  opportunity  of  surveying  the 
appearance  of  our  new  companion :  his  hat  was 
pinched  up  with  peculiar  smartness ;  his  looks  were 
pale,  thin,  and  sharp ;  round  his  neck  he  wore  a 
broad  black  riband,  and  in  his  bosom  a  buckle  stud- 
ded with  glass;  his  coat  was  trimmed  with  tarnished 
twist ;  he  wore  by  his  side  a  sword  with  a  black 
hilt :  and  his  stockings  of  silk,  though  newly  washed, 
were  grown  yellow  by  long  service.  I  was  so  much 
engaged  with  the  peculiarity  of  his  dress,  that  I  at- 
tended only  to  the  latter  part  of  my  friend's  reply, 
in  which  he  complimented  Mr.  Tibbs  on  the  taste 
of  his  clothes,  and  the  bloom  in  his  countenance : 
"  Pshaw,  pshaw.  Will,"  cried  the  figure,  "  no  more 
of  that  if  you  love  me :  you  know  I  hate  flattery,  on 
my  soul  I  do ;  and  yet,  to  be  sure,  an  intimacy  with 
the  great  will  improve  one's  appearance,  and  a 
course  of  venison  will  fatten ;  and  yet,  faith,  I  de- 
spise the  great  as  much  as  you  do  :  but  there  are  a 
great  many  damn'd  honest  fellows  among  them; 
and  we  must  not  quarrel  with  one  half,  because 
the  other  wants  weeding.  If  they  were  all  such  as 
my  Lord  Mudler,  one  of  the  most  good-natured 
creatures  that  ever  squeezed  a  lemon,  I  should  my- 
self be  among  the  number  of  their  admirers.  I  was 
yesterday  to  dine  at  the  Duchess  of  Piccadilly's. 
My  lord  was  there.  Ned,  says  he  to  me,  Ned, 
says  he,  I'll  hold  gold  to  silver  1  can  tell  where  you 
were  poaching  last  night.  Poaching,  my  lord,  says 
I ;  faith  you  have  missed  already ;  for  I  staid  at 
home,  and  let  the  girls  poach  for  me.  That's  my 
way ;  I  take  a  fine  woman,  as  some  animals  do 
their  prey — stand  still,  and,  swoop,  they  fall  into 
my  mouth." 

"  Ah,  Tibbs,  thou  art  a  happy  fellow,"  cried  my 
companion,  with  looks  of  infinite  pity;  "I  hope 
your  fortune  is  as  much  improved  as  your  under- 
standing in  such  company?"  "Improved,"  re- 
plied the  other;  "you  shall  know, — but  let  it  go 
no  farther, — a  great  secret — five  hundred  a-year  to 
begin  with. — My  lord's  word  of  honour  for  it — 
his  lordship  took  me  down  in  his  own  chariot  yes- 
terday, and  we  had  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  in  the  coun- 
try, where  we  talked  of  nothing  else."  "1  fancy 
you  forget,  sir,"  cried  I,  "you  told  us  but  this  mo- 
ment of  your  dining  yesterday  in  town."  "  Did  I 
say  so?"  replied  he,  coolly;  "to  be  sure,  if  I  said 
so,  it  was  so — dined  in  town ;  egad,  now  I  do  re- 
member.* I  did  dine  in  town;  but  I  dined  in  the 
country  too ;  for  you  must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat 
two  dinners.    By  the  by,  I  am  grown  as  nice  as 


the  devil  in  my  eating.  I'll  tell  you  a  pleasant  af- 
fair about  that :  we  were  a  select  party  of  us  to 
dine  at  Lady  Grogram's,  ar^  affected  piece,  but  let 
it  go  no  farther;  a  secret:  well,  there  happened  to 
be  no  asafoetida  in  the  sauce  to  a  turkey,  upon 
which,  says  I,  I'll  hold  a  thousand  guineas,  and  say 
done  first,  that — but  dear  Drybone,  you  are  an  hon- 
est creature,  lend  me  half-a-crown  for  a  minute  or 

two,  or  so,  just  till but  hearkee,  ask  me  for  it 

the  next  time  we  meet,  or  it  may  be  twenty  to  one 
but  1  forget  to  pay  you." 

When  he  left  us,  our  conversation  naturally 
turned  upon  so  extraordinary  a  character.  His 
very  dress,  cries  my  friend,  is  not  less  extraordinary 
than  his  conduct.  If  you  meet  him  this  day  you 
find  him  in  rags,  if  the  next,  in  embroidery.  With 
those  persons  of  distinction  of  whom  he  talks  so 
familiarly,  he  has  scarcely  a  coffee-house  acquaint- 
ance. However,  both  for  the  interests  of  society, 
and  perhaps  for  his  own,  Heaven  has  made  him 
poor,  and  while  all  the  world  perceive  his  wants, 
he  fancies  them  concealed  from  every  eye.  An 
agreeable  companion,  because  he  understands  flat- 
tery ;  and  all  nmst  be  pleased  with  the  first  part  of 
his  conversation,  though  all  are  sure  of  its  ending 
with  a  demand  on  their  purse.  While  his  youth 
countenances  the  levity  of  his  conduct,  he  may 
thus  earn  a  precarious  subsistence,  but  when  age 
comes  on,  the  gravity  of  which  is  incompatible 
with  buffoonery,  then  will  he  find  himself  forsaken 
by  all;  condemned  in  the  decline  of  life  to  hang 
upon  some  rich  family  whom  he  once  despised, 
there  to  undergo  all  the  ingenuity  of  studied  con- 
tempt, to  be  employed  only  as  a  spy  upon  the  ser- 
vants, or  a  bugbear  to  fright  the  children  into  obe- 
dience.   Adieu. 


CHAPTER  LV. 


To  the  Same. 


I  AM  apt  to  fancy  I  have  contracted  a  new  ac- 
quaintance whom  it  will  be  no  easy  matter  to  shake 
oflf.  My  little  beau  yesterday  overtook  me  again 
in  one  of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping  me  on  the 
shoulder,  saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most  per- 
fect familiarity.  His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual, 
except  that  he  had  more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore 
a  dirtier  shirt,  a  pair  of  temple  spectacles,  and  his 
hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless  amusing  little 
thing,  I  could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  de- 
gree of  severity;  so  we  walked  forward  on  terms 
of  the  utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  dis- 
cussed all  the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular 
conversation. 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  how- 
ever, soon  began  to  appear;  he  bowed  to  severaJ 


316 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


well-dressed  persons,  who,  by  their  manner  of  re- 
turning the  compliment,  appeared  perfect  strangers. 
At  intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket  book,  seeming 
to  take  memorandums  before  all  the  company,  with 
much  importance  and  assiduity.  In  this  manner 
he  led  me  through  the  length  of  the  whole  walk, 
fretting  at  his  absurdities,  and  fancying  myself 
laughed  at  not  less  than  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  had  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession, 
"Blast  me,"  cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,  "  I 
never  saw  the  park  so  thin  in  my  life  before !  there's 
no  company  at  all  to-day;  not  a  single  face  to  be 
seen."  **No  company!"  interrupted  I,  peevishly; 
"  no  company  where  there  is  such  a  crowd  7  why 
man,  there's  too  much.  What  are  the  thousands 
that  have  been  laughing  at  us  but  company?'' 
"Lord,  my  dear,"  returned  he,  with  the  utmost 
good  humour,  "you  seem  immensely  chagrined; 
but  blast  me,  when  the  world  laughs  at  me,  I 
laugh  at  the  world,  and  so  we  are  even.  My  Lord 
Trip,  Bill  Squash  the  Creolian,  and  I,  sometimes 
make  a  party  at  being  ridiculous ;  and  so  we  say 
and  do  a  thousand  things  for  the  joke's  sake.  But 
I  see  you  are  grave,  and  if  you  are  for  a  fine  grave 
sentimental  companiori,  you  shall  dine  with  me  and 
my  wife  to-day:  I  must  insist  on't:  I'll  introduce 
you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  as  elegant  qualifica- 
tions as  any  in  nature;  she  was  bred,  but  that's 
between  ourselves,  under  the  inspection  of  the 
Countess  of  All-night.  A  charming  body  of  voice ; 
but  no  more  of  that,  she  will  give  us  a  song.  You 
shall  see  my  little  girl  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina 
Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  creature!  I  design 
her  for  my  Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son ;  but  that's 
in  friendship,  let  it  go  no  farther :  she's  but  six 
years  old,  and  yet  she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on 
the  guitar  immensely  already.  I  intend  she  shall 
\)e  as  perfect  as  possible  in  every  accomplishment. 
In  the  first  place,  I'll  make  her  a  scholar;  I'll  teach 
her  Greek  myself,  and  learn  that  language  pur- 
posely to  instruct  her ;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 

Thus  saying,  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he 
took  me  by  the  arm,  and  hauled  me  along.  We 
passed  through  many  dark  alleys  and  winding 
ways ;  for,  from  some  motives  to  me  unknown,  he 
seemed  to  have  a  particular  aversion  to  every  fre- 
quented street ;  at  last,  however,  we  got  to  the  door 
of  a  dismal-looking  house  in  the  outlets  of  the  town, 
where  he  informed  me  he  chose  to  reside  for  the 
benefit  of  the  air. 

We  entered  the  lower  door,  which  ever  seemed 
to  lie  most  hospitalsly  open ;  and  I  began  to  ascend 
an  old  and  creaking  staircase,  when,  as  he  mount- 
ed to  show  me  the  way,  he  demanded,  whether  I 
delighted  in  prospects ;  to  which  answering  in  the 
affirmative,  "  Then,"  says  he,  "I  shall  show  you 
one  of  the  most  charming  in  the  world  out  of  my 
window;  we  shall  see  the  ships  sailing,  and  the 
whole  country  for  twenty  miles  round,  tip  top, 


quite  high.  My  Lord  Swamp  would  give  ten 
thousand  guineas  for  such  a  one ;  but  as  I  some- 
times pleasantly  tell  him,  I  always  love  to  keep  my 
prospects  at  home,  that  my  friends  may  visit  me 
the  oftener." 

By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs 
would  permit  us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what 
he  was  facetiously  pleased  to  call  the  first  floor 
down  the  chimney ;  and  knocking  at  the  door,  a 
voice  from  within  demanded  who's  there?  My  con- 
ductor answered  that  it  was  him.  But  this,  not 
satisfying  the  querist,  the  voice  again  repeated  the 
demand:  to  which  he  answered  louder  than  before ; 
and  now  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old  woman 
with  cautious  reluctance. 

When  we  were  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his 
house  with  great  ceremony,  and  turning  to  the  old 
woman,  asked  where  was  her  lady?  "Good  troth," 
replied  she,  in  a  peculiar  dialect,  "  she's  washing 
your  twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have 
taken  an  oath  against  lending  out  the  tub  any 
longer."  "My  two  shirts,"  cried  he,  in  a  tone 
that  faltered  with  confusion,  "  what  does  the  idiot 
mean?"  "  1  ken  what  I  mean  weel  enough,"  replied 
the  other ;  "  she's  washing  your  twa  shirts  at  the 
next  door,  because — "  "  Fire  and  fury,  no  more 
of  thy  stupid  explanations,"  cried  he;  "go  and  in- 
form her  we  have  got  company.  Were  that  Scotch 
hag  to  be  for  ever  in  my  family,  she  would  never 
learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous 
accent  of  hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of 
breeding  or  high  life;  and  yet  it  is  very  surprising 
too,  as  1  had  her  from  a  parliament  man,  a  friend  of 
mine  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men 
in  the  world ;  but  that's  a  secret." 

We  waited  some  time  for  Mrs.  Tibbs's  arrival, 
during  which  interval  I  had  a  full  opportunity  of 
surveying  the  chamber  and  all  its  furniture :  which 
consisted  of  four  chairs  with  old  wrought  bottoms, 
that  he  assured  me  were  his  wife's  embroidery;  a 
square  table  that  had  been  once  japanned ;  a  cradle 
in  one  corner,  a  lumbering  cabinet  in  the  other ;  a 
broken  shepherdess,  and  a  mandarine  without  a 
head,  were  stuck  over  the  chimney ;  and  round  the 
walls  several  paltry  unframed  pictures,  which,  he 
observed,  were  all  his  own  drawing.  "  What  do 
you  think,  sir,  of  that  head  in  the  corner,  done  in 
the  manner  of  Grisoni?  there's  the  true  keeping  in 
it ;  it  is  my  own  face,  and  though  there  happens  to 
be  no  likeness,  a  countess  offered  me  a  hundred  for 
its  fellow :  I  refused  her,  for,  hang  it,  that  would  be 
mechanical,  you  know." 

The  wife  at  last  made  her  appearance,  at  once  a 
slattern  and  a  coquette;  much  emaciated,  but  still 
carrying  the  remains  of  beauty.  She  made  twenty 
apologies  for  being  seen  in  such  odious  dishabille, 
but  hoped  to  be  excused,  as  she  had  stayed  out  all 
night  at  the  gardens  with  the  countess,  who  was 
excessively  fond  of  the  horns.     "  And  indeed,  my 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


317 


d«ar,"  added  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  "  his 
lordship  drank  your  health  in  a  bumper." — "Poor 
Jack,"  cries  he,  "  a  dear  good-natured  creature,  I 
know  he  loves  me :  but  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  have 
given  orders  for  dinner ;  you  need  make  no  great 
preparations  neither,  there  are  but  three  of  us ; 
something  elegant  and  little  will  do ;  a  turbot,  an 

ortolan,  a "     "  Or  what  do  you  think,  my 

dear,"  interrupted  the  wife,  "of  a  nice  pretty  bit 
of  ox-cheek,  piping  hot,  and  dressed  with  a  little  of 
my  own  sauce?" — "  The  very  thing,"  replies  he, 
"  it  will  eat  best  with  some  smart  bottled  beer :  but 
be  sure  to  let  us  have  the  sauce  his  grace  was  so  fond 
of.  I  hate  your  immense  loads  of  meat,  that  is 
country  all  over ;  extremely  disgusting  to  those  who 
are  in  the  least  acquainted  with  high  life." 

By  this  time  my  curiosity  began  to  abate,  and 
my  appetite  to  increase :  the  company  of  fools  may 
at  first  make  us  smile,  but  at  last  never  fails  of 
rendering  us  melancholy ;  I  therefore  pretended  to 
recollect  a  prior  engagement,  and,  after  having 
shown  my  respect  to  the  house,  according  to  the 
fashion  of  the  English,  by  giving  the  old  servant  a 
piece  of  money  at  the  door,  I  took  my  leave ;  Mrs. 
Tibbs  assuring  me,  that  dinner,  if  I  stayed,  would 
be  ready  at  least  in  less  than  two  hours. 


LETTER  LVI. 
From  Fum  Hoam  to  Altangi,  the  diacontented  Wanderer. 

The  distant  sounds  of  music,  that  catch  new 
sweetness  as  they  vibrate  through  the  long-drawn 
valley,  are  not  more  pleasing  to  the  ear  than  the 
tidings  of  a  far  distant  friend. 

I  have  just  received  two  hundred  of  thy  letters 
by  the  Russian  caravan,  descriptive  of  the  manners 
of  Europe.  You  have  left  it  to  geographers  to  de- 
termine the  size  of  their  mountains,  and  extent  of 
their  lakes,  seeming  only  employed  in  discovering 
the  genius,  the  government,  and  disposition  of  the 
people. 

In  those  letters  I  perceive  a  journal  of  the  opera- 
tions of  your  mind  upon  whatever  occurs,  rather 
than  a  detail  of  your  travels  from  one  building  to 
another ;  of  your  taking  a  draught  of  this  ruin,  or 
that  obelisk ;  of  paying  so  many  tomans  for  this 
commodity,  or  laying  up  a  proper  store  for  the 
passage  of  some  new  wilderness. 

From  your  account  of  Russia,  I  learn  that  this 
nation  is  again  relaxing  into  pristine  barbarity ; 
that  its  great  emperor  wanted  a  hfe  of  a  hundred 
years  more,  to  bring  about  his  vast  design.  A 
savage  people  may  be  resembled  to  their  own 
forests ;  a  few  years  are  sufficient  to  clear  away  the 
obstructions  to  agriculture ;  but  it  requires  many, 
ere  the  ground  acquires  a  proper  degree  of  fertili- 
ty :  the  Russians,  attached  to  their  ancient  preju- 


dices, again  renew  their  hatred  to  strangers,  and 
indulge  every  former  brutal  excess.  So  true  it  is, 
that  the  revolutions  of  wisdom  are  slow  and  diffi- 
cult; the  revolutions  of  folly  or  ambiti(m  precipi- 
tate and  easy.  We  are  not  to  be  astonished,  says 
Confucius,*  that  the  wise  walk  more  slowly  in  their 
road  to  virtue,  than  fools  in  their  passage  to  vice; 
since  passion  drags  ns  along,  while  wisdom  only 
points  out  the  way. 

The  German  empire,  that  remnant  of  the  ma- 
jesty of  ancient  Rome,  appears,  from  your  account, 
on  the  eve  of  dissolution.  The  members  of  its  vast 
body  want  every  tie  of  government  to  unite  them, 
and  seem  feebly  held  together  only  by  their  respect 
for  ancient  institutions.  The  very  name  of  coun- 
try and  countrymen,  which  in  other  nations  makes 
one  of  the  strongest  bonds  of  government,  has  been 
here  for  some  time  laid  aside;  each  of  its  inhabi- 
tants seeming  more  proud  of  being  called  from  the 
petty  state  which  gives  him  birth,  than  by  the 
more  well-known  title  of  German. 

This  government  may  be  regarded  in  the  light 
of  a  severe  master  and  a  feeble  opponent.  The 
states  which  are  now  subject  to  the  laws  of  the 
empire  are  only  watching  a  proper  occasion  to  fling 
off  the  yoke,  and  those  which  are  become  too  pow- 
erful to  be  compelled  to  obedience  now  begin  to 
think  of  dictating  in  their  turn.  The  struggles 
in  this  state  are,  therefore,  not  in  order  to  preserve, 
but  to  destroy  the  ancient  constitution  :  if  one  side 
succeeds,  the  government  must  become  despotic, 
if  the  other,  several  states  will  subsist  without  even 
nominal  subordination;  but  in  either  case,  the 
Germanic  constitution  will  be  no  more. 

Sweden,  on  the  contrary,  though  now  seemingly 
a  strenuous  assertor  of  its  Uberties,  is  probably  only 
hastening  on  to  despotism.  Their  senators,  while 
they  pretend  to  vindicate  the  freedom  of  the  peo-* 
pie,  are  only  establishing  their  own  independence. 
The  deluded  people  will,  however,  at  last  perceive 
the  miseries  of  an  aristocratical  government ;  they , 
will  perceive  that  the  administration  of  a  society 
of  men  is  ever  more  painful  than  that  of  one  only. 
They  will  fly  from  this  most  oppressive  of  all 
forms,  where  one  single  member  is  capable  of  con^- 
troUing  the  whole,  to  take  refuge  under  the  throne, 
which  will  ever  be  attentive  to  their  complaints. 
No  people  long  endure  an  aristocratical  govern- 
ment when  they  can  apply  elsewhere  for  redress. 
The  lower  orders  of  people  may  be  enslaved  for  a 
time  by  a  number  of  tyrants,  but,  upon  the  first  op- 
portunity, they  will  ever  take  a  refuge  in  despot- 
ism or  democracy. 

As  the  Swedes  are  making  concealed  approach- 
es to  despotism,  the  French,  on  the  other  hand. 


*  Though  this  fine  maxim  be  not  found  in  the  Latin  edition 
of  the  Morals  of  Confucius,  yet  we  find  it  ascribed  to  him  by 
Le  Comte.  Etat  present  de  la  Chine,  Vol.  I.  p.  342. 


318 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


are  imperceptibly  vindicating  themselves  into  free- 
dom. When  I  consider  that  those  parliaments 
(the  members  of  which  are  all  created  by  the  court, 
the  presidents  of  which  can  act  only  by  immediate 
direction)  presume  even  to  mention  privileges  and 
freedom,  who,  till  of  late,  received  directions  from 
the  throne  with  implicit  humility;  when  this  is 
considered,  I  can  not  help  fancying  that  the  genius 
of  freedom  has  entered  that  kingdom  in  disguise. 
If  they  have  but  three  weak  monarchs  more  suc- 
cessively oi\  the  throne,  the  mask  will  be  laid  aside, 
and  the  country  will  certainly  once  more  be  free. 

When  I  compare  the  figure  which  the  Dutch 
make  in  Europe  with  that  they  assume  in  Asia,  I 
am  struck  with  surprise.  In  Asia,  1  find  them  the 
great  lords  of  all  the  Indian  seas :  in  Europe  the 
timid  inhabitants  of  a  paltry  state.  No  longer  the 
sons  of  freedom,  but  of  avarice ;  no  longer  assertors 
of  their  rights  by  courage,  but  by  negotiations; 
fawning  on  those  who  insult  them,  and  crouching 
under  the  rod  of  every  neighbouring  power.  With- 
out a  friend  to  save  them  in  distress,  and  without 
virtue  to  save  themselves;  their  government  is 
poor,  and  their  private  wealth  will  serve  but  to 
invite  some  neighbouring  invader. 

I  long  with  impatience  for  your  letters  from 
England,  Denmark,  Holland,  and  Italy ;  yet  why 
wish  for  relations  which  only  describe  new  calami- 
ties, which  show  that  ambition  and  avarice  are 
equally  terrible  in  every  region !  Adieu. 


LETTER  LVIL 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  PekiiJ,  in  China. 

I  HAVE  frequently  admired  the  manner  of  criti- 
cising in  China,  where  the  learned  are  assembled 
in  a  body  to  judge  of  every  new  publication;  to 
examine  the  merits  of  the  work,  without  knowing 
the  circumstances  of  the  author;  and  then  to 
usher  it  into  the  world  with  proper  marks  of  respect 
or  reprobation. 

In  England  there  are  no  such  tribunals  erected ; 
but  if  a  man  thinks  proper  to  be  a  judge  of  genius, 
few  will  be  at  the  pains  to  contradict  his  preten- 
sions. If  any  choose  to  be  critics,  it  is  but  saying 
they  are  critics ;  and  from  that  time  forward,  they 
become  invested  with  full  power  and  authority  over 
every  caitiff  who  aims  at  their  instruction  or  en- 
tertainment. 

As  almost  every  member  of  society  has,  by  this 
means,  a  vote  in  literary  transactions,  it  is  no  way 
surprising  to  find  the  rich  leading  the  way  here,  as 
in  other  common  concerns  of  life;  to  see  them 
either  bribing  the  numerous  herd  of  voters  by  their 
interest,  or  browbeating  them  by  their  authority. 

A  great  man  says  at  his  table,  that  such  a  book 


is  no  bad  thing.  Immediately  the  praise  is  car- 
ried oflT  by  five  flatterers  to  be  dispersed  at  twelve 
different  coffee-houses,  from  whence  it  circulates, 
still  improving  as  it  proceeds,  through  forty-five 
houses,  where  cheaper  liquors  are  sold ;  from  thence 
it  is  carried  away  by  the  honest  tradesman  to  his 
own  fire-side,  where  the  applause  is  eagerly  caught 
up  by  his  wife  and  children,  who  have  been  long 
taught  to  regard  his  judgment  as  the  standard  of 
perfection.  Thus,  when  we  have  traced  a  wide 
extended  literary  reputation  up  to  its  original 
source,  we  shall  find  it  derived  from  some  great 
man,  who  has,  perhaps,  received  all  his  education 
and  English  from  a  tutor  of  Berne,  or  a  dancing 
master  of  Picardy. 

The  English  are  a  people  of  good  sense;  and  I 
am  the  more  surprised  to  find  them  swayed  in 
their  opinions  by  men  who  often,  from  their 
very  education,  are  incompetent  judges.  Men 
who,  being  always  bred  in  affluence,  see  the  world 
only  on  one  side,  are  surely  improper  judges  ot 
human  nature ;  they  may  indeed  describe  a  cere- 
mony, a  pageant,  or  a  ball;  but  how  can  they  pre- 
tend to  dive  into  the  secrets  of  the  human  heart, 
who  have  been  nursed  up  only  in  forms,  and  daily 
behold  nothing  but  the  same  insipid  adulation 
smiling  upon  every  face.  Few  of  them  have  been 
bred  in  that  best  of  schools,  the  school  of  adversi- 
ty; and,  by  what  I  can  learn,  fewer  still  have  been 
bred  in  any  school  at  all. 

From  such  a  description,  one  would  think,  that 
a  droning  duke,  or  a  dowager  duchess,  was  not 
possessed  of  more  just  pretensions  to  taste  than 
persons  of  less  quality ;  and  yet  whatever  the  one 
or  the  other  may  write  or  praise,  shall  pass  for 
perfection,  without  further  examination.  A  no- 
bleman has  but  to  take  a  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
write  away  through  three  large  volumes,  and  then 
sign  his  name  to  the  title  page ;  though  the  whole 
might  have  been  before  more  disgusting  than  his 
own  rent-roll,  yet  signing  his  name  and  title  gives 
value  to  the  deed ;  title  being  alone  equivalent  to 
taste,  imagination,  and  genius. 

As  soon  as  a  piece  therefore  is  published,  the 
first  questions  are.  Who  is  the  author?  Does  he 
keep  a  coach  ?  Where  lies  his  estate  ?  What 
sort  of  a  table  does  he  keep  ?  If  he  happens  to  be 
poor  and  unqualified  for  such  a  scrutiny,  he  and 
his  works  sink  into  irremediable  obscurity ;  and  too 
late  he  finds,  that  having  fed  upon  turtle  is  a  more 
ready  way  to  fame  than  having  digested  Tully. 

The  poor  devil  against  whom  fashion  has  set 
its  face,  vainly  alleges,  that  he  has  been  bred  in 
every  part  of  Europe  where  knowledge  was  to  be 
sold ;  that  he  has  grown  pale  in  the  study  of  na- 
ture and  himself;  his  works  may  please  upon  the 
perusal,  but  his  pretensions  to  fame  are  entirely 
disregarded ;  he  is  treated  like  a  fiddler,  whose  mu- 
sic, though  liked,  is  not  much  praised,  because  h« 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


319 


lives  by  it ;  while  a  gentleman  performer,  though 
the  most  wretched  scraper  alive,  throws  the  audi- 
ence in'o  raptures.  The  fiddler  indeed  may,  in 
such  a  case  console  himself  by  thinking,  that  while 
the  other  goes  off  with  all  the  praise,  he  runs  away 
with  all  the  money;  but  here  the  parallel  drops; 
for  while  the  nobleman  triumphs  in  unmerited  ap- 
plause, the  author  by  profession  steals  off  with — 
nothing. 

The  poor,  therefore,  here,  who  draw  their  pens 
auxiliary  to  the  laws  of  their  country,  must  think 
themselves  very  happy  if  they  find,  not  fame  but 
forgiveness :  and  yet  they  are  hardly  treated ;  for 
ns  every  country  grows  more  polite,  the  press  be- 
comes more  useful;  and  writers  become  more  neces- 
sary, as  readers  are  supposed  to  increase.  In  a 
polished  society,  that  man,  though  in  rags,  who  has 
the  power  of  enforcing  virtue  from  the  press,  is  of 
more  real  use  than  forty  stupid  brahmins,  or 
bonzes,  or  guebres,  though  they  preached  ever  so 
oflen,  ever  so  loud,  or  ever  so  long.  That  man, 
though  in  rags,  who  is  capable  of  deceiving  even 
indolence  into  wisdom,  and  who  professes  amuse- 
ment while  he  aims  at  reformation,  is  more  useful 
in  refined  society  than  twenty  cardinals,  with  all 
their  scarlet,  and  tricked  out  in  all  the  fopperies  of 
scholastic  finery. 


LETTER  LVIIL 


To  the  Same. 


As  the  man  in  black  takes  every  opportunity  of 
introducing  me  to  such  company  as  may  serve  to 
indulge  my  speculative  temper,  or  gratify  my  curi- 
osity, I  was  by  his  influence  lately  invited  to  a 
visitation  dinner.  .  To  understand  this  term  you 
must  know,  that  it  was  formerly  the  custom  here 
for  the  principal  priests  to  go  about  the  country 
once  a-year,  and  examine  upon  the  spot,  whether 
those  of  subordinate  orders  did  their  duty,  or  were 
qualified  for  the  task ;  whether  their  temples  were 
kept  in  proper  repair,  or  the  laity  pleased  with  their 
administration. 

Though  a  visitation  of  this  nature  was  very  use- 
ful, yet  it  was  found  to  be  extremely  troublesome, 
and  for  many  reasons  utterly  inconvenient ;  for  as 
the  principal  priests  were  obliged  to  attend  at  court, 
in  order  to  solicit  preferment,  it  was  impossible 
they  could  at  the  same  time  attend  in  the  country, 
which  was  quite  out  of  the  road  to  promotion :  if 
we  add  to  this  the  gout,  which  has  been  time  im- 
;  memorial  a  clerical  disorder  here,  together  with  the 
bad  wine  and  ill-dressed  provisions  that  must  in- 
fallibly be  served  up  by  the  way,  it  was  not  strange 
that  the  custom  has  been  long  discontinued.  At 
present,  therefore,  every  head  of  the  church,  instead 
of  going  about  to  visit  his  priests,  is  satisfied  if  his 


priests  come  in  a  body  once  a  year  to  visit  him :  by 
this  means  the  duty  of  half  a-year  is  dispatched  in 
a  day.  When  assembled,  he  asks  each  in  his  turn 
how  they  have  behaved,  and  ar6  liked ;  upon  which, 
those  who  have  neglected  their  duty,  or  are  dis- 
agreeable to  their  congregation,  no  doubt  accuse 
themselves,  and  tell  him  all  their  faults ;  for  which 
he  reprimands  them  most  severely. 

The  thoughts  of  being  introduced  into  a  com- 
pany of  philosophers  and  learned  men  (for  as  such 
I  conceived  them)  gave  me  no  small  pleasure.  I 
expected  our  entertainment  would  resemble  those 
sentimental  banquets  so  finely  described  by  Xeno- 
phon  and  Plato:  I  was  hoping  some  Socrates 
would  be  brought  in  from  the  door,  in  order  to 
harangue  upon  divine  love ;  but  as  for  eating  and 
drinking,  I  had  prepared  myself  to  be  disappointed 
in  that  particular.  I  was  apprised  that  fasting  and 
temperance  were  tenets  strongly  recommended  to 
the  professors  of  Christianity,  and  I  had  seen  the 
frugality  and  mortification  of  the  priests  of  the 
East ;  so  that  I  expected  an  entertainment  where 
we  should  have  much  reasoning  and  little  meat. 

Upon  being  introduced,  I  confess  I  found  no 
great  signs  of  mortification  in  the  faces  or  persons 
of  the  company.  However,  I  imputed  their  florid 
looks  to  temperance,  and  their  corpulency  to  a  se- 
dentary way  of  living.  I  saw  several  preparations 
ind(,ed  for  dinner,  but  none  for  philosophy.  Tho 
company  seemed  to  gaze  upon  the  table  with  si- 
lent expectation :  but  this  I  easily  excused.  ,  Men 
of  wisdom,  thought  I,  are  ever  slow  of  speech ;  they 
deliver  nothing  unadvisedly.  Silence,  says  Con- 
fucius, is  a  friend  that  will  never  betray.  They 
are  now  probably  inventing  maxims  or  hard  say- 
ings for  their  mutual  instruction,  when  some  one 
shall  think  proper  to  begin. 

My  curiosity  was  now  wrought  up  to  the  highest 
pitch;  I  impatiently  looked  round  to  see  if  any 
were  going  to  interrupt  the  mighty  pause ;  when  at 
last  one  of  the  company  declared,  that  there  was  a 
sow  in  his  neighbourhood  that  farrowed  fifteen  pigs 
at  a  litter.  This  I  thought  a  very  preposterous 
beginning;  but  just  as  another  was  going  to  second 
the  remark,  dinner  was  served,  which  interrupted 
the  conversation  for  that  time. 

The  appearance  of  dinner,  which  consisted  of  a 
variety  of  dishes,  seemed  to  diffuse  new  cheerful- 
ness upon  every  face;  so  that  1  now  expected  the 
philosophical  conversation  to  begin,  as  they  im- 
proved in  good-humour.  The  principal  priest, 
however,  opened  his  mouth  with  only  observing, 
that  the  venison  had  not  been  kept  enough,  though 
he  had  given  strict  orders  for  having  it  killed  ten 
days  before.  "I  fear,"  continued  he,  "it  will  be 
found  to  want  the  true  heathy  flavour;  you  will 
find  nothing  of  the  original  wildness  in  it."  A 
priest,  who  sat  next  him,  having  smek  it,  and 
wiped  his  nose,  "Ah,  my  good  lord,"  cries  he, 


330 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


"you  are  too  modest,  it  is  perfectly  fine;  everybody 
knows  that  nobody  understands  keeping  venison 
with  your  lordship." — "Ay,  and  partridges  too," 
interrupted  another ;  "  I  never  find  them  right  any 
where  else."  His  lordship  was  going  to  reply, 
when  a  third  took  off  the  attention  of  the  company, 
by  recommending  the  pig  as  inimitable.  "I  fancy, 
my  lord,"  continues  he,  "it  has  been  smothered  in 
its  own  blood." — "  If  it  has  been  smothered  in  its 
blood,"  cried  a  facetious  member,  helping  himself, 
"we'll  now  smother  it  in  egg-sauce."  This  poig- 
nant piece  of  humour  produced  a  long  loud  laugh, 
which  the  facetious  brother  observing,  and  now 
that  he  was  in  luck,  willing  to  second  his  blow, 
assured  the  company  he  would  tell  them  a  good 
story  about  that:  "As  good  a  story,"  cries  he, 
bursting  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter  himself,  "as 
ever  you  heard  in  your  lives.  There  was  a  farmer 
in  my  parish  who  used  to  sup  upon  wild  ducks 
and  flummery; — so  this  farmer" — "Doctor  Mar- 
rowfatj"  cries  his  lordship,  interrupting  him,  "give 
me  leave  to  drink  your  health ;" — "so  being  fond 
of  wild  ducks  and  flummery," — "Doctor,"  adds  a 
gentleman  who  sat  next  to  him,  "let  me  advise 
you  to  a  wing  of  this  turkey ; " — "  so  this  farmer 
being  fond  "— ^"  Hob  and  nob,  Doctor,  which  do 
you  choose,  white  or  red?" — "So,  being  fond  of 
wild  ducks  and  flummery ; " — "  Take  care  of  your 
band,  sir,  it  may  dip  in  the  gravy."  The  doctor, 
now  looking  round,  found  not  a  single  eye  disposed 
to  listen;  wherefore,  calling  for  a  glass  of  wihe,  he 
gulped  down  the  disappointment  and  the  tale  in  a 
bumper. 

The  conversation  now  began  to  be  little  more 
than  a  rhapsody  of  exclamations:  as  each  had 
pretty  well  satisfied  his  own  appetite,  he  now  found 
sufficient  time  to  press  others.  "Excellent!  the 
very  thing!  let  me  recommend  the  pig.  Do  but 
taste  the  bacon !  never  ate  a  better  thing  in  my 
life:  exquisite!  delicious!"  This  edifying  dis- 
course continued  through  three  courses,  which  last- 
ed as  many  hoursj  till  every  one  of  the  company 
were  unable  to  swallow  or  utter  any  thing  more. 

It  is  very  natural  for  men  who  are  abridged  in 
one  excess,  to  break  into  some  other.  The  clergy 
here,  particularly  those  who  are  advanced  in  years, 
think  if  they  are  abstemious  with  regard  to  women 
and  wine,  they  may  indulge  their  other  appetites 
without  censure.  Thus  some  are  found  to  rise  in 
the  morning  only  to  a  consultation  with  their  cook 
about  dinner,  and  when  that  has  been  swallowed, 
make  no  other  use  of  their  faculties  (if  they  have 
any)  but  to  ruminate  on  the  succeeding  meal. 

A  debauch  in  wine  is  even  more  pardonable 
than  this,  since  one  glass  insensibly  leads  on  to 
another,  and  instead  of  sating,  whets  the  appetite. 
The  progressive  steps  to  it  are  cheerful  and  se- 
ducing; the  grave  are  animated,  the  melancholy 
relieved,  and  there  is  even  classic  authority  to 


countenance  the  excess.  But  in  eating,  after  na- 
ture is  once  satisfied,  every  additional  morsel  brings 
stupidity  and  distempers  with  it,  and  as  one  of 
their  own  poets  expresses  it. 

The  soul  subsides,  and  wickedly  inclines 
To  seem  but  mortal,  even  in  sound  divines. 

Let  me  suppose,  after  such  a  meal  as  this  I  have 
been  describing,  while  all  the  company  are  sitting 
in  lethargic  silence  round  the  table,  groaning  un- 
der a  load  of  soup,  pig,  pork,  and  bacon  ;  lot  me 
suppose,  I  say,  some  hungry  beggar,  with  looks  of 
want,  peeping  through  one  of  the  windows,  and 
thus  addressing  the  assembly:  "Prithee,  pluck 
those  napkins  from  your  chins;  after  nature  is 
satisfied,  all  that  you  eat  extraordinary  is  my 
property^  and  I  claim  it  as  mine.  It  was  given 
you  in  order  to  relieve  me,  and  not  to  oppress 
yourselves.  How  can  they  comfort  or  instruct 
others,  who  can  scarcely  feel  their  own  existence, 
except  from  the  unsavoury  returns  of  an  ill-digest 
ed  meall  But  though  neither  you,  nor  the  cush 
ions  you  sit  upon  will  hear  me,  yet  the  world  re- 
gards the  excesses  of  its  teachers  with  a  prying  eye, 
and  notes  their  conduct  with  double  severity."  1 
know  no  other  answer  any  one  of  the  company 
could  make  to  such  an  expostulation  but  this? 
"Friend,  you  talk  of  our  losing  a  character,  and 
being  disliked  by  the  world  ;  well,  and  supposing 
all  this  to  be  true,  what  then  !  who  cares  for  the 
world?  We'll  preach  for  the  world,  and  the  world 
shall  pay  us  for  preachwig,  whether  we  like  each 
other  or  not*" 


LETTER  LIX. 

From  Hingpo  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

You  will  probably  be  pleased  to  see  my  lettex 
dated  from  Terki,  a  city  which  lies  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  Persian  empire :  here,  blessed  with 
security,  with  all  that  is  dear,  I  double  my  rap 
tures  by  communicating  them  to  you :  the  mind 
sympathising  with  the  freedom  of  the  body,  my 
whole  soul  is  dilated  in  gratitude,  love,  and  praise. 

Yet,  were  my  own  happiness  all  that  inspired  my 
present  joy,  my  raptures  might  justly  merit  the 
imputation  of  self-interest ;  but  when  I  think  that 
the  beautiful  Zelis  is  also  free,  forgive  my  triumph 
when  I  boast  of  having  rescued  from  captivity  the 
most  deserving  object  upon  earth. 

You  remember  the  reluctance  she  testified  at 
being  obliged  to  marry  the  tyrant  she  hated.  Her 
compliance  at  last  was  only  feigned,  in  order  to 
gain  time  to  try  some  future  means  of  escape. 
During  the  interval  between  her  promise  and  the 
intended  performance  of  it,  she  came  undiscovered 
one  evening  to  the  place  where  I  generally  retired 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  W6RLD. 


321 


after  the  fatigues  of  the  day:  her  appearance  was 
like  that  of  an  aerial  genius  when  it  descends  to 
minister  comfort  to  undeserved  distress  ;  the  mild 
lustre  of  her  eye  served  to  banish  my  timidity ;  her 
accents  were  sweeter  than  the  echo  of  some  dis- 
tant symphony.  "Unhappy  stranger,"  said  she, 
in  the  Persian  language,  "you  here  perceive  one 
more  wretched  than  thyself !  All  this  solemnity 
of  preparation,  this  elegance  of  dress,  and  the 
numher  of  my  attendants,  serve  but  to  increase  my 
miseries  :  if  you  have  courage  to  rescue  an  unhap- 
py woman  from  approaching  ruin,  and  our  detest- 
ed tyrant,  you  may  depend  upon  my  future  grati- 
tude." I  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  she  left  me, 
filled  with  rapture  and  astonishment.  Night 
brought  me  no  rest,  nor  could  the  ensuing  morn- 
ing calm  the  anxieties  of  my  mind.  I  projected  a 
thousand  methods  for  her  delivery;  but  each,  when 
strictly  examined,  appeared  impracticable  :  in  this 
uncertainty  the  evening  again  arrived,  and  I  placed 
myself  on  my  former  station  in  hopes  of  a  repeated 
visit.  After  some  short  expectation,  the  bright 
perfection  again  appeared :  I  bowed,  as  before,  to 
the  ground;  when  raising  me  up,  she  observed, 
that  the  time  was  not  to  be  spent  in  useless  cere- 
mony; she  observed  that  the  day  following  was 
appointed  for  the  celebration  of  her  nuptials,  and 
that  something  was  to  be  done  that  very  night  for 
our  mutual  deUverance.  I  offered  with  the  utmost 
humility  to  pursue  whatever  scheme  she  should  di- 
rect ;  upon  which  she  proposed  that  instant  to  scale 
the  garden-wall,  adding,  that  she  had  prevailed  upon 
a  female  slave,  who  was  now  waiting  at  the  ap- 
pointed place,  to  assist  her  with  a  ladder. 

Pursuant  to  this  information,  I  led  her  trembling 
to  the  place  appointed ;  but  instead  of  the  slave  we 
expected  to  see,  Mostadad  himself  was  there  await- 
ing our  arrival :  the  wretch  in  whom  we  had  con- 
fided, it  seems,  had  betrayed  our  design  to  her  mas- 
ter, and  he  now  saw  the  most  convincing  proofs 
of  her  information.  He  was  just  going  to  draw 
his  sabre,  when  a  principle  of  avarice  repressed 
his  fury ;  and  he  resolved,  after  a  severe  chastise- 
ment, to  dispose  of  me  to  another  master ;  in  the 
mean  time  ordered  me  to  be  confined  in  the  strict- 
est manner,  and  the  next  day  to  receive  a  hundred 
blows  on  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  was  led  out  in  order 
to  receive  the  punishment,  which,  from  the  severity 
with  which  it  is  generally  inflicted  upon  slaves)  is 
worse  even  than  death. 

A  trumpet  was  to  be  the  signal  for  the  solemni- 
■zation  of  the  nuptials  of  Zeliis,  and  for  the  inflic- 
tion of  my  punishment.  Each  ceremony,  to  me 
equally  dreadful,  was  just  going  to  begin,  when  we 
were  informed  that  a  large  body  of  Circassian  Tar- 
tv^rs  had  invaded  the  town,  and  were  laying  all  in 
ruin.  Every  person  now  thought  only  of  savitig 
himself:  I  instantly  unloosed  the  cords  with  which 
21 


I  was  bound,  and  seizing  a  scimitar  from  one  of 
the  slaves,  who  had  not  courage  to  resist  me,  flew 
to  the  women's  apartment  where  Zelis  was  con- 
fined, dressed  out  for  the  intended  nuptials.  1 
bade  her  follow  me  without  delay,  and  going  for- 
ward, cut  my  way  through  the  eunuchs,  who  made 
but  a  faint  resistance.  The  whole  city  was  now  a 
scene  of  conflagration  and  terror;  every  person  was 
willing  to  save  himself,  unmindful  of  others.  In 
this  confusion,  seizing  upon  two  of  the  fleetes*' 
coursers  in  the  stables  of  Mostadad,  we  fled  north- 
ward towards  the  kingdom  of  Circa&sia.  As  there 
Were  several  others  flying  in  the  same  manner,  we 
passed  without  notice,  and  in  three  days  arrived  at 
Terki,  a  city  that  lies  in  a  valley  within  the  bosom 
of  the  frowning  mountains  of  Caiicaytis.  Here, 
free  from  every  apprehension  of  danger,  we  enjoy 
all  those  satisfactions  which  are  c6nsistent  with 
virtue :  though  I  find  my  heart  at  intervals  give 
way  to  unusual  passions,  yet  such  is  my  admita- 
tion  for  my  fair  companion,  that  I  lose  evert  ten- 
derness in  distant  respect.  Though  her  person 
demands  particular  regard  even  among  the  beau- 
ties of  Circassia,  yel:  is  her  mind  far  more  lovely. 
How  very  different  is  a  woman  who  thus  has  cul- 
tivated her  understanding,  and  beeil  refined  into' 
delicacy  of  sentiment,  from  the  daughters  of  the 
East,  whose  education  is  only  formed  to  improve 
the  person,  and  make  them  more  tempting  Objects' 
of  prostitution.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LX. 

f'rom  the  Same. 

When  sufliciently  refreshed  aflet  the  fatigues' 
of  our  precipitate  flight,  my  curiosity,  whrch  ha(J 
been  restrained  by  the  appearance  of  immediate 
danger,  now  began  to  revive :  I  longed  to  know^ 
by  what  distressful  accident  my  fair  fugitive  be- 
came a  captive,  and  could  not  avoid  testifying  a" 
surprise  how  so  much  beauty  could  be  involved  in* 
the  calamities  from  whence  she  had  been  so  lately 
rescued. 

Talk  not  of  personal  charms,  cried  she,  with' 
emotion,  since  to  them  I  owe  every  misfortune. 
Look  round  on  the  numberless  beautieg  of  the 
country  where  we  are,  and  see  how  nature  has 
poured  its  charms  upon  every  face;  and  yet  by 
this  profusion,  Heaven  would  seem  to  show  how 
little  it  regards  such  a  blessing,  sinCe  the  gift  is 
lavished  upon  a  nation  of  prostitutes. 

I  perceive  you  desire  to  know  my  story,  aiirf 
your  curiosity  is  not  so  great  as  my  impatience  to" 
gratify  it :  I  find  a  pleasure  in  telling  past  misfor- 
tunes to  any,  but  when  my  deliverer  is  pleased' 
with  the  relation,  my  pleasure  is  prompted  b/ 
duty. 


322 


aOLDSMlTH'S  WORKS. 


"  I  Was  born  in  a  country  far  to  the  "West,  where 
the  men  are  braver,  and  the  women  more  fair  than 
those  of  Circassia;  where  the  valour  of  the  liero 
is  guided  by  wisdom,  and  where  deHcacy  of  senti- 
ment points  the  shafts  of  female  beauty.  1  was 
the  only  daughter  of  an  officer  in  the  army,  the 
child  of  his  age,  and  as  he  used  fondly  to  express 
it,  the  only  chain  that  bound  him  to  the  world, 
or  made  his  life  pleasing.  His  station  procured 
him  an  acquaintance  with  men  of  greater  rank 
and  fortune  than  himself,  and  his  regard  for  me 
induced  him  to  bring  me  into  every  family  where 
he  was  acquainted.  Thus  I  was  early  taught  all 
the  elegancies  and  fashionable  foibles  of  such  as  the 
world  calls  polite,  and,  though  without  fortune  my- 
self, was  taught  to  despise  those  who  lived  as  if 
they  were  poor. 

"  My  intercourse  with  the  great,  and  my  affec- 
tation of  grandeur,  procured  me  many  lovers ;  but 
want  of  fortune  deterred  them  all  from  any  other 
views  than  those  of  passing  the  present  moment 
agreeably,  or  of  meditating  my  future  ruin.  In 
every  company  I  found  myself  addressed  in  a 
warmer  strain  of  passion  than  other  ladies  who 
were  superior  in  point  of  rank  and  beauty ;  and 
this  I  imputed  to  an  excess  of  respect,  which  in 
reality  proceeded  from  very  different  motives. 

"  Among  the  number  of  such  as  paid  me  their 
addresses,  was  a  gentleman,  a  friend  of  my  father, 
rather  in  the  decline  of  life,  with  nothing  remarka- 
ble either  in  his  person  or  address  to  recommend 
him.  His  age,  which  was  about  forty,  his  fortune, 
which  was  moderate,  and  barely  sufficient  to  sup- 
port him,  served  to  throw  me  off  my  guard,  so 
that  I  considered  him  as  the  only  sincere  admirer 
I  had. 

"  Designing  lovers,  in  the  decline  of  life,  arc  ever 
most  dangerous.  Skilled  in  all  the  weaknesses  of 
the  sex,  they  seize  each  favourable  opportunity; 
and,  by  having  less  passion  than  youthful  admirers, 
have  less  real  respect,  and  therefore  less  timidity. 
This  insidious  wretch  used  a  thousand  arts  to 
succeed  in  his  bnise  designs,  all  which  1  saw,  but 
imputed  to  different  views,  because  I  thought  it 
absurd  to  beheve  the  real  motives. 

"As  he  continued  to  frequent  my  father's,  the 
friendship  between  them  became  every  day  greater; 
and  at  last,  from  the  intimacy  with  which  he  was 
received,  I  was  taught  to  look  upon  him  as  a  guard- 
ian and  a  friend.  Though  I  never  loved,  yet  I  es- 
teemed him;  and  this  was  enough  to  make  me 
wish  for  a  union,  for  which  he  seemed  desirous, 
but  to  which  he  feigned  several  delays ;  while  in  the 
mean  time,  from  a  false  report  of  our  being  married, 
every  other  admirer  forsook  me. 

"  I  was  at  last  however  awakened  from  the  de- 
lusion, by  an  account  of  his  being  just  married  to 
another  young  lady  with  a  considerable  fortune. 
This  was  no  great  mortification  to  me,  as  I  had 


always  regarded  him  merely  from  prudential  mo- 
tives ;  but  it  had  a  very  different  effect  upon  my 
father,  who,  rash  and  passionate  by  nature,  and, 
besides,  stimulated  by  a  mistaken  notion  of  mili- 
tary honour,  upbraided  his  friend  in  such  terms, 
that  a  challenge  was  soon  given  and  accepted. 

It  was  about  midnight  when  I  was  awakened  by 
a  message  from  my  father,  who  desired  to  see  me 
that  moment.  I  rose  with  some  surprise,  and  fol- 
lowing the  messenger,  attended  only  by  another 
servant,  came  to  a  field  not  far  from  the  house, 
where  I  found  him,  the  assertor  of  my  honour,  my 
only  friend  and  supporter,  the  tutor  and  compan- 
ion of  my  youth,  lying  on  one  side  covered  aver 
with  blood,  and  just  expiring ! — no  tears  streamed 
down  my  cheeks,  nor  sigh  escaped  from  my  breast, 
at  an  object  of  such  terror.  I  sat  down,  and  sup- 
porting his  aged  head  in  my  lap,  gazed  upon  the 
ghastly  visage  with  an  agony  more,  poignant  even 
than  despairing  madness.  The  servants  were 
gone  for  more  assistance.  In  this  gloomy  stillness 
of  the  night  no  sounds  were  heard  but  his  agoniz- 
ing respirations ;  no  object  was  presented  but  his 
wounds,  which  still  continued  to  stream.  "With 
silent  anguish  I  hung  over  his  dear  face,  and  with 
my  hands  strove  to  stop  the  blood  as  it  flowed  from 
his  wounds :  he  seemed  at  first  insensible,  but  at 
last,  turning  his  dying  eyes  upon  me,  '  My  dear, 
dear  child,'  cried  he;  'dear,  though  you  have  for- 
gotten your  own  honour  and  stained  mine,  I  will 
yet  forgive  you ;  by  abandoning  virtue,  you  have 
undone  me  and  yourself,  yet  take  my  forgiveness 
with  the  same  compassion  I  wish  Heaven  may 
pity  me.'  He  expired.  All  my  succeeding  happi- 
ness fled  with  him.  Reflecting  that  I  was  the 
cause  of  his  death  whom  only  I  loved  upon  earth ; 
accused  of  betraying  the  honour  of  his  family  with 
his  latest  breath ;  conscious  of  my  own  innocence, 
yet  without  even  a  possibiUty  of  vindicating  it  r 
without  fortune  or  friends  to  relieve  or  pity  me  j 
abandoned  to  infamy  and  the  wide  censuring 
world,  I  called  out  upon  the  dead  body  that  lay 
stretched  before  me,  and  in  the  agony  of  my  heart 
asked,  why  he  could  have  left  me  thus  7  '  Why, 
my  dear,  my  only  papa,  why  could  you  ruin  me 
thus  and  yourself,  forever?  O  pity  and  return, 
since  there  is  none  but  you  to  comfort  me  !* 

"  I  soon  found  that  I  had  real  cause  for  sorrow ; 
that  I  was  to  expect  no  compassion  from  my  own 
sex,  nor  assistance  from  the  other ;  and  that  repu- 
tation was  much  more  useful  in  our  commerce  with 
mankind  than  really  to  deserve  it.  Wherever  I 
came,  I  perceived  myself  received  either  with  con- 
tempt or  detestation ;  or,  whenever  I  was  civilly 
treated,  it  was  from  the  most  base  and  ungenerous 
motives. 

"  Thus  driven  from  the  society  of  the  virtuous, 
1  was  at  last,  in  order  to  dispel  the  anxieties  of  in- 
supportable solitude,  obliged  to  take  up  with  the 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


company  of  those  whose  characters  were  blasted 
like  my  own ;  but  who  perhaps  deserved  their  in- 
famy. Among  this  number  was  a  lady  of  the  first 
distinction,  whose  character  the  public  thought 
proper  to  brand  even  with  greater  infamy  than 
mine.  A  similitude  of  distress  soon  united  us ;  I 
knew  that  general  reproach  had  made  her  misera- 
ble ;  and  1  had  learned  to  regard  misery  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  guilt.  Though  this  lady  had  not  virtue 
enough  to  avoid  reproach,  yet  she  had  too  much 
delicate  sensibility  not  to  feel  it.  She  therefore 
proposed  our  leaving  the  country  where  we  were 
born,  and  going  to  live  in  Italy,  where  our  charac- 
ters and  misfortunes  would  be  unknown.  With 
this  I  eagerly  complied,  and  we  soon  found  our- 
selves in  one  of  the  most  charming  retreats  in  the 
most  beautiful  province  of  that  enchanting  country. 
"  Had  my  companion  chosen  this  as  a  retreat 
for  injured  virtue,  a  harbour  where  we  might  look 
with  tranquillity  on  the  distant  angry  world,  I 
should  have  been  happy;  but  very  different  was 
her  design;  she  had  pitched  upon  this  situation 
only  to  enjoy  those  pleasures  in  private  which  she 
had  not  sufficient  effrontsry  to  satisfy  in  a  more 
open  manner.  A  nearer  acquaintance  soon  showed 
me  the  vicious  part  of  her  character ;  her  mind,  as 
well  as  her  body,  seemed  formed  only  for  pleasure ; 
she  was  sentimental  only  as  it  served  to  protract 
the  immediate  enjoyment.  Foriped  for  society 
alone,  she  spoke  infinitely  better  than  she  wrote, 
and  wrote  infinitely  better  than  she  Uved.  A  per- 
son devoted  to  pleasure  often  leads  the  most  misera- 
ble life  imagirmble ;  such  was  her  case  :  she  consi- 
dered the  natural  moments  of  languor  as  insup- 
portable ;  passed  all  her  hours  between  rapture  and 
anxiety;  ever  in  an  extreme  of  agony  or  of  bliss,. 
She  felt  a  pain  as  severe  for  want  of  appetite,  as 
the  starving  wretch  who  wants  a  meal.  In  those 
interval*  she  usually  kept  her  bed,  and  rose  only 
when  in  expectation  of  some  new  enjoyment.  The 
luxuriant  air  of  the  country,  the  romantic  situation 
of  her  palace,  and  the  genius  of  a  people  whose  only 
happiness  lies  in  sensual  refinement,  all  contri- 
buted to  banish  the  remembrance  of  her  native 
country. 

"  But  though  such  a  life  gave  her  pleasure,  it  had 
a  very  different  effect  upon  me ;  I  grew  every  day 
more  pensive,  and  my  melancholy  was  regarded  as 
an  insult  upon  her  good  humour,  I  now  perceived 
myself  entirely  unfit  for  all  society ;  discarded  from 
the  good,  and  detesting  the  infamous,  1  seemed  in 
a  state  of  war  with  every  rank  of  people ;  that  vir- 
tue, which  should  have  been  my  protection  in  the 
world,  was  here  my  crime :  in  short,  detesting  life, 

i  I  was  determined  to  become  a  recluse,  and  to  leave 
a  world  where  I  found  no  pleasure  that  could  allure 
me  to  stay.    Thus  determined,  I  embarked  in  order 

J  to  go  by  sea  to  Rome,  where  I  intended  to  take  the 
veil :  but  even  in  so  short  a  passage  my  hard  for- 


tune still  attended  me ;  our  ship  was  taken  by  a 
Barbary  corsair ;  the  whole  crew,  and  I  among  the 
number,  being  made  slaves.  It  carries  too  much 
the  air  of  romance  to  inform  you  of  my  distresses 
or  obstinancy  in  this  miserable  state ;  it  is  enough 
to  observe,  that  I  have  been  bought  by  several  mas- 
ters, each  of  whom  perceiving  my  reluctance,  rather 
than  use  violence,  sold  me  to  another,  till  it  was  my 
happiness  to  be  at  last  rescued  by  you." 

Thus  ended  her  relation,  which  I  have  abridged, 
but  as  soon  as  we  are  arrived  at  Moscow,  for  which 
we  intend  to  set  out  shortly,  you  shall  be  informed 
of  all  more  particularly.  Irf  the  meantime  the 
greatest  addition  to  my  happiness  will  be  to  hear 
of  yours.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXI. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hiilgpo, 

The  news  of  your  freedom  lifts  the  loa;d  of  for 
mer  anxiety  from  my  mind ;  I  can  now  think  of  my 
son  without  reget,  applaud  his  resignation  under 
calamities,  and  his  conduct  in  extricating  himself 
from  them.  ^  r. 

You  are  now  free,  just  let  loose  from  the  bond" 
age  of  a  hard  master:  this  is  th^  crisis  of  your 
fate ;  and  as  you  now  manage  fortune,  succeeding 
life  will  be  marked  with  happiness  or  misery.  A 
few  years'  perseverance  in  prudence,  which  at  your 
age  is  but  another  name  for  virtue,  will  insure  com- 
fort, pleasure,  tranquillity,  esteem;  too  eager  an 
enjoyment  of  every  good  that  now  offers,  will  re- 
verse the  medal,  and  present  you  with  poverty^ 
anxiety,  remorse,  contempt. 

As  it  has  been  observed,  that  none  are  better 
quaUfied  to  give  others  advice,  than  those  who  have 
taken  the  least  of  it  themselves ;  so  in  this  riespect 
I  find  myself  perfectly  authorized  to  offer  mincy 
even  though  I  should  wave  my  paternal  authority 
upon  this  occasion. 

The  most  usual  way  among  young  men  who 
have  no  resolution  of  their  own,  is  first  to  ask  one 
friend's  advice  and  follow  it  for  some  time;  then  to 
ask  advice  of  another,  and  turn  to  that  j  so  of  a 
third,  still  unsteady,  always  changing.  However, 
be  assured,  that  every  change  of  this  nature  is  for 
the  worse :  people  may  tell  you  of  your  being  unfit 
for  some  peculiar  occupations  in  life;  but  heed  them 
not ;  whatever  employment  you  follow  with  perse- 
verance and  assiduity,  will  be  found  fit  for  you ;  it 
will  be  your  support  in  youth,  and  comfort  in  age. 
In  learning  the  useful  part  of  every  profession,  very 
moderate  abilities  will  suffice ;  even  if  the  mind  be  , 
a  httle  balanced  with  stupidity,  it  may  in  this  ca&« 
be  useful.  Great  abilities  have  always  been  les» 
serviceable  to  the  possessors  than  moderate  ones. 
Life  has  been  compared  to  a  race,  but  the  allusion , 


324 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


still  improves  by  observing,  that  the  most  swift  are 
ever  the  least  manageable. 

To  know  one  profession  only,  is  enough  for  one 
man  to  know;  and  this  (whatever  the  professors 
may  tell  you  to  the  contrary)  is  soon  learned.  Be 
contented  therefore  with  one  good  employment ; 
for  if  you  understand  two  at  a  time,  people  will 
give  you  business  in  neither. 

A  conjuror  and  a  tailor  once  happened  to  con- 
verse together.  "Alas,"  cries  the  tailor,  "what 
an  unhappy  poor  croature  am  I ;  if  people  should 
ever  take  it  in  their  heads  to  live  without  clothes,  I 
am  undone ,  I  have  no  other  trade  to  have  recourse 
to."  "Indeed,  friend,  I  pity  you  sincerely,"  re- 
plies the  conjuror;  "but,  thank  Heaven,  things 
are  not  quite  so  bad  with  me ;  for  if  one  trick  should 
fail,  I  have  a  hundred  tricks  more  for  them  yet. 
However,  if  at  any  time  you  are  reduced  to  beg- 
gary, apply  to  me,  and  I  will  relieve  you."  A  fa- 
mine overspread  the  land ;  the  tailor  made  a  shift 
to  live,  because  his  customers  could  not  be  without 
clothes ;  but  the  poor  conjuror  with  all  his  hundred 
tricks,  could  find  none  that  had  money  to  throw 
away :  it  was  in  vain  that  he  promised  to  eat  fire, 
or  to  vomit  pins ;  no  single  creature  would  relieve 
him,  till  he  was  at  last  obliged  to  beg  from  the  vei-y 
tailor  whose  calling  he  had  formerly  despised. 

There  are  no  obstructions  more  fatal  to  fortune 
than  pride  and  resentment.  If  you  must  resent 
injuries  at  all,  at  least  suppress  your  indigna-tion 
until  you  become  rich,  and  then  show  away;  the 
resentment  of  a  poor  man  is  like  the  efforts  of  a 
harmless  insect  to  sting ;  it  may  get  him  crushed, 
but  can  not  -defend  him.  Who  values  that  anger 
which  is  consumed  only  in  empty  menaces  ? 

Once  upon  a  time  a  goose  fed  its  young  by  a 
pond-side ;  and  a  goose  in  such  circumstances  is 
always  extremely  proud,  and  excessively  punctili- 
ous. If  any  other  animal,  without  the  least  design 
to  oflfend,  happened  to  pass  that  way,  the  goose  was 
immediately  at  him.  The  pond,  she  said,  was 
hers,  and  she  would  maintain  a  right  in  it,  and 
support  her  honour,  while  she  had  a  bill  to  hiss,  or 
a  wing  to  flutter.  In  this  manner  she  drove  away 
ducks,  pigs,  and  chickens ;  nay,  even  the  insidious 
cat  was  seen  to  scamper.  A  lounging  mastiff,  how- 
ever, happened  to  pass  by,  and  thought  it  no  harm 
if  he  should  lap  a  little  of  the  water,  as  he  was 
thirsty.  The  guardian  goose  flew  at  him  like  a 
fury,  pecked  at  him  with  her  beak,  and  flapped  him 
with  her  feathers.  The  dog  grew  angry,  had  twen- 
ty times  a  good  mind  to  give  her  a  sly  snap ;  but 
suppressing  his  indignation,  because  his  master 
was  nigh,  "  A  pox  take  thee,"  cries  he,  "  for  a  fool ! 
sure  those  who  have  neither  strength  nor  weapons 
to  fight,  at  least  should  be  civil :  that  fluttering  and 
hissing  of  thine  may  one  day  get  thine  head  snap- 
ped off,  but  it  can  neither  injure  thine  enemies,  nor 
ever  protect  thee."     So  saying,  he  went  forward 


to  the  pond,  quenched  his  thirst,  in  spite  of  the 
goose,  and  followed  his  master. 

Another  obstruction  to  the  fortune  of  youth  is. 
that  while  they  are  willing  to  take  offence  from 
none,  they  are  also  equally  desirous  of  giving  none 
offence.  From  hence  they  endeavour  to  please  all, 
comply  with  every  request,  attempt  to  suit  them- 
selves to  every  Company,  have  no  will  of  their  own, 
but,  like  wax,  catch  every  contiguous  impression. 
By  thus  attempting  to  give  universal  satisfaction, 
they  at  last  find  themselves  miserably  disappointed: 
to  bring  the  generality  of  admirers  on  our  side,  it  is 
sufficient  to  attempt  pleasing  a  very  few. 

A  painter  of  eminence  was  once  resolved  to  fin- 
ish a  piece  which  should  please  the  whole  world. 
When,  therefore,  he  had  drawn  a  picture,  in  which 
his  utmost  skill  was  exhausted,  it  was  exposed  in 
the  public  market-place,  with  directions  at  the  bot- 
tom for  every  spectator  to  mark  with  a  brush,  which 
lay  by,  every  limb  and  feature  which  seemed  erro- 
neous. The  spectators  came,  and  in  general  ap- 
plauded ;  but  each,  willing  to  show  his  talent  at 
criticism,  marked  whatever  he  thought  proper.  At 
evening,  when  the  painter  came,  he  was  mortified 
to  find  the  whole  picture  one  universal  blot ;  not  a 
single  stroke  that  was  not  stigmatized  with  marks 
of  disapprobation :  not  satisfied  with  this  trial,  the 
next  day  he  was  resolved  to  try  them  in  a  different 
manner,  and  exposing  his  picture  as  before,  desired 
that  every  spectator  would  mark  those  beauties  he 
approved  or  admired.  The  people  complied ;  and 
the  artist  returning,  found  his  picture  replete  with 
the  marks  of  beauty;  every  stroke  that  had  been 
yesterday  condemned,  now  received  the  character 
of  approbation.  "Well,"  cries  the  painter,  "I 
now  find  that  the  best  way  to  please  one  half  of  the 
world,  is  not  to  mind  what  the  other  half  says  j 
since  what  are  faults  in  the  eyes  of  these,  shall  b« 
by  those  regarded  as  beauties."     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXn. 


From  the  Same. 


A  CHARACTER,  such  as  you  have  represented 
that  of  your  fair  companion,  which  continues  vir- 
tuous, though  loaded  with  infamy,  is  truly  great. 
Many  regard  virtue  because  it  is  attended  with  ap- 
plause ;  your  favourite  only  for  the  internal  pleasure 
it  confers.  I  have  often  wished  that  ladies  like 
her  were  proposed  as  models  for  female  imitation, 
and  not  such  as  have  acquired  fame  by  qualities 
repugnant  to  the  natural  softness  of  the  sex. 

Women  famed  for  their  valour,  their  skill  m 
politics,  or  their  learning,  leave  the  duties  of  their 
own  sex,  in  order  to  invade  the  privileges  of  ours. 
1  can  no  more  pardon  a  fair  one  for  endeavouring 
to  wield  the  club  ef  Hercules,  than  1  could  him  for 
attempting  to  twirl  her  distaff. 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


325 


The  modest  virgin,  the  prudent  wife,  or  the 
careful  matron,  are  much  more  serviceable  in  Ufe 
than  petticoated  philosophers,  blustering  heroines, 
or  virago  queews.  She  who  makes  her  husband 
and  her  children  happy,  who  reclaims  the  one  from 
vice,  and  trains  up  the  other  to  virtue,  is  a  much 
greater  character  than  ladies  described  in  romance, 
whose  whole  occupation  is  to  murder  mankind 
with  shafts  from  their  quiver  or  their  eyes. 

Women,  it  has  been  observed,  are  not  naturally 
formed  for  great  cares  themselves,  but  to  soften 
ours.  Their  tenderness  is  the  proper  reward  for 
the  dangers  we  undergo  for  their  preservation ;  and 
the  ease  and  cheerfulness  of  their  conversation,  our 
desirable  retreat  from  the  fatigues  of  intense  appli- 
cation. They  are  confined  within  the  narrow 
limits  of  domestic  assiduity :  and  when  they  stray 
beyond  them,  they  move  beyond  their  sphere,  and 
consequently  without  grace. 

Fame  therefore  has  been  very  unjustly  dispensed 
among  the  female  sex.  Those  who  least  deserved 
to  be  remembered  meet  our  admiration  and  ap- 
plause ;  while  many,  who  have  been  an  honour  to 
humanity,  are  passed  over  in  silence.  Perhaps  no 
age  has  produced  a  stronger  instance  of  misplaced 
fame  than  the  present;  the  Semiramis  and  the 
Thalestris  of  antiquity  are  talked  of,  while  a  modern 
character,  infinitely  greater  than  either,  is  un- 
noticed and  unknown. 

Catharina  Alexowna,  born  near  Derpat,  a  little 
city  in  Livonia,  was  heir  to  no  other  inheritance 
than  the  virtues  and  frugality  of  her  parents.  Her 
father  being  dead,  she  lived  with  her  aged  mother 
in  their  cottage  covered  with  straw;  and  both, 
though  very  poor,  were  very  contented.  Here,  re- 
tired from  the  gaze  of  the  world,  by  the  labour  of 
her  hands  she  supported  her  parent,  who  was  now 
incapable  of  supporting  herself.  While  Catharina 
spun,  the  old  woman  would  sit  by  and  read  some 
book  of  devotion ;  thus,  when  the  fatigues  of  the 
day  were  over,  both  would  sit  down  contentedly 
by  their  fire-side,  and  enjoy  the  frugal  meal  with 
vacant  festivity. 

Though  her  face  and  person  were  models  of 
perfection,  yet  her  whole  attention  seemed  bestow- 
ed upon  her  mind ;  her  mother  taught  her  to  read, 
and  an  old  Lutheran  minister  instructed  her  in  the 
maxims  and  duties  of  religion.  JSTature  had  furnish- 
ed her  not  only  with  a  ready  but  a  solid  turn  of 
thought,  not  only  with  a  strong  but  a  right  under- 
standing. Such  truly  female  accomplishments 
procured  her  several  solicitations  of  marriage  from 
the  peasants  of  the  country ;  but  their  offers  were 
refused ;  for  she  loved  her  mother  too  tenderly  to 
think  of  a  separation. 

Catharina  was  fifteen  when  her  mother  died; 
fehe  now  therefore  left  her  cottage,  and  went  to  live 
with  the  Lutheran  minister,  by  whom  she  had 
been  instructed  from  her  childhood.    In  his  house 


she  resided  in  quality  of  governess  to  his  children ; 
at  once  reconciling  in  her  character  unerring  pru- 
dence with  surprising  vivacity. 

The  old  man,  who  regarded  her  as  one  of  his 
own  children,  had  her  instructed  in  dancing  and 
music  by  the  masters  who  attended  the  rest  of  his 
family ;  thus  she  continued  to  improve  till  he  died, 
by  which  accident  she  was  once  more  reduced  to 
pristine  poverty.  The  country  of  Livonia  was  at 
this  time  wasted  by  war,  and  lay  in  a  most  miser- 
able state  of  desolation.  Those  calamities  are  ever 
most  heavy  upon  the  poor;  wherefore  Catharina, 
though  possessed  of  so  many  accomplishments,  ex- 
perienced all  the  miseries  of  hopeless  indigence. 
Provisions  becoming  every  day  more  scarce,  and 
her  private  stock  being  entirely  exhausted,  she  re- 
solved at  last  to  travel  to  Marienburgh,  a  city  of 
greater  plenty. 

With  her  scanty  wardrobe  packed  up  in  a  wal- 
let, she  set  out  on  her  journey  on  foot :  she  was  to 
walk  through  a  region  miserable  by  nature,  but 
rendered  still  more  hideous  by  the  Swedes  and 
Russians,  who,  as  each  happened  to  become  mas- 
ters, plundered  it  at  discretion :  but  hunger  had 
taught  her  to  despise  the  dangers  and  fatigues  of 
the  way. 

One  evening  upon  her  journey,  as  she  had  enter- 
ed a  cottage  by  the  way-side,  to  take  up  her  lodging 
for  the  night,  she  was  insulted  by  two  Swedish 
soldiers,  who  insisted  upon  qualifying  her,  as  they 
termed  it,  to  follow  the  camp.  They  might  probably 
have  carried  their  insults  into  violence,  had  not  a 
subaltern  officer,  accidentally  passing  by,  come  in 
to  her  assistance ;  upon  his  appearing,  the  soldiers 
immediately  desisted ;  but  her  thankfulness  was 
hardly  greater  than  her  surprise,  when  she  instant- 
ly recollected  in  her  deliverer,  the  son  of  the  Lu- 
theran minister,  her  former  instructor,  benefactor, 
and  friend. 

This  was  a  happy  interview  for  Catharina:  the 
little  stock  of  money  she  had  brought  from  home 
was  by  this  time  quite  exhausted ;  her  clothes  were 
gone,  piece  by  piece,  in  order  to  satisfy  those  who 
had  entertained  her  in  their  houses  :  her  generous 
countryman,  therefore,  parted  with  what  he  could 
pare,  to  buy  her  clothes,  furnished  her  with  a 
horse,  and  gave  her  letters  of  recommendation  to 
Mr.  Gluck,  a  faithful  friend  of  his  father's,  and 
superintendant  at  Marienburgh.  Our  beautiful 
stranger  had  only  to  appear  to  be  well  received ; 
she  was  immediately  admitted  into  the  superin- 
tendant's  famil}',  as  governess  to  his  two  daughters; 
and  though  yet  but  seventeen,  showed  herself  ca- 
pable of  instructing  her  sex,  not  only  in  virtue, 
but  politeness.  Such  was  her  good  sense,  and 
beauty,  that  her  master  himself  in  a  short  time 
offered  her  his  hand,  which  to  his  great  surprise 
she  thought  proper  to  refuse.  Actuated  by  a 
principle  of  gratitude,  she  was  resolved  to  marry 


32G 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


her  deliverer  only,  even  though  he'  had  lost  an  arm, 
and  was  otherwise  disfigured  by  wounds  in  the 
service. 

In  order  therefore  to  prevent  further  solicitations 
from  others,  as  soon  as  the  officer  came  to  town 
upon  duty,  she  offered  him  her  person,  which  he 
accepted  with  transport,  and  their  nuptials  were 
solemnized  as  usual.  But  all  the  Unes  of  her  for- 
tune were  to  be  striking:  the  very  day  on  which 
they  were  married,  the  Russians  laid  siege  to 
Marienburgh.  The  unhappy  soldier  had  now  no 
time  to  enjoy  the  well-earned  pleasures  of  matri- 
mony ;  he  was  called  off,  before  consummation,  to  an 
attack,  from  which  he  was  never  after  seen  to  return. 

In  the  mean  time  the  siege  went  on  with  fury, 
aggravated  on  one  side  by  obstinacy,  on  the  other 
by  revenge.  This  war  between  the  two  northern 
powers  at  that  time  was  truly  barbarous ;  the  in- 
noceut  peasant,  and  the  harmless  virgin,  often 
shared  the  fate  of  the  soldier  in  arms.  Marien- 
burgh was  taken  by  assault ;  and  such  was  the  fury 
of  the  assailants,  that  not  only  the  garrison,  but 
almost  all  the  inhabitants,  men^  women,  and  child- 
ren, were  put  to  the  sword :  at  length,  when  the 
carnage  was  pretty  well  over.  Catharina  was  found 
hid  in  an  oven. 

She  had  been  hitherto  poor,  but  still  was  free ; 
she  was  now  to  conform  to  her  hard  fate,  and  learn 
what  it  was  to  be  a  slave :  in  this  situation,  how- 
ever, she  behaved  with  piety  and  humility ;  and 
though  misfortunes  had  abated  her  yivacjty,  yet 
she  was  cheerful.  The  fame  of  her  merit  and  re- 
signation reached  even  Prince  Menzikoff,  the 
Russian  general;  he  desired  to  see  her,  was  struck 
with  her  beauty,  bought  her  from  the  soldier  her 
master,  and  placed  her  under  the  direction  of  his 
own  sister.  Here  she  was  treated  with  all  the  re- 
spect which  her  merit  deserved,  while  her  beauty 
every  day  improved  with  her  good  fortune. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  this  situation,  when 
Peter  the  Great  paying  the  prince  a  visit,  Cathari- 
na happened  to  come  in  with  some  dry  fruits, 
which  she  served  round  with  peculiar  modesty. 
The  mighty  monarch  saw,  and  was  struck  with 
her  beauty.  He  returned  the  next  day,  called  for 
the  beautiful  slave,  asked  her  several  questions, 
and  found  her  understanding  even  more  perfect 
than  her  person. 

He  had  been  forced  when  young  to  marry  from 
motives  of  interest;  he  was  now  resolved  to  marry 
pursuant  to  his  own  inclinations.  He  immediate- 
ly inquired  the  history  of  the  fair  Livonian,  who 
was  not  yet  eighteen.  He  traced  her  through  the 
vale  of  obscurity,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  her 
fortune,  and  found  her  truly  great  in  them  all.  The 
meanness  of  her  birth  was  no  obstruction  to  his 
design :  their  nuptials  were  solemnized  in  private ; 
the  Prince  assuring  his  courtiers,  that  virtue  alone 
was  the  properest  ladder  to  a  throne. 


We  now  see  Catharina,  from  the  low  mud-wail- 
ed  cottage,  empress  of  the  greatest  kingdom  upon 
earth.  The  poor  solitary  wanderer  is  now  sur- 
rounded by  thousands,  who  find  liappiness  in  her 
smile.  She,  who  formerly  wanted  a  meal,  is  now 
capable  of  diffusing  plenty  upon  whole  nations. 
To  her  fortune  she  owed  a  part  of  this  pre-emi- 
nence, but  to  her  virtues  more. 

She  ever  after  retained  those  great  qualities 
which  first  placed  her  on  a  throne ;  and,  while  the 
extraordinary  prince,  her  husband,  laboured  for 
the  reformation  of  his  male  subjects,  she  studied 
in  her  turn  the  improvement  of  her  own  sex.  She 
altered  their  dresses,  introduced  mixed  assemblies, 
instituted  an  order  of  female  knighthood ;  and  at 
length,  when  she  had  greatly  filled  all  the  stations 
of  empress,  friend,  wife,  and  mother,  bravely  died 
without  regret,  regretted  by  all.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXIIL 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  th» 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

In  every  letter  I  expect  accounts  of  some  new 
revolutions  in  China,  some  strange  occurrence  in 
the  sta,te,  or  disaster  among  my  private  acquaint- 
ance. I  open  every  packet  with  tremulous  expec- 
tation, and  am  agreeably  disappointed  when  I  find 
my  friends  and  my  country  continuing  in  felicity. 
I  wander,  but  they  are  at  rest;  they  suffer  few 
changes  but  what  pass  in  my  own  restless  imagina- 
tion: it  is  only  the  rapidity  of  my  own  motion 
gives  an  imaginary  swiftness  te  objects  which  are 
in  some  measure  immoveable. 

Yet  believe  me,  my  friend,  that  even  China  itself 
is  imperceptibly  degenerating  from  her  ancient 
greatness :  her  laws  are  now  more  venal,  and  her 
merchants  are  more  deceitful  than  formerly ;  the 
very-arts  and  sciences  have  run  to  decay.  Observe 
the  carvings  on  our  ancient  bridges,  figures  that 
add  grace  even  to  nature :  there  is  not  an  artist  now 
in  all  the  empire  that  can  imitate  their  beauty.  Our 
manufactures  in  porcelain,  too,  are  inferior  to  what 
we  once  were  famous  for ;  and  even  Europe  now 
begins  to  excel  us.  There  was  a  time  when  China 
was  the  receptacle  for  strangers;  when  all  were 
welcome  who  either  came  to  improve  the  state,  or 
admire  its  greatness ;  now  the  empire  is  shut  up 
from  every  foreign  improvement,  and  the  very  in- 
habitants discourage  each  other  from  prosecuting 
their  own  internal  advantages. 

Whence  this  degeneracy  in  a  state  so  little  sub- 
ject to  external  revolutions'?  how  happens  it  that 
i  China,  which  is  now  more  powerful  than  ever, 
I  which  is  less  subject  to  foreign  invasions,  and  even 
assisted  in  some  discoveries  by  her  connexions  with 
Europe ;  whence  comes  it,  I  say,  that  the  empire  ia 
;  thus  declining  so  fast  into  barbarity? 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


327 


This  decay  is  surely  from  nature,  and  not  the 
lesult  of  voluntary  degeneracy.  In  a  period  of 
two  or  three  thousand  years  she  seems  at  proper 
intervals  to  produce  great  minds,  with  an  effort 
resembling  that  which  introduces  the  vicissitudes 
of  seasons.  They  iise  up  at  once,  continue  for 
an  age,  enlighten  the  world,  fall  like  ripened 
corn,  and  mankind  again  gradually  relapse  into 
pristine  barbarity.  We  little  ones  look  around, 
are  amazed  at  the  decline,  seek  after  the  causes 
of  this  invisible  decay,  attribute  to  want  of  en- 
couragement what  really  proceeds  from  want  of 
power,  are  astonished  to  find  every  art  and  every 
science  in  the  decline,  not  considering  that  autumn 
is  over,  and  fatigued  nature  again  begins  to  repose 
for  some  succeeding  effort. 

Some  periods  have  been  remarkable  for  the  pro- 
duction of  men  of  extraordinary  stature;  others 
for  producing  some  particular  animals  in  great 
abundance;  some  for  excessive  plenty;  and  others 
again  for  seemingly  causeless  famine.  Nature, 
which  shows  herself  so  very  different  in  her  visible 
productions,  must  surely  differ  also  from  herself  in 
the  production  of  minds ,  and  while  she  astonishes 
one  age  with  the  strength  and  stature  of  a  Milo  or 
a  Maximin,  may  bless  another  with  the  wisdom  of 
a  Plato,  or  the  goodness  of  an  Antonine. 

Let  us  not  then  attribute  to  accident  the  falling 
off  of  every  nation,  but  to  the  natural  revolution  of 
things.  Often  in  the  darkest  ages  there  has  ap- 
peared some  one  man  of  surprising  abilities,  who, 
with  all  his  understanding,  failed  to  bring  his  bar- 
barous age  into  refinement :  all  mankind  seemed 
to  sleep,  till  nature  gave  the  general  call,  and  then 
the  whole  world  seemed  at  once  roused  at  the 
voice;  science  triumphed  in  every  country,  and 
the  brightness  of  a  single  genius  seemed  lost  in  a 
galaxy  of  contiguous  glory. 

Thus  the  enlightened  periods  in  every  age  have 
been  universal.  At  the  time  when  China  first  be- 
gan to  emerge  from  barbarity,  the  Westeri^  world 
was  equally  rising  into  refinement;  when  we  had 
our  Yaw,  they  had  their  Sesostris.  In  succeeding 
ages,  Confucius  and  Pythagoras  seem  born  nearly 
together,  and  a  train  of  philosophers  then  sprung 
up  as  well  in  Greece  as  in  China.  The  period  of 
renewed  barbarity  began  to  have  a  universal  spread 
much  about  the  same  time,  and  continued  for  several 
centuries,  till  in  the  year  of  the  Christian  era  1400, 
the  Emperor  Yonglo  arose  to  revive  the  learning 
of  the  East.;  while  about  the  same  time,  the  Me- 
dicean  family  laboured  in  Italy  to  raise  infant  genius 
from  the  cradle :  thus  we  see  politeness  spreading 
over  every  part  of  the  world  in  one  age,  and  bar- 
barity succeeding  in  another;  at  one  period  a  blaze 
of  light  diffusing  itselfover  the  whole  world,  and  at 
another  all  mankind  wrapped  up  in  the  profoundest 
ignorance. 

Such  has  been  the  situation  of  things  in  times 


past ;  and  such  probably  it  will  ever  be.  China,  I 
have  observed,  has  evidently  begun  to  degenerate 
from  its  former  politeness;  and  were  the  learning 
of  the  Europeans  at  present  candidly  considered, 
the  decline  would  perhaps  appear  to  have  already 
taken  place.  We  should  find  among  the  natives 
of  the  West,  the  study  of  morahty  displaced  for 
mathematical  disquisition,  or  metaphysical  subtle- 
ties ;  we  should  find  learning  begin  to  separate  from 
the  useful  duties  and  concerns  of  life,  while  none 
ventured  to  aspire  after  that  character,  but  they 
who  know  much  more  than  is  truly  amusing  or 
useful.  We  should  find  every  great  attempt  sup- 
pressed by  prudence,  and  the  rapturous  sublimity 
in  writing  cooled  by  a  cautious  fear  of  offence.  We 
should  find  few  of  those  daring  spirits,  who  bravely 
ventured  to  be  wrong,  and  who  are  wiUing  to  hazard 
much  for  the  sake  of  great  acquisitions.  Providence 
has  indulged  the  world  with  a  period  of  almost  four 
hundred  years'  refinement ;  does  it  not  now  by  de- 
grees sink  us  into  our  former  ignorance,  leaving  us 
only  the  love  of  wisdom,  while  it  deprives  us  of  its 
advantages^  Adieu. 


LETTER  LXIV. 


From  the  Same. 


The  princes  of  Europe  have  found  out  a  man- 
ner of  rewarding  their  subjects  who  have  behaved 
well,  by  presenting  them  with  about  two  yards  of 
blue  riband,  which  is  worn  about  the  shoulder. 
They  who  are  honoured  with  this  mark  of  dis- 
tinction are  called  knights,  and  the  king  himself  is 
always  the  head  of  the  order.  This  is  a  very  fru- 
gal method  of  recompensing  the  most  important 
services:  and  it  is  very  fortunate  for  kings  that 
their  subjects  are  satisfied  with  such  trifling  re- 
wards. Should  a  nobleman  happen  to  lose  his 
leg  in  a  battle,  the  king  presents  him  with  two 
yards  of  riband,  and  he  is  paid  for  the  loss  of  his 
limb.  Should  an  ambassador  spend  all  his  pater- 
nal fortune  in  supporting  the  honour  of  his  coun- 
try abroad,  the  king  presents  him  with  two  yards 
of  riband,  which  is  to  be  considered  as  an  equiva- 
lent to  his  estate.  In  short,  while  a  European 
king  has  a  yard  of  blue  or  green  riband  left  he 
need  be  under  no  apprehensions  of  wanting  states- 
men, generals,  and  soldiers. 

I  can  not  sufficiently  admire  those  kingdoms  in 
which  men  with  large  patrimonial  estates  are  wil- 
ling thus  to  undergo  real  hardships  for  empty  fa- 
vours. A  person,  already  possessed  of  a  compe- 
tent fortune,  who  undertakes  to  enter  the  career  of 
ambition,  feels  many  real  inconveniences  from  his 
station,  while  it  procures  him  no  real  happiness 
that  he  was  not  possessed  of  before.  He  could  eat, 
drink,  and  sleep,  before  he  became  a  courtier,  as 


32b 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


well,  perhaps  better,  than  when  invested  with  his 
authority.  He  could  command  flatterers  in  a  pri- 
vate station,  as  well  as  in  his  public  capacity,  and 
indulge  at  home  every  favourite  inclination,  uncen- 
sured  and  unseen  by  the  people. 

What  real  good  then  does  an  addition  to  a  for- 
tune already  sufficient  procure  7  Not  any.  Could 
the  great  man,  by  having  his  fortune  increased, 
increase  al?o  his  appetites,  then  precedence  might 
be  attended  with  real  amusement. 

Was  he,  by  having  his  one  thousand  made 
two,  thus  enabled  to  enjoy  two  wives,  or  eat  two 
dinners ;  then,  indeed,  he  might  be  excused  for  un- 
dergoing some  pain,  in  order  to  extend  the  sphere 
of  his  enjoyments.  But,  on  the  contrary,  he  finds 
his  desire  for  pleasure  often  lessen,  as  he  takes 
pains  to  be  able  to  improve  it ;  and  his  capacity  of 
enjoyment  diminishes  as  his  fortune  happens  to 
increase. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  regarding  the  great  with 
envy,  I  generally  consider  them  with  some  share 
of  compassion.  1  look  upon  them  as  a  set  of  good- 
natured,  misguided  people,  who  are  indebted  to  u$ 
and  not  to  themselves,  for  all  the  happiness  they 
enjoy.  For  our  pleasure,  and  not  tl^eir  own,  they 
svveat  under  a  cumbrous  heap  of  finery ;  for  our 
pleasure  the  lackeyed  train,  the  slow  parading  pa- 
geant, with  all  the  gravity  of  grandeur,  moves  in 
review :  a  single  coat,  or  a  single  footman,  answers 
all  the  purposes  of  the  most  indolent  refinement  as 
well ;  and  those  who  have  twenty  may  be  said  to 
keep  one  for  their  pwn  pleasure,  and  the  other 
nineteen  merely  for  ours.  So  true  is  the  observa- 
tion of  Confucius,  that  wc  take  greater  pains  to 
persuade  others  thai  we  are  happy,  than  endea- 
poijiring  to  think  so  ourselves. 

But  though  this  desire  of  being  seen,  of  being 
made  the  subject  of  discourse,  and  of  supporting 
the  dignitieW  of  an  an  exalted  station,  be  trouble- 
some enough  to  the  ambitious ;  yet  it  is  well  for 
society  that  there  are  men  thus  willing  to  exchange 
ease  and  safety  for  danger  and  a  riband.  We  lose 
nothing  by  their  vanity,  and  it  would  be  unkind  to 
endeavour  to  deprive  a  child  of  its  rattle.  If  a  duke 
or  a  duchess  are  willing  to  carry  a  long  train  for 
our  entertainment,  so  much  the  worse  for  them- 
selves ;  if  they  choose  m  exhibit  in  public,  with  a 
hundred  lackeys  and  mamelukes  in  their  equipage, 
for  our  entertainment,  still  so  much  tl>e  worse  for 
themselves :  it  is  the  spectators  alone  who  give  and 
receive  the  pleasure ;  they  only  are  the  sweating 
figures  that  swell  the  pageant. 

A  mandarine,  who  took  much  pride  in  appear- 
ing with  a  riumber  of  jewels  on  every  part  of  his 
robe^  was  pnqe  accosted  by  an  old  sly  Bonze,  who, 
following  him  through  several  streets,  and  bowing 
pften  to  the  ground,  thanked  him  for  his  jewels. 
**What  does  the  man  mean  7"  cried  the  manda- 
rine :  "  Friend,  I  never  gave  thee  any  of  ray  jew- 


els." "  No,"  replied  the  other ;  "  but  you  have  let 
me  look  at  them,  and  that  is  all  the  use  you  can 
make  of  them  yourself;  so  there  is  pp  difference 
between  us,  except  that  you  have  trie  trouble  of 
watching  them,  and  that  is  an  employment  I  don't 
much  desire."     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXV. 


From  the  Same. 


Though  not  very  fond  of  seeing  a  pageant  my- 
self, yet  I  am  generally  pleased  with  being  in  the 
crowd  which  sees  it ;  it  is  amusing  to  observe  the 
effect  which  such  a  spectacle  has  upon  the  variety 
of  faces ;  the  pleasure  it  excites  in  some,  the  envy 
in  pthers,  and  the  wishes  it  raises  in  all.  With 
this  design,  I  lately  went  to  see  the  entry  of  a 
foreign  ambassador,  resolved  to  make  one  in  the 
mob,  to  shout  as  they  shouted,  to  fix  with  earnest- 
ness upon  the  same  frivolous  objects,  and  partici- 
pate for  a  while  in  the  pleasures  and  the  wishes 
of  the  vulgar. 

Struggling  here  for  some  time,  in  order  to  be 
first  to  see  the  cavalcade  as  it  passed,  some  one  of 
the  crowd  unluckily  happened  to  tread  upon  my 
shoe,  and  tore  it  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  was  ut- 
terly unqualified  to  march  forward  with  the  main 
body,  and  obliged  to  fall  back  in  the  rear.  Thus 
rendered  incapable  of  being  a  spectator  of  the  show 
my^lf,  I  was  at  least  willing  to  observe  the  spec- 
tators, and  limped  behind  like  one  of  the  invalids 
wljo  follow  the  march  of  an  army. 

In  this  plight,  as  I  was  considering  the  eager- 
ness that  appeared  on  every  face ;  how  some  bustled 
to  get  foremost,  and  others  contented  themselves 
with  taking  a  transient  peep  when  they  could : 
how  some  praised  the  four  black  servants  that  were 
stuck  behind  one  of  the  equipages,  and  some  the 
ribands  that  decorated  the  horses'  necks  in  another; 
my  attention  was  called  off  to  an  object  more  ex- 
traordinary than  any  I  had  yet  seen ;  a  poor  cobbler 
sat  in  his  stall  by  the  way  side,  and  continued  to 
work  while  the  crowd  passed  by,  without  testifying 
the  smallest  share  of  curiosity.  1  own  his  want  oi 
attention  excited  mine  :  and  as  I  stood  in  need  of 
his  assistance,  I  thought  it  best  to  employ  a  philo- 
sophic cobbler  on  this  occasion.  Perceiving  my 
businesjg,  therefore,  he  desired  me  to  enter  and  sit 
diwn,  took  my  shoe  in  his  lap,  and  began  to  mend 
it  with  his  usual  indifference  and  taciturnity. 

"How,  my  friend,"  said  I  to  him,  "can  you 
continue  to  work,  while  all  those  fine  things  are 
passing  by  your  door 7"  "Very  fine  they  are, 
master,"  returned  the  cobbler,  "  for  those  that  like 
them,  to  be  sure;  but  what  are  all  those  fine  things 
to  me  7  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  cob- 
bler, and  so  mucA  tHe  better  for  yourself.    Your 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


bread  is  baked,  you  may  go  and  see  sights  the 
whole  day,  and  eat  a  warm  supper  when  you  come 
home  at  night ;  but  for  me,  if  I  should  run  hunt- 
ing after  all  these  fine  folk,  what  should  I  get  by 
my  journey  but  an  appetite,  and,  God  help  me! 
I  have  too  much  of  that  at  home  already,  without 
stirring  out  for  it.  Your  people,  who  may  eat  four 
meals  a-day,  and  a  supper  at  night,  are  but  a  bad 
example  to  such  a  one  as  I.  No,  master,  as  God 
has  called  me  into  this  world  in  order  to  mend  old 
shoes,  I  have  no  business  with  fine  folk,  and  they 
no  business  with  me."  I  here  interrupted  him 
with  a  smile.  "  See  this  last,  master,"  continues 
he,  "and  this  hammer;  this  last  and  hammer  are 
the  two  best  friends  1  have  in  this  world ;  nobody 
else  will  be  my  friend,  because  I  want  a  friend. 
The  great  folks  you  saw  pass  by  just  now  have 
five  hundred  friends,  because  they  have  no  occasion 
for  them :  now,  while  I  stick  to  my  good  friends 
here,  I  am  very  contented ;  but  when  I  ever  so 
little  run  after  sights  and  fine  things,  I  begin  to 
hate  my  work,  I  grow  sad,  and  have  no  heart  to 
mend  shoes  any  longer." 

This  discourse  only  served  to  raise  my  curiosity 
to  know  more  of  a  man  whom  nature  had  thus 
formed  into  a  philosopher.  I  therefore  insensibly 
led  him  into  a  history  of  his  adventures :  "  I  have 
lived,"  said  he,  "a  wandering  sort  of  a  Ufe  now 
five-and-fifty  years,  here  to-day,  and  gone  to-mor- 
row; for  it  was  my  misfortune,  when  I  was  young, 
to  be  fond  of  changing."  "  You  have  been  a  tra- 
veller, then,  I  presume,"  interrupted  I.  "  I  can  not 
boast  much  of  travelling,"  continued  he,  "for  I 
have  never  left  the  parish  in  which  I  was  born  but 
three  times  in  my  life,  that  I  can  remember ;  but 
then  there  is  not  a  street  in  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood that  I  have  not  lived  in,  at  some  time  or 
another.  When  I  began  to  settle  and  to  take 
to  my  business  in  one  street,  some  unforeseen  mis- 
fortune, or  a  desire  of  trying  my  luck  elsewhere, 
has  removed  me,  perhaps  a  whole  mile  away  from 
my  former  customers,  while  some  more  lucky  cob- 
bler would  come  into  my  place,  and  make  a  hand- 
some fortune  among  friends  of  my  making:  there 
was  one  who  actually  died  in  a  stall  that  1  had  left, 
worth  seven  pounds  seven  shillings,  all  in  hard 
gold,  which  he  had  quilted  into  the  waistband  of 
his  breeches." 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  these  migrations  of  a 
man  by  the  fire-side,  and  continued  to  ask  if  he  had 
ever  been  married.  "Ay,  that  I  have,  master," 
replied  he,  "  for  sixteen  long  years ;  and  a  weary 
Ufe  I  had  of  it,  Heaven  knows.  My  wife  took  it 
into  her  head,  that  the  only  way  to  thrive  in  this 
world  was  to  save  money,  so,  though  our  comings- 
in  was  but  about  three  shillings  a-week,  all  that  ever 
she  could  lay  her  hands  upon  she  used  to  hide  away 
from  me,  though  we  were  obliged  to  starve  the 
whole  week  after  for  it. 


"  The  first  three  years  we  used  to  quarrel  about 
this  every  day,  and  I  always  got  the  better ;  but 
she  had  a  hard  spirit,  and  still  continued  to  hide  as 
usual:  so  that  I  was  at  last  tired  of  quarrelling  and 
getting  the  better,  and  she  scraped  and  scraped  at 
pleasure,  till  1  was  almost  starved  to  death.  Her 
conduct  drove  me  at  last  in  despair  to  the  ale-house ; 
here  1  used  to  sit  with  people  who  hated  home  like 
myself,  drank  while  I  had  money  left,  and  run  in 
score  when  any  body  would  trust  me ;  till  at  last 
the  landlady,  coming  one  day  with  a  long  bill  when 
I  was  from  home,  and  putting  it  into  my  wife's 
hands,  the  length  of  it  effectually  broke  her  heart. 
I  searched  the  whole  stall  after  she  was  dead  for 
money,  but  she  had  hidden  it  so  effectually,  that 
with  all  my  pains  I  could  never  find  a  farthing." 

By  this  time  my  shoe  was  mended,  and  satisfy- 
ing the  poor  artist  for  his  trouble,  and  rewarding 
him  besides  for  his  information,  I  took  my  leave, 
and  returned  home  to  lengthen  out  the  amusement 
his  conversation  afforded,  by  communicating  it  to 
my  friend.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXVI. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

Generosity  properly  applied  will  supply  every 
other  external  advantage  in  life,  but  the  love  of 
those  we  converse  with :  it  will  procure  esteem,  and 
a  conduct  resembUng  real  affection;  but  actual 
love  is  the  spontaneous  production  of  the  mind ;  no 
generosity  can  purchase,  no  rev/ards  increase,  nor 
no  hberality  continue  it:  the  very  person  who  is 
obliged,  has  it  not  in  his  power  to  force  his  lin- 
gering a^ections  upon  the  object  he  should  love^ 
and  voluntarily  mix  passion  with  gratitude. 

Imparted  fortune,  and  well-placed  liberality,  may 
procure  the  benefactor  good-will,  may  load  the  per- 
son obliged  with  the  sense  of  the  duty  he  lies  XkHfler 
to  retaliate ;  this  is  gratitude :  and  simple  gratit\Kle, 
untinctured  with  love,  is  all  the  return  an  ingenu- 
ous mind  can  bestow  for  former  benefits. 

But  gratitude  and  love  are  almost  opposite  afTec- 
tions;  love  is  often  an  involuntary  passion,  placed 
upon  our  companions  without  our  consent,  and 
frequently  conferred  without  our  previous  esteem. 
We  love  some  men,  we  know  not  why;  our  ten- 
derness is  naturally  excited  in  all  their  concerns; 
we  excuse  their  faults  with  the  same  indulgence, 
and  approve  their  virtues  with  the  same  applause 
with  which  we  consider  our  own.  While  we  en- 
tertain the  passion,  it  pleases  us,  we  cherish  it  with 
delight,  and  give  it  up  with  reluctance ;  and  love 
for  love  is  all  the  reward  we  expect  or  desire. 

Gratitude,  on  the  contrary,  is  never  conferred, 
but  where  there  have  been  previous  endeavours  to 
excite  it ;  we  consider  it  as  a  debt,  and  our  spirits 


330 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


wear  a  load  till  we  have  discharged  the  obligation. 
Every  acknowledgment  of  gratitude  is  a  circum- 
stance of  humiliation ;  and  some  are  found  to  sub- 
mit to  frequent  mortifications  of  this  kind,  pro- 
claiming what  obligations  they  owe,  merely  be- 
cause they  think  it  in  some  measure  cancels  the 
debt. 

Thus  love  is  the  most  easy  and  agreeable,  and 
gratitude  the  most  humiliating  affection  of  the 
mind :  we  never  reflect  on  the  man  we  love,  with- 
out exulting  in  our  choice,  while  he  who  has  bound 
us  to  him  by  benefits  alone,  rises  to  our  idea  as  a 
person  to  whom  we  have  in  some  measure  forfeited 
our  freedom.  Love  and  gratitude  are  seldom  there- 
fore found  in  the  same  breast  without  impairing 
each  other;  we  may  tender  the  one  or  the  other 
singly  to  those  we  converse  with,  but  can  not  com- 
mand both  together.  By  attempting  to  increase, 
we  diminish  them;  the  mind  becomes  bankrupt 
under  too  large  obligations ;  all  additional  benefits 
lessen  every  hope  of  future  return,  and  bar  up 
every  avenue  that  leads  to  tenderness. 

In  all  our  connexions  with  society,  therefore,  it 
is  not  only  generous,  but  prudent,  to  appear  insen- 
sible of  the  value  of  those  favours  we  bestow,  and 
endeavour  to  make  the  obligation  seem  as  slight  as 
possible.  Love  must  be  taken  by  stratagem,  and 
not  by  open  force :  we  should  seem  ignorant  that 
we  oblige,  and  leave  the  mind  at  full  liberty  to  give 
or  refuse  its  affections;  for  constraint  may  indeed 
leave  the  receiver  still  grateful,  but  it  will  certainly 
produce  disgust. 

If  to  procure  gratitude  be  our  only  aim,  there  is 
no  great  art  in  making  the  acquisition ;  a  benefit 
conferred  demands  a  just  acknowledgment,  and  we 
have  a  right  to  insist  upon  our  due. 

But  it  were  much  more  prudent  to  forego  our 
right  on  such  an  occasion,  and  exchange  it,  if  we 
can,  for  love.  We  receive  but  little  advantage  from 
repeated  protestations  of  gratitude,  but  they  cost 
him  very  much  from  whom  we  exact  them  in  re- 
turn :  exacting  a  grateful  acknowledgment,  is  de- 
mandiiig  a  debt  by  which  the  creditor  is  not  ad- 
vantaged, and  the  debtor  pays  with  reluctance. 

As  Mencius  the  philosopher  was  travelling  in 
pursuit  of  wisdom,  night  overtook  him  at  the  foot 
of  a  gloomy  mountain  remote  from  the  habitations 
of  men.  Here,  as  he  was  straying,  while  rain  and 
thunder  conspired  to  make  solitude  still  more  hide- 
ous, he  perceived  a  hermit's  cell,  and  approaching, 
asked  for  shelter :  "  Enter,"  cries  the  hermit,  in  a 
severe  tone,  "  men  deserve  not  to  be  obliged,  but  it 
would  be  imitating  their  ingratitude  to  treat  them 
as  they  deserve.  Come  in  :  examples  of  vice  may 
sometimes  strengthen  us  in  the  ways  of  virtue." 

After  a  frugal  meal,  which  consisted  of  roots  and 
tea,  Mencius  could  not  repress  his  curiosity  to 
know  why  the  hermit  had  retired  from  mankind, 
the  actions  of  whom  taught  the  truest  lessons  of 


wisdom.  "  Mention  not  the  name  of  man,"  criea 
the  hermit  with  indignation;  "  here  let  me  live  re- 
tired from  a  base  ungrateful  world ;  here  among 
the  beasts  of  the  forest  I  shall  find  no  flatterers : 
the  lion  is  a  generous  enemy,  and  the  dog  a  faithful 
friend ;  but  man,  base  man,  can  poison  the  bowl, 
and  smile  while  he  presents  it!" — "You  have  l)een 
used  ill  by  mankind,"  interrupted  the  philosopher 
shrewdly.  "Yes,"  returned  the  hermit,  "on  man- 
kind I  have  exhausted  my  whole  fortune,  and  this 
staff,  and  that  cup,  and  those  roots,  are  all  that  I 
have  in  return." — "  Did  you  bestow  your  fortune, 
or  did  you  only  lend  it?"  returned  Mencius.  "  I 
bestowed  it  undoubtedly,"  replied  the  other,  "for 
where  were  the  merit  of  being  a  money-lender?" — 
"  Did  they  ever  own  that  they  received  it?"  still 
adds  the  philosopher.  "  A  thousand  times,"  cries 
the  hermit;  " they  every  day  loaded  me  with  pro- 
fessions of  gratitude  for  obligations  received,  and 
solicitations  for  future  favours." — "  If,  then,"  says 
Mencius  smiling,  "you  did  not  lend  your  fortune 
in  order  to  have  it  returned,  it  is  unjust  to  accuse 
them  of  ingratitude ;  they  owned  themselves  obliged, 
you  expected  no  more,  and  they  certainly  earned 
each  favour  by  frequently  acknowledging  the  obli- 
gation." The  hermit  was  struck  with  the  reply, 
and  surveying  his  guest  with  emotion, — "  I  have 
heard  of  the  great  Mencius,  and  you  certainly  are 
the  man :  I  am  now  fourscore  years  old,  but  still  a 
child  in  wisdom ;  take  me  back  to  the  school  of  man, 
and  educate  me  as  one  of  the  most  ignorant  and 
the  youngest  of  your  disciples!" 

Indeed,  my  son,  it  is  better  to  have  friends  in  our 
passage  through  life  than  grateful  dependants ;  and 
as  love  is  a  more  willing,  so  it  is  a  more  lasting 
tribute  than  extorted  obligation.  As  we  are  uneasy 
when  greatly  obliged,  gratitude  once  refused  can 
never  after  be  recovered :  the  mind  that  is  base 
enough  to  disallow  the  just  return,  instead  of  feel- 
ing any  uneasiness  upon  recollection,  triumphs  in 
its  new-acquired  freedom,  and  in  some  measure  is 
pleased  with  conscious  baseness. 

Very  different  is  the  situation  of  disagreeing 
friends ;  their  separation  produces  mutual  uneasi- 
ness :  like  that  divided  being  in  fabulous  creation, 
their  sympathetic  souls  once  more  desire  their  for- 
mer union ;  the  joys  of  both  are  imperfect ;  their 
gayest  moments  tinctured  with  uneasiness ;  each 
seeks  for  the  smallest  concessions  to  clear  the  way 
to  a  wished-for  explanation ;  the  most  trifling  ac- 
knowledgment, the  slightest  accident,  serves  to  ef- 
fect a  mutual  reconciliation. 

But  instead  of  pursuing  the  thought,  permit  me 
to  soften  the  severity  of  advice,  by  a  European 
story,  which  will  fully  illustrate  my  meaning. 

A  fiddler  and  his  wife,  who  had  rubbed  through 
life,  as  most  couples  usually  do,  sometimes  good 
friends,  at  others  not  quite  so  well,  one  day  hap- 
pened to  have  a  dispute,  which  was  conducted  with 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


331 


becoming  spirit  on  both  sides.  The  wife  was  sure 
she  was  right,  and  the  husband  was  resolved  to 
have  his  own  way.  What  was  to  be  done  in  such 
a  case?  the  quarrel  grew  worse  by  explanations, 
and  at  last  the  fury  of  both  rose  to  such  a  pitch, 
that  they  made  a  vow  never  to  sleep  together  in 
the  same  bed  for  the  future.  This  was  the  most 
rash  vow  that  could  be  imagined,  for  they  still  were 
friends  at  bottom,  and,  besides,  they  had  but  one 
bed  in  the  house:  however,  resolved  they  were  to 
go  through  with  it,  and  at  night  the  fiddle-case  was 
laid  in  bed  between  them,  in  order  to  make  a 
separation.  In  this  manner  they  continued  for 
three  weeks;  every  night  the  fiddle-case  being 
placed  as  a  barrier  to  divide  them. 

By  this  time,  however,  each  heartily  repented  of 
their  vow,  their  resentment  was  at  an  end,  and 
their  love  began  to  return ;  they  wished  the  fiddle- 
case  away,  but  both  had  too  much  spirit  to  begin. 
One  night,  however,  as  they  were  both  lying  awake 
with  the  detested  fiddle-case  between  them,  the 
husband  happened  to  sneeze,  to  which  the  wife,  as 
is  usual  in  such  cases,  bid  God  bless  him :  "  Ay 
but,"  returns  the  husband,  "  woman,  do  you  say 
that  from  your  heart?  "  "  Indeed  I  do,  my  poor 
Nicholas,"  cries  his  wife ;  "  I  say  it  with  all  my 
heart."  "  If  so,  then,"  says  the  husband,  "we  had 
as  good  remove  the  fiddle-case." 


LETTER  LXVn. 


From  the  Same. 


Books,  my  son,  while  they  teach  us  to  respect 
the  interests  of  others,  often  make  us  unmindful  of 
our  own ;  while  they  instruct  the  youthful  reader 
to  grasp  at  social  happiness,  he  grows  miserable  in 
detail,  and,  attentive  to  universal  harmony,  often 
forgets  that  he  himself  has  a  part  to  sustain  in  the 
concert.  I  dislike  therefore  the  philosopher  who 
describes  the  inconveniencies  of  life  in  such  pleas- 
ing colours  that  the  pupil  grows  enamoured  of  dis- 
tress, longs  to  try  the  charms  of  poverty,  meets  it 
without  dread,  nor  fears  its  inconveniencies  till  he 
severely  feels  them. 

A  youth  who  had  thus  spent  his  life  among 
books,  new  to  the  world,  and  unacquainted  with 
man  but  by  philosophic  information,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  a  being  whose  mind  is  filled  with  the 
vulgar  errors  of  the  wise ;  utterly  unqualified  for  a 
journey  through  life,  yet  confident  of  his  own  skill 
in  the  direction,  he  sets  out  with  confidence, 
blunders  on  with  vanity,  and  finds  himself  at  last 
undone. 

He  first  has  learned  from  books,  and  then  lay; 
it  down  as  a  maxim,  that  all  mankind  are  virtuous 
or  vicious  in  excess ;  and  he  has  been  long  taught 
to  detest  vice,  and  love  virtue  :  warm,  therefore,  in 


attEichments,  and  steadfast  in  enmity,  he  treats 
every  creature  as  a  friend  or  foe;  expects  from  those 
he  loves  unerring  integrity,  and  consigns  his  ene- 
mies to  the  reproach  of  wanting  every  virtue.  On 
this  principle  he  proceeds ;  and  here  begin  his  dis- 
appointments. Upon  a  closer  inspection  of  human 
nature  he  perceives,  that  he  should  have  moderated 
his  friendship,  and  softened  his  severity;  for  he 
often  finds  the  excellencies  of  one  part  of  mankind 
clouded  with  vice,  and  the  faults  of  the  other 
brightened  with  virtue ;  he  finds  no  character  so 
sanctified  that  has  not  its  failings,  none  so  infamous 
but  has  somewhat  to  attract  our  esteem :  he  beholdp 
impiety  in  lawn,  and  fidelity  in  fetters. 

He  now,  therefore,  but  too  late,  perceives  that 
his  regards  should  have  been  more  cool,  and  his 
hatred  less  violent;  that  the  truly  wise  seldom 
court  romantic  friendships  with  the  good,  and 
avoid,  if  possible,  the  resentment  even  of  the  wick- 
ed :  every  moment  gives  him  fresh  instances  that 
the  bonds  of  friendship  are  broken  if  drawn  too 
closely,  and  that  those  whom  he  has  treated  with 
disrespect  more  than  retaUate  the  injury ;  at  length, 
therefore,  he  is  obliged  to  confess,  that  he  has  de- 
clared war  upon  the  vicious  half  of  mankind,  with- 
out being  able  to  form  an  alliance  among  the  vir- 
tuous to  espouse  his  quarrel. 

Our  book-taught  philosopher,  however,  is  now 
too  far  advanced  to  recede ;  and  though  poverty  be 
the  just  consequence  of  the  many  enemies  his  con- 
duct has  created,  yet  he  is  resolved  to  meet  it  with- 
out shrinking.  Philosophers  have  described  poverty 
in  most  charming  colours,  and  even  his  vanity  is 
touched  in  thinking,  that  he  shall  show  the  world, 
in  hi*iself,  one  more  example  of  patience,  fortitude, 
and  resignation.  "  Come,  then,  O  Poverty !  for 
what  is  there  in  thee  dreadful  to  the  Wise?  Tem- 
perance, Health,  and  Frugality  walk  in  thy  train ; 
Cheerfulness  and  Liberty  are  ever  thy  companions. 
Shall  any  be  ashamed  of  thee,  of  whom  Cincin 
natus  was  not  ashamed?  The  running  brook,  the 
herbs  of  the  field,  can  amply  satisfy  nature ;  man 
wants  but  little,  nor  that  little  long.*  Come,  then, 
O  Poverty !  while  kings  stand  by,  and  gaze  with 
admiration  at  the  true  philosopher's  resignation." 

The  goddess  appears;  for  Poverty  ever  comes 
at  the  call ;  but,  alas !  he  finds  her  by  no  means  the 
(iharming  figure  books  and  his  warm  imagination 
had  painted.  As  when  an  Eastern  bride,  whom 
her  friends  and  relations  had  long  described  as  a 
model  of  perfection,  pays  her  first  visit,  the  longing 
bridegroom  lifts  the  veil  to  see  a  face  he  had  nevev 


*  Our  author  has  repeated  this  thought,  nearly  in  the  i 
worcte,  in  his  Hermit: 

Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 

All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  tiiat  little  lon^. 


332 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


seen  before;  but  instead  of  a  countenance  blazing 
with  beauty  like  the  sun,  he  beholds  deformity 
shooting  icicles  to  his  heart ;  such  appears  Poverty 
to  her  new  entertainer;  all  the  fabric  of  enthusiasm 
is  at  once  demolished,  and  a  thousand  miseries  rise 
up  on  its  ruins,  while  Contempt,  with  pointing 
finger,  is  foremost  in  the  hideous  procession. 

The  poor  man  now  finds,  that  he  can  get  no 
kings  to  look  at  him  while  he  is  eating;  he  finds, 
that  in  proportion  as  he  grows  poor,  the  world 
turns  its  back  upon  him,  and  gives  him  leave  to 
act  the  philosopher  in  all  the  majesty  of  solitude. 
It  might  be  agreeable  enough  to  play  the  philoso- 
pher while  we  are  conscious  that  mankind  are 
spectators ;  but  what  signifies  wearing  the  mask  of 
sturdy  contentment,  and  mounting  the  stage  of 
restraint,  when  not  one  creature  will  assist  at  the 
exhibition!  Thus  is  he  forsaken  of  men,  while 
his  fortitude  wants  the  satisfaction  even  of  self-ap- 
plause; for  either  he  does  not  feel  his  present 
calamities,  and  that  is  natural  insensibility ^  or  he 
disguises  his  feelings,  and  that  is  dissimulation. 

Spleen  now  begins  to  take  up  the  man :  not  dis- 
tinguishing in  his  resentments,  he  regards  all  man- 
kind with  detestation,  and,  commencing  man-hater, 
seeks  solitude  to  be  at  liberty  to  rail. 

It  has  been  said,  that  he  who  retires  to  solitude 
is  either  a  beast  or  an  angel.  The  censure  is  too 
severe,  and  the  praise  unmerited ;  the  discontented 
being,  who  retires  from  society,  is  generally  some 
good-natured  man,  who  has  begun  life  without  ex- 
perience, and  knew  not  how  to  gain  it  in  his  in- 
tercourse with  mankind.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXVIII. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  tlie 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  Cliina. 

I  FORMERLY  acquainted  thee,  most  grave  Fum, 
with  the  excellence  of  the  English  in  the  art  of 
healing.  The  Chinese  boast  their  skill  in  pulses, 
the  Siamese  their  botanical  knowledge,  but  the 
English  advertising  physicians  alone,  of  being  the 
great  restorers  of  health,  the  dispensers  of  youth, 
and  the  insurers  of  longevity.  I  can  never  enough 
admire  the  sagacity  of  this  country  for  the  en- 
couragement given  to  the  professors  of  this  art : 
with  what  indulgence  does  she  foster  up  those  of 
her  own  growth,  and  kindly  cherish  those  that 
come  from  abroad !  Like  a  skilful  gardener,  she 
invites  them  from  every  foreign  climate  to  herself. 
Here  every  great  exotic  strikes  root  as  soon  as  im- 
ported, and  feels  the  genial  beam  of  favour;  while 
the  mighty  metropolis,  like  one  vast  munificent 
dunghill,  receives  them  indiscriminately  to  her 
breast,  and  suppUes  each  with  more  than  native 
nourishment. 


In  other  countries,  the  physician  pretends  to 
cure  disorders  in  the  lump ;  the  same  doctor  who 
combats  the  gout  in  the  toe,  shall  pretend  to  pre- 
scribe for  a  i)ain  in  the  head,  and  he  who  at  one 
time  cures  a  consumption,  shall  at  another  give 
drugs  for  a  dropsy.  How  absurd  and  ridiculous! 
this  is  being  a  mere  jack-of-all-trades.  Is  the  ani- 
mal machine  less  complicated  than  a  brass  pin? 
Not  less  than  ten  different  hands  are  required  to 
make  a  pin ;  and  shall  the  body  be  set  right  by  one 
single  operator? 

The  English  are  sensible  of  the  force  of  this 
reasoning ;  they  have,  therefore,  one  doctor  for  the 
eyes,  another  for  the  toes ;  they  have  their  sciatica 
doctors,  and  inoculating  doctors;  they  have  one 
doctor  who  is  modestly  content  with  securing  them 
from  bug-bites,  and  five  hundred  who  prescribe  for 
the  bite  of  mad  dogs. 

The  learned  are  not  here  retired,  with  vicious 
modesty,  from  public  view ;  for  every  dead  wall  is 
covered  with  their  names,  their  abilities,  their 
aniazing  cures,  and  places  of  abode.  Few  patients 
can  escape  falling  into  their  hands,  unless  blasted 
by  lightning,  or  struck  dead  with  some  sudden  dis- 
order. It  may  sometimes  happen,  that  a  stranger 
who  does  not  understand  English,  or  a  country- 
man who  can  not  read,  dies,  without  ever  hearing 
of  the  vivifying  drops,  or  restorative  electuary ; 
but,  for  my  part,  before  I  was  a  week  in  town,  I 
had  learned  to  bid  the  whole  catalogue  of  disorders 
defiance,  and  was  perfectly  acquainted  with  the 
names  and  the  medicines  of  every  great  man,  or 
great  woman  of  them  all. 

But  as  nothing  pleases  curiosity  more  than  anec- 
dotes of  the  great,  however  minute  or  trifling,  I 
must  present  you,  inadequate  as  my  abilities  are  to 
the  subject,  with  some  account  of  those  personages 
who  lead  in  this  honourable  profession. 

The  first  upon  the  list  of  glory  is  Doctor  Richard 
Rock,  F.  U.  N.  This  great  man,  short  of  stature, 
is  fat,  and  waddles  as  he  walks.  He  always  wears 
a  white  three-tailed  wig,  nicely  combed,  and  friz- 
zed upon  each  cheek,  sometimes  he  carries  a  cane, 
but  a  hat  never.  It  is  indeed  very  remarkable,  that 
this  extraordinary  personage  should  never  wear  a 
hat,  but  so  it  is,  he  never  wears  a  hat.  He  is 
usually  drawn  at  the  top  of  his  own  bills,  sitting  in 
his  arm  chair,  holding  a  little  bottle  between  his 
finger  and  thumb,  and  surrounded  with  rotten 
teeth,  nippers,  pills,  packets,  and  gallipots.  No 
man  can  promise  fairer  nor  better  than  he ;  for,  as 
he  observes,  "Be  your  disorder  never  so  far  gone, 
be  under  no  uneasiness,  make  yourself  quite  easy ; 
I  can  cure  you." 

The  next  in  fame,  though  by  some  reckoned  of 
equal  pretensions,  is  Doctor  Timothy  Franks,  F. 
O.  G.  H.,  living  in  a  place  called  the  Old  Bailey. 
As  Rock  is  remarkably  squab,  his  great  rival 
Franks  is  as  remarkably  tall.     He  was  born  in  the 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD 


333 


year  of  the  Christian  era,  1602,  and  is,  while  I  now 
write,  exactly  sixty-eight  years,  three  months  and 
four  days  old.  Age,  however,  has  no  way  impair- 
ed his  usual  health  and  vivacity :  I  am  told,  he 
generally  walks  with  his  breast  0{)en.  This  gen- 
tleman, who  is  of  a  mixed  reputation,  is  particularly 
remarkable  for  a  becoming  assurance,  which  carries 
him  gently  through  life;  for,  except  Dr.  Rock,  none 
are  more  blessed  with  the  advantages  of  face  than 
Doctor  Franks. 

And  yet  the  great  have  their  foibles  as  well  as 
the  little.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  mention  it :  let 
the  foibles  of  the  great  rest  in  peace.  Yet  I  must 
impart  the  whole  to  my  friend.  These  two  great 
men  are  actually  now  at  variance :  yes,  my  dear 
Fum  Hoam,  by  the  head  of  our  grandfather,  they 
are  now  at  variance  Hke  mere  men,  mere  common 
mortals.  Tho  champion  Rock  advises  the  world 
to  beware  of  bog-trotting  quacks,  while  Franks  re- 
torts the  wit  and  the  sarcasm  (for  they  have  both  a 
world  of  wit)  by  fixing  on  his  rival  the  odious  ap- 
pellation of  DumpUn  Dick.  He  calls  the  serious 
Doctor  Rock,  Dumplin  Dick!  Head  of  Confucius, 
what  profanation!  Dumplin  Dick!  What  a  pity, 
ye  powers,  that  the  learned,  who  were  born  mutu- 
ally to  assist  in  enlightening  the  world,  should 
thus  differ  among  themselves,  and  make  even  the 
profession  ridiculous!  Sure  the  world  is  wide 
enough,  at  least,  for  two  great  personages  to  figure 
in :  men  of  science  should  leave  controversy  to 
the  little  world  below  them ;  and  then  we  might 
see  Rock  and  Franks  walking  together  hand  in 
hand,  smiling  onward  to  immortaUty. 

Next  to  these  is  Doctor  Walker,  preparator  of 
his  own  medicines.  This  gentleman  is  remarkable 
for  an  aversion  to  quacks  j  frequently  cautioning 
the  public  to  be  careful  into  what  hands  they  com- 
mit their  safety:  by  which  he  would  insinuate, 
that  if  they  did  not  employ  him  alone,  they  must 
be  undone.  His  public  spirit  is  equal  to  his  suc- 
cess. Not  for  himself,  but  his  country,  is  the 
gallipot  prepared,  and  the  drops  sealed  up  with 
proper  directions,  for  any  part  of  the  town  or  coun- 
try. All  this  is  for  his  country's  good  ;  so  that  he 
is  now  grown  old  in  the  practice  of  physic  and  vir- 
tue; and,  to  use  his  own  elegance  of  expression, 
"  There  is  not  such  another  medicine  a§  his  in  the 
world  again." 

This,  my  friend,  is  a  formidable  triumvirate; 
and  yet,  formidable  as  they  are,  I  am  resolved  to 
defend  the  honour  of  Chinese  physic  against  them 
all.  I  have  made  a  vow  to  summon  Doctor  Rock 
to  a  solemn  disputation  in  all  the  mysteries  of  the 
profession,  before  the  face  of  every  philomath,  stu- 
dent in  astrology,  and  member  of  the  learned  socie- 
ties. I  adhere  to  and  venerate  the  doctrines  of  old 
Wang-shu-ho.  In  the  very  teeth  of  opposition  I 
will  maintain,  "  That  the  heart  is  the  son  of  the 
liver,  which  has  the  kidneys  for  its  mother,  and  the 


stomach  for  its  wife."*  I  have,  therefore,  drawn 
up  a  disputation  challenge,  which  is  to  be  sent 
speedily,  to  this  effect :  * 

"  I,  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  U.  ^sf.  3BI.  J^.  native 
of  Honan  in  China,  to  Richard  Rock,  F.  U.  N. 
native  of  Garbage-alley,  in  Wapping,  defiance 
Though,  sir,  I  am  perfectly  sensible  of  your  im- 
portance, though  no  stranger  to  your  studies  in  the 
path  of  nature,  yet  there  may  be  many  things  in 
the  art  of  physic  with  which  you  are  yet  unac- 
quainted. 1  know  full  well  a  doctor  thou  art,  great 
Rock,  and  so  am  I.  Wherefore,  I  challenge,  and 
do  hereby  invite  you  to  a  trial  of  learning  upon  hard 
problems,  and  knotty  physical  points.  In  this  de- 
bate we  will  calmly  investigate  the  whole  theory 
and  practice  of  medicine,  botany  and  chemistry ; 
and  I  invite  all  the  philomaths,  with  many  of  the 
lecturers  in  medicine  to  be  present  at  the  dispute; 
which,  I  hope,  will  be  carried  on  with  due  deco- 
rum, with  proper  gravity,  and  as  befits  men  of 
erudition  and  science  among  each  other.  But  be- 
fore we  meet  face  to  face,  1  would  thus  publicly, 
and  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world,  desire  you  to 
answer  me  one  question ;  I  ask  it  with  the  same 
earnestness  with  which  you  have  often  solicited  the 
public;  answer  me,  I  say,  at  once,  without  having 
recourse  to  your  physical  dictionary,  which  of  those 
three  disorders,  incident  to  the  human  body,  is  the 
most  fatal,  the  syncope,  parenthesis,  or  apoplexy? 
I  beg  your  reply  may  be  as  public  as  this  my  de- 
mand.t  I  am,  as  hereafter  may  be,  your  admirer, 
or  rival.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXIX. 


From  the  Same. 


Indulgent  Nature  seems  to  have  exempted  this 
island  from  many  of  those  epidemic  evils  which  are 
so  fatal  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  A  want  of 
rain  but  for  a  few  days  beyond  the  expected  season 
in  China  spreads  famine,  desolation,  and  terror, 
over  the  whole  country;  the  winds  that  blow  from 
the  brown  bosom  of  the  western  desert  are  impreg- 
nated with  death  in  every  gale ;  but  in  this  fortu- 
nate land  of  Britain,  the  inhabitant  courts  health' 
in  every  breeze,  and  the  husbandman  ever  sows  in 
joyful  expectation. 

But  though  the  nation  be  exempt  from  real  evils, 
think  not,  my  friend,  that  it  is  more  happy  on  this 
account  than  others.  They  are  afliicted,  it  is  true, 
with  neither  famine  or  pestilence,  but  then  there  is 
a  disorder  peculiar  to  the  country,  which  every 
season  makes  strange  ravages  among  them;   it 


•  See  Du  Halde,  Vol.  O.  fol.  p.  185. 

t  The  day  after  this  was  published  the  editor  received  an 
answer,  in  which'  the  Doctor  seems  to  be  of  opinion,  that  the 
apoplexy  is  most  fatal. 


334 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


spreads  with  pestilential  rapidity,  and  infects  almost  first  feebly  enters  with  a  disregarded  story  of  a  little 
every  rank  of  people ;  what  is  still  more  strange,  dog,  that  had  gone  through  a  neighbouring  village, 
the  natives  have  no  name  for  this  peculiar  malady,  that  was  thought  to  be  mad  by  several  that  hatl 
though  well  known  to  foreign  physicians  by  the  seen  him.     The  next  account  comes   that  a  mas- 


appellation  of  epidemic  terror. 

A  season  is  never  known  to  pass  in  which  the 
people  are  not  visited  by  this  cruel  calamity  in  one 
shape  or  another,  seemingly  different  though  ever 
the  same:  one  year  it  issues  from  a  baker's  shop  in 
the  shape  of  a  six-penny  loaf;  the  next,  it  takes  the 
appearance  of  a  comet  with  a  fiery  tail ;  a  third,  it 
threatens  like  a  flat-bottomed  boat ;  and  a  fourth, 
it  carries  consternation  at  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog. 
The  people,  when  once  infected,  lose  their  relish 
for  happiness,  saunter  about  with  looks  of  despond- 
ence, ask  after  the  calamities  of  the  day,  and  re- 
ceive no  comfort  but  in  heightening  each  other's 
distress.  It  is  insignificant  how  remote  or  near, 
how*' weak  or  powerful  the  object  of  terror  may  be; 
when  once  they  resolve  to  fright  and  be  frighted, 
the  merest  trifles  sow  consternation  and  dismay; 
each  proportions  his  fears,  not  to  the  object,  but  to 
the  dread  he  discovers  in  the  countenance  of  others ; 
for  when  once  the  fermentation  is  begun,  it  goes 
on  of  itself,  though  the  original  cause  be  discon- 
tinued which  first  set  it  in  motion. 

A  dread  of  mad  dogs  is  the  epidemic  terror 
which  now  prevails;  and  the  whole  nation  is  at 
present  actually  groaning  under  the  malignity  of 
itsinfluence.  The  people  sally  from  their  houses 
with  that  circumspection  which  is  prudent  in  such 
fts  expect  a  mad  dog  at  every  turning.  The  phy- 
sician publishes  his  prescription,  the  beadle  pre- 


tiflf  ran  through  a  certain  town,  and  had  bit  five 
geese,  which  immediately  ran  mad,  foamed  at  the 
bill,  and  died  in  great  agonies  soon  after.  Then 
comes  an  aflfecting  history  of  a  little  boy  bit  in  the 
leg,  and  gone  down  to  be  dipped  in  the  salt  water. 
When  the  people  have  sufficiently  shuddered  at 
that,  they  are  next  congealed  with  a  frightful  ac- 
count of  a  man  who  was  said  lately  to  have  died 
from  a  bite  he  had  received  some  years  before. 
This  relation  only  prepares  the  way  for  another, 
still  more  hideous,  as  how  the  master  of  a  family, 
with  seven  small  children,  werrf  all  bit  by  a  mad 
lapdog ;  and  how  the  poor  father  first  perceived  the 
infection,  by  calling  for  a  draught  of  water,  where 
he  saw  the  lapdog  swimming  in  the  cup. 

When  epidemic  terror  is  thus  once  excited,  every 
morning  comes  loaded  with  some  new  disaster :  as, 
in  gtories  of  ghosts,  each  loves  to  hear  the  account, 
though  it  only  serves  to  make  him  uneasy,  so  here 
each  Ustens  with  eagerness,  and  adds  to  the  tidings 
new  circumstances  of  peculiar  horror.  A  lady,  for 
instance,  in  the  country,  of  very  weak  nerves,  has 
been  frighted  by  the  barking  of  a  dog ;  and  this, 
alas !  too  frequently  happens.  This  story  soon  is 
improved  and  spreads,  that  a  mad  dog  had  frighted 
a  lady  of  distinction.  These  circumstances  begin 
to  grow  terrible  before  they  have  reached  the  neigh- 
bouring village,  and  there  the  report  is,  that  a  lady 
of  quality  was  bit  by  a  mad  mastiflf.     The  account 


pares  his  halter,  and  a  few  of  unusual  bravery  arm  every  moment  gathers  new  strength,  and  grows 


themselves  with  boots  and  bufi'  gloves,  in  order  to 
face  the  enemy  if  he  should  offer  to  attack  them 
In  short,  the  whole  people  stand  bravely  upon  their 
defence,  and  seem,  by  their  present  spirit,  to  show 
a  resolution  of  not  being  tamely  bit  by  mad  dogs 
any  longer. 

Their  manner  of  knowing  whether  a  dog  be  mad 
or  no,  somewhat  resembles  the  ancient  European 
custom  of  trying  witches.  The  old  woman  sus- 
pected was  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  thrown  into  the 
water.  If  she  swam,  then  she  was  instantly  car- 
ried off  to  be  burnt  for  a  witch ;  if  she  sunk,  then 
indeed  she  was  acquiUed  of  the  charge,  but  drown- 
ed in  the  experiment.  In  the  same  manner  a 
crowd  gathers  round  a  dog  suspected  of  madness, 
and  they  begin  by  teasing  the  devoted  animal  on 
every  side;  if  he  attempts  to  stand  upon  the  de- 
fensive and  bite,  then  is  he  unanimously  found 
guilty,  for  a  mad  dog  always  snaps  at  every  thing ; 
if,  on  the  contrary,  he  strives  to  escape  by  running 
away,  then  he  can  expect  no  compassion,  for  mad 
dogs  always  run  straightforward  before  them. 

It  is  pleasant  enough  for  a  neutral  being  like  me, 
who  has  no  share  in  these  ideal  calamities,  to  mark 
the  stages  of  this  national  disease.     The  terror  at 


more  dismal  as  it  approaches  the  capitol ;  and  by 
the  time  it  has  arrived  in  town,  the  lady  is  describ- 
ed with  wild  eyes,  foaming  mouth,  running  mad 
upon  all  fours,  barking  like  a  dog,  biting  her  ser- 
vants, and  at  last  smothered  between  two  beds  by 
the  advice  of  her  doctors ;  while  the  mad  mastiff  is 
in  the  mean  time  ranging  the  whole  country  over, 
slavering  at  the  mouth,  and  seeking  whom  he  may 
devour. 

My  landlady,  a  good-natured  woman,  but  a  little 
credulous,  waked  me  some  mornings  ago  before 
the  usual  hour,  with  horror  and  astonishment  in 
her  looks ;  she  desired  me,  if  I  had  any  regard  for 
my  safety,  to  keep  within ;  for  a  few  days  ago  so 
dismal  an  accident  had  happened,  as  to  put  all  the 
world  upon  their  guard.  A  mad  dog,  down  in  the 
country,  she  assured  me,  had  bit  a  farmer,  who, 
soon  becoming  mad,  ran  into  his  own  yard,  and  bit 
a  fine  brindled  cow;  the  cow  quickly  became  as 
mad  as  the  man,  began  to  foam  at  the  mouth,  and 
raising  herself  up,  walked  about  on  her  hind  legs, 
sometimes  barking  like  a  dog,  and  sometimes  at- 
tempting to  talk  like  the  farmer.  Upon  examin- 
ing the  grounds  of  this  story,  I  found  my  landlady 
had  it  from  one  neighbour,  who  had  it  from  another 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


335 


neighbour,  who  heard  it  from  very  good  au- 
thority. 

Were  most  stories  of  this  nature  thoroughly  ex- 
amined, it  would  be  found  that  numbers  of  such  as 
have  been  said  to  suffer  were  no  way  injured;  and 
that  of  those  who  have  been  actually  bitten,  not 
one  in  a  hundred  was  bit  by  a  mad  dog.  Such  ac- 
counts, in  general,  therefore,  only  serve  to  make 
the  people  miserable  by  false  terrors,  and  some- 
times fright  the  patient  into  actual  phrenzy,  by 
creating  those  very  symptoms  they  pretended  to 
deplore. 

But  even  allowing  three  or  four  to  die  in  a  season 
of  this  terrible  death  (and  four  is  probably  too  large 
a  concession),  yet  still  it  is  not  considered,  how 
many  are  preserved  in  their  health  and  in  their 
property  by  this  devoted  animal's  services.  The 
midnight  robber  is  kept  at  a  distance ;  the  insidi- 
ous thief  is  often  detected  ;  the  healthful  chase  re- 
pairs many  a  worn  constitution ;  and  the  poor  man 
finds  in  his  dog  a  willing  assistant,  eager  to  lessen 
his  toil,  and  content  with  the  smallest  retribution. 

"A  dog,"  says  one  of  the  English  poets,  "is  an 
honest  creature,  and  I  am  a  friend  to  dogs."  Of 
all  the  beasts  that  graze  the  lawn  or  hunt  the  for- 
est, a  dog  is  the  only  animal  that,  leaving  his  fel- 
lows, attempts  to  cultivate  the  friendship  of  man ; 
to  man  he  looks  in  all  his  necessities  with  a  speak- 
ing eye  for  assistance ;  exerts  for  him  all  the  little 
service  in  his  power  with  cheerfulness  and  plea- 
sure :  for  him  bears  famine  and  fatigue  with  pa- 
tience and  resignation;  no  injuries  can  abate  his 
fidelity;  no  distress  induce  him  to  forsake  his 
benefactor;  studious  to  please,  and  fearing  to 
offend,  he  is  still  an  humble,  steadfast  depen- 
dant; and  in  him  alone  fawning  is  not  flattery. 
How  unkind  then  to  torture  this  faithful  creature, 
who  has  left  the  forest  to  claim  the  protection  of 
man !  how  ungrateful  a  return  to  the  trusty  ani- 
mal for  all  his  services !    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXX. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

The  Europeans  are  themselves  blind,  who  de- 
scribe Fortune  without  sight.  No  first-rate  beauty 
ever  had  finer  eyes,  or  saw  more  clearly ;  they  who 
have  no  other  trade  but  seeking  their  fortune,  need 
never  hope  to  find  her;  coquette  like,  she  flies 
from  her  close  pursuers,  and  at  last  fixes  on  the 
plodding  mechanic,  who  stays  at  home  and  minds 
his  business. 

I  am  amazed  how  men  can  call  her  blind,  when, 
by  the  company  she  keeps,  she  seems  so  very  dis- 
cerning. Wherever  you  see  a  gaming-table,  be 
very  sure  Fortune  is  not  there ;  wherever  you  see 
a  house  with  the  doors  open,  be  very  sure  Fortune 
is  not  there ;  when  you  see  a  man  whose  pocket- 
holes  are  laced  with  gold,  be  satisfied  Fortune  is 


not  there ;  wherever  you  see  a  beautiful  woman 
good-natured  and  obliging,  be  convinced  Fortune 
is  never  there.  In  short,  she  is  ever  seen  accom 
panying  industry,  and  as  often  trundling  a  wheel 
barrow  as  lolling  in  a  coach  and  six. 

If  you  would  make  Fortune  your  friend,  or,  to 
personize  her  no  longer,  if  you  desire,  my  son,  to 
be  rich,  and  have  money,  be  more  eager  to  save 
than  acquire :  when  people  say,  Money  is  to  he  gat 
here,  and  money  is  to  he  got  there,  take  no  notice ; 
mind  your  own  business;  stay  where  you  are,  and 
secure  all  you  can  get,  without  stirring.  When 
you  hear  that  your  neighbour  has  picked  up  a  purse 
of  gold  in  the  street,  never  run  out  into  the  same 
street,  looking  about  you  in  order  to  pick  up,  such 
another;  or  when  you  are  informed  that  he  has 
made  a  fortune  in  one  branch  of  business,  never 
change  your  own  in  order  to  be  his  rival.  Do  not 
desire  to  be  rich  all  at  once;  but  patiently  add 
farthing  to  farthing.  Perhaps  you  despise  the 
petty  sum ;  and  yet  tb  ^y  who  want  a  farthing,  and 
have  no  friend  that  will  lend  them  it,  think  farth- 
ings very  good  things.  Whangs  the  foolish  miller, 
when  he  wanted  a  farthing  in  his  distress,  found 
that  no  friend  would  lend,  because  they  knew  he 
wanted.  Did  you  ever  read  the  story  of  Whangs 
in  our  books  of  Chinese  learning?  he  who,  de- 
spising small  sums,  and  grasping  at  all,  lost  even 
what  he  had. 

Whang,  the  miller,  was  naturally  avaricious; 
nobody  loved  money  better  than  he,  or  more  re- 
spected those  that  had  it.  When  people  would 
talk  of  a  rich  man  in  company.  Whang  would  say, 
I  know  him  very  well ;  he  and  I  have  been  long 
acquainted  j  he  and  I  are  intimate ;  he  stood  for  a 
child  of  mine :  but  if  ever  a  poor  man  was  men- 
tioned, he  had  not  the  least  knowledge  of  the  man ; 
he  might  be  very  well  for  aught  he  knew :  but  he 
was  not  fond  of  many  accjuaintances,  and  loved  to 
choose  his  company. 

WJiang,  however,  with  all  his  eagerness  for 
riches,  was  in  reality  poor ;  he  had  nothing  but 
the  profits  of  his  mill  to  support. him;  but  though 
these  were  small  they  were  certain;  while  his  mill 
stood  and  went,  he  was  sure  of  eating,  and  his  fru- 
gality was  such;  that  he  every  day  laid  some  mo- 
ney by,  which  he  would  at  intervals  count  and 
contemplate  with  much  satisfaction.  Yet  still  his 
acquisitions  were  not  equal  to  his  desires ;  he  only 
found  himself  above  want,  whereas  he  desired  to 
be  possessed  of  affluence. 

One  day  as  he  was  indulging  these  wishes,  he 
was  informed,  that  a  neighbour  of  his  had  found  a 
pan  of  money  under  ground,  having  dreamed  of  it 
three  nights  running  before.  These  tidings  were 
daggers  to  the  heart  of  poor  Whang.  "  Here  am 
I,"  says  he,  "  toihng  and  moiUng  from  morning  till 
night  for  a  few  paltry  farthings,  while  neighbour 
Hunks  only  goes  quietly  to  bed,  and  dreams  him- 


336 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


self  into  thousands  before  morning.  O  that  I 
could  dream  like  him !  with  what  pleasure  would  I 
dig  round  the  pan ;  how  slily  would  I  carry  it 
home ;  not  even  my  wife  should  s^e  me ;  and  then, 
O  the  pleasure  of  thrusting  one's  hand  into  a  heap 
of  gold  up  to  the  elbow !" 

Such  reflections  only  served  to  make  the  miller 
unhappy;  he  discontinued  his  former  assiduity,  he 
was  quite  disgusted  with  small  gains,  and  his  cus- 
tomers began  to  forsake  him.  Every  day  he  re- 
peated the  wish,  and  every  night  laid  himself  down 
in  order  to  dream.  Fortune,  that  was  for  a  long  time 
unkind,  at  last,  however,  seemed  to  smile  upon  his 
distresses  and  indulged  him  with  the  wished-for 
vision.  He  dreamed,  that  under  a  certain  part  of 
the  foundation  of  his  mill,  there  was  concealed  a 
monstrous  pan  of  gold  and  diamonds,  buried  deep 
in  the  ground,  and  covered  with  a  large  flat  stone. 
He  rose  up,  thanked  tlie  stars,  that  were  at  last 
pleased  to  take  pity  on  his  sufferings,  and  conceal- 
ed his  good  luck  from  every  person,  as  is  usual  in 
money  dreams,  in  order  to  have  the  vision  repeated 
the  two  succeeding  nights,  by  which  he  should  be 
certain  of  its  veracity.  His  wishes  in  this  also 
were  answered  ;  he  still  dreamed  of  the  same  part 
of  money,  in  the  very  same  place. 

Now,  therefore,  it  was  past  a  doubt;  so  getting 
up  early  the  third  morning,  he  repairs  alone,  with 
a  mattock  in  his  hand,  to  the  mill,  and  began  to 
undermine  that  part  of  the  wall  which  the  vision 
uirected.  The  first  omen  of  success  that  he  met 
Was  a  broken  mug;  digging  still  deeper,  he  turns 
tip  a  house  tile,  quite  new  and  entire.  At  last, 
after  much  digging,  he  came  to  the  broad  flat  stone, 
but  then  so  large,  that  it  was  beyond  one  man's 
Strength  to  remove  it.  "  Here,"  cried  he  in  rap- 
tures to  himself,  "  here  it  is !  under  this  stone  there 
is  room  for  a  very  large  pan  of  diamonds  indeed !  1 
must  e'en  go  home  to  my  wife,  and  tell  her  the 
whole  affair,  and  get  her  to  assist  me  in  turning  it 
up."  Away  therefore  he  goes,  and  acquaints  his 
wife  with  every  circumstance  of  their  good  fortune. 
Her  raptures  on  this  occasion  easily  may  be  ima- 
gined ;  she  flew  round  his  neck,  and  embraced  him 
in  an  agony  of  joy ;  but  those  transports,  however, 
did  not  delay  their  eagerness  to  know  the  exact 
sum;  returning,  therefore,  speedily  together  to  the 
place  where  Whang  had  been  digging,  there  they 
found — not  indeed  the  expected  treasure,  but  the 
mill,  their  only  support,  undermined  and  fallen. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXI. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoara,  First  President  of 
the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

The  people  of  London  are  as  fond  of  walking  as 
our  friends  at  Pekin  of  riding ;  one  of  the  princi- 


pal entertainments  of  the  citizens  here  in  summer, 
is  to  repair  about  nightfall  to  a  garden  not  far  from 
town,  where  they  walk  about,  show  their  best 
clothes  and  best  faces,  and  listen  to  a  concert  pro- 
vided for  the  occasion. 

I  accepted  an  invitation  a  few  evenings  ago  from 
my  old  friend,  the  man  in  black,  to  be  one  of  a 
party  that  was  to  sup  there ;  and  at  the  appointed 
hour  waited  upon  him  at  his  lodgings.  There  I 
found  the  company  assembled  and  expecting  my 
arrival.  Our  party  consisted  of  my  friend  in  su- 
perlative finery,  his  stockings  rolled,  a  black  velvet 
waistcoat  which  was  formerly  new,  and  a  gray  wig 
combed  down  in  imitation  of  hair;  a  pawnbroker's 
widow,  of  whom,  by  the  by,  my  friend  was  a  pro- 
fessed admirer,  dressed  out  in  green  damask,  with 
three  gold  rings  on  every  finger ;  and  Mr.  Tibbs, 
the  second-rate  beau  I  have  formerly  described,  to- 
gether with  his  lady,  in  flimsy  silk,  dirty  gauze  in 
stead  of  Unen,  and  a  hat  as  big  as  an  umbrella. 

Our  first  difl[iculty  was  in  settling  how  we  should 
set  out.  Mrs.  Tibbs  had  a  natural  aversion  to  the 
water,  and  the  widow  being  a  little  in  flesh,  as 
warmly  protested  against  walking  :  a  coach  was 
therefore  agreed  upon ;  which  being  too  small  to 
carry  five,  Mr.  Tibbs  consented  to  sit  in  his  wife's 
lap. 

In  this  manner,  therefore,  we  set  forward,  being 
entertained  by  the  way  with  the  bodings  of  Mr. 
Tibbs,  who  assured  us  he  did  not  expect  to  see  a 
single  creature  for  the  evening  above  the  degree  of 
a  cheesemonger :  that  this  was  the  last  night  of 
the  gardens,  and  that  consequently  we  should  be 
pestered  with  the  nobility  and  gentry  from  Thames- 
street  and  Crooked- lane,  with  several  other  pro- 
phetic ejaculations,  probably  inspired  by  the  un- 
easiness of  his  situation. 

The  illuminations  began  before  we  arrived,  and 
I  must  confess,  that  upon  entering  the  gardens  I 
found  every  sense  overpaid  with  more  than  ex- 
pected pleasure;  the  fights  every  where  glimmering 
through  the  scarcely  moving  trees,  the  full-bodied 
concert  bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the 
natural  concert  of  the  birds,  in  the  more  retired  part 
of  the  grove,  vieing  with  that  which  was  formed  by 
art;  the  company  gaily  dressed,  looking  satisfac- 
tion, and  the  tables  spread  with  various  delicacies, 

conspired  to  fill  my  imagination  with  the  vision- 
ary happiness  of  the  Arabian  lawgiver,  and  lifted 
me  into  an  ecstasy  of  admiration.  "  Head  of  Con- 
fucius!" cried  I  to  my  friend,  "this  is  fine!  this 
unites  rural  beauty  with  courtly  magnificence!  if 
we  except  the  virgins  of  immortality,  that  hang  on 
every  tree,  and  may  be  plucked  at  every  desire,  1 
do  not  see  how  this  falls  short  of  Mahomet's  Para- 
dise!"  "As  for  virgins,"  cries  my  friend,  "it  is 
true  they  are  a  fruit  that  do  not  much  abound  in 
our  gardens  here;  but  if  ladies,  as  plenty  as  apples 
in  autumn,  and  as  complyirig  as  any  houri  of  them 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


S37 


ftll,  can  content  you,  I  fancy  \^e  tiave  no  need  to  go 
to  heaven  for  Paradise." 

I  was  going  to  second  his  remarks,  when  we 
were  called  to  a  consultation  by  Mr.  Tibbs  and  the 
rest  of  the  company,  to  know  in  what  manner  we 
were  to  lay  out  the  evening  to  the  greatest  advan- 
tage. Mrs.  Tibbs  was  for  keeping  the  genteel  walk 
of  the  garden,  where,  she  observed,  there  was  al- 
ways the  very  best  company;  the  widow,  on  the 
contrary,  who  came  but  once  a  season,  was  for  se- 
curing a  good  standing  place  to  see  the  water- works, 
which  she  assured  us  would  begin  in  less  than  an 
hour  at  farthest ;  a  dispute  therefore  began,  and  as 
it  was  managed  between  two  of  very  opposite  cha- 
racters, it  threatened  to  grow  more  bitter  at  every 
reply.  Mrs.  Tibbs  wondered  how  people  could 
pretend  to  know  the  polite  world,  who  had  received 
all  their  rudiments  of  breeding  behind  a  counter ; 
to  which  the  other  replied,  that  though  some  people 
sat  behind  counters,  yet  they  could  sit  at  the  head 
of  their  own  tables  too,  and  carve  three  good  dishes 
of  hot  meat  whenever  they  thought  proper ;  which 
was  more  than  some  people  could  say  for  them- 
selves, that  hardly  knew  a  rabbit  and  onions  from 
a  green  goose  and  gooseberries. 

It  is  hard  to  say  where  this  might  have  en<?ed, 
had  not  the  husband,  who  probably  knew  the  im- 
petuosity of  his  wife's  disposition,  proposed  to  end 
the  dispute,  by  adjouri^ing  to  a  box,  and  try  if  there 
was  any  thing  to  be  had  for  supper  that  was  sup- 
portable. To  this  we  all  consented  :  but  here  a 
new  distress  arose ;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs  would  sit 
in  none  but  a  genteel  box,  a  box  where  they  might 
see  and  be  seen,  one,  as  they  exi)ressed  it,  in  the 
very  focus  of  public  view ;  but  such  a  box  was  not 
easy  to  be  obtained,  for  though  we  were  perfectly 
convinced  of  our  own  gentility,  and  the  gentility 
of  our  appearance,  yet  we  found  it  a  difficult  matter 
to  persuade  the  keepers  of  the  boxes  to  be  of  our 
opmion ;  they  chose  to  reserv6  genteel  boxes  for 
what  they  judged  more  genteel  company. 

At  last,  however,  we  were  fixed,  though  some- 
what obscurely,  and  supplied  with  the  usual  enter- 
tainment of  the  place.  The  widow  found  the  sup- 
per excellent,  but  Mrs.  Tibhs  thought  every  thing 
detestable.  "Come,  come,  my  dear,"  cries  the 
husband,  by  way  of  consolation,  "  to  be  sure  we 
can't  find  such  dresssing  here  as  we  have  at  Lord 
Crump's,  or  Lady  Crimp's;  but  for  Vauxhall  dress- 
ing it  is  pretty  good  :  it  is  not  their  victuals  indeed 
1  find  fault  with,  but  their  wine;  their  wine,"  cries 
he,  drinking  off  a  glass,  "  indeed,  is  most  abomina- 
ble." 

By  this  last  contradiction,  the  widow  was  feirly 
conquered  in  point  of  politeness.  She  perceived 
now  that  she  had  no  pretensions  in  the  world  to 
taste,  her  very  senses  were  vulgar,  since  she  had 
praised  detestable  custard,  and  smacked  at  wretched 
wine }  she  was  therefore  content  to  yield  the  vic- 
22 


tory,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  night  to  listen  and  im- 
prove. It  is  true,  she  would  now  and  then  forget 
herself,  and  confess  she  was  pleased,  but  they  soon 
brought  her  back  again  to  miserable  refinement. 
She  once  praised  the  painting  of  the  box  in  which 
we  were  sitting,  but  was  soon  convinced  that  such 
paltry  pieces  ought  rather  to  excite  horror  than- 
satisfaction  :  she  ventured  again  to  commend  one 
of  the  singers,  buf  Mrs.  Tibbs  soon  let  her  know, 
in  the  style  of  a  connoisseur,  that  the  singer  inf 
question  had  neither  ear,  voice,  nor  judgment. 

Mr.  Tibbs,  now  wiHing  to  prove  that  his  wifeV 
pretensions  to  music  were  just,  entresrt'ed  her  to  fa- 
vour the  company  with  a  song;  but  to  fhis  she  gav^' 
a  positive  denial — "for  you  know  very  well,  my 
dear,"  says  she,  "that  I  am  not  in  voice  to-day, 
and  when  one's  voice  is  not  equal  to  one's  judg- 
ment, what  signifies  singing  7  besides,  as  there  is 
no  accompaniment^  it  would  be  but  spoiling  music." 
All  these  excuses/  however,  were  overruled  by  the 
rest  of  the  compatiVy  who,  though  one  would  think 
they  already  had  music  enough,  joined  in  the  eri- 
treaty.  But  particularly  the  widow,  now  willing 
to  convince  the  company  of  her  breeding,  pressed' 
so  warmly,  that  she  seemed  determined  to  take  no' 
refusal.  At  last  then  the  lady  complied,  and  after 
humming  for  some  minutes,  began  with  such  a' 
voice,  and  such  affectation,  as  I  could  perceive  gave 
but  little  satisfaction  to  any  except  her  husband.- 
He  sat  with  rapture  in  his  eye,  aAd  beat  time  will!' 
his  hand  on  the  table. 

You  must  observe,  my  friend,  that  it  is  the  ciis- 
tom  of  this  country,  when  a  lady  or  gentleman 
happens  to  sing,  for  the  company  to  sit  as  mute 
and  motionless  as  statues.  Every  feature,  every 
limb,  must  seem  to  correspond  in  fixed  attention  ? 
and  while  the  song  continues,  they  are  to  remain 
in  a  state  of  universal  petrifaction.  In  this  morti- 
fying situation  we  had  continued  for  some  time,- 
listening  to  the  song,  and  looking  with  tranquillity, 
when  the  master  of  the  box  came  to  inform  us,  that' 
the  water-works  were  going  to  begin.  At  this  in- 
formation 1  could  instantly  perceive  the  widow" 
bounce  from  her  seat;  but  correcting  herself,  she' 
sat  down  again,  repressed  by  motives  of  good- 
breeding.  Mrs.  Tibbs,  who  had  seen  the  water 
works  a  hundred  times,  resolving  not  to  be  inter- 
r'upted,  continued  her  song  without  any  share  of 
mercy,  nor  had  the  smallest  pity  on  our  impatience.' 
The  v/idow's  face,  I  own,  gave  me  high  entertain- 
ment ;  in  it  I  could  plainly  read  the  struggle  she  felt 
between  good-breeding  and  curiosity:  she  talked 
of  the  water-works'  the  whole  evening  before,  and 
seemed  to  have  come  merely,  in  order  to  see  them  j 
tut  then  she  could  not  bounce  out  in  the  very  mid- 
dle of  a  song,  for  that  would  be  forfeiting  all  pre- 
tensions to  high  life,  or  high-lived  company,  ever 
after.  Mrs.  Tibbs  therefore  kept  on  singing,  and 
we  continued  to  listen,  till  at  last,  when  the  wug 


338 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


was  just  concluded,  the  waiter  came  to  inform  us 
that  the  water-works  were  over. 

"The  water-works  over!"  cried  the  widow; 
"the  water- works  over  already  !  that's  impossible! 
they  can't  be  over  so  soon !" — "  It  is  not  my  busi- 
ness," replied  the  fellow,  "to  contradict  your  lady- 
ship; I'll  run  again  and  see."  He  went,  and  soon 
returned  with  a  confirmation  of  the  dismal  tidings. 
No  ceremony  could  now  bind  my  friend's  disap- 
pointed mistress,  she  testified  her  displeasure  in 
the  openest  manner ;  in  short,  she  now  began  to 
find  fault  -in  turn,  and  at  last  insisted  upon  going 
home,  just  at  the  time  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tibbs 
assured  the  company,  that  the  polite  hours  were 
going  to  begin,  and  that  the  ladies  would  instan- 
taneously be  entertained  with  the  horns.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXII. 


For  the  Same. 


Not  far  from  this  city  hves  a  poor  tinker,  who 
has  educated  seven  sons,  all  at  this  very  time  in 
arms,  and  fighting  for  their  country ;  and  what  re- 
ward do  you  think  has  the  tinker  from  the  state 
for  such  important  services?  None  in  the  world : 
his  sons,  when  the  war  is  over,  may  probably  be 
whipped  from  parish  to  parish  as  vagabonds,  and 
the  old  man,  when  past  labour,  may  die  a  prisoner 
in  some  house  of  correction. 

Such  a  worthy  subject  in  China  would  be  held 
in  universal  reverence ;  his  services  would  be  re- 
warded, if  not  with  dignities,  at  least  with  an  ex- 
emption from  labour ;  he  would  take  the  left  hand 
at  feasts,  and  mandarines  themselves  would  be 
proud  to  show  their  submission.  The  English 
laws  punish  vice;  the  Chinese  laws  do  more,  they 
reward  virtue ! 

Considering  the  little  encouragement  given  to 
matrimony  here,  I  am  not  surprised  at  the  dis- 
couragement given  to  propagation.  Would  you 
believe  it,iby  dear  Fum  Hoam,  there  are  laws 
made  which  even  forbid  the  people's  marrying  each 
other?  By  the  head  of  Confucius,  I  jest  not ;  there 
are  such  laws  in  being  here ;  and  yet  their  law- 
givers have  neither  been  instructed  among  the  Hot- 
tentots, nor  imbibed  their  principles  of  equity  from 
the  natives  of  Anamaboo. 

There  are  laws  which  ordain,  that  no  man  shall 
marry  a  woman  against  her  own  consent.  This, 
though  contrary  to  what  we  are  taught  in  Asia, 
and  though  in  some  measure  a  clog  upon  matri- 
mony, I  have  no  great  objection  to.  There  are 
laws  which  ordain,  that  no  woman  shall  marry 
against  her  father  and  mother's  consent,  unless 
arrived  at  an  age  of  maturity ;  by  which  is  under 
stood,  those  years  when  women  with  us  are  gene 
rally  past  child-bearing.  This  must  be  a  clog  upon 


matrimony,  as  it  is  more  difficult  for  the  lover  to 
please  three  than  one,  and  much  more  difficult  to 
please  old  people  than  young  ones.  The  laws  or- 
dain, that  the  consenting  couple  shall  take  a  long 
time  to  consider  before  they  marry :  this  is  a  very 
great  clog,  because  people  love  to  have  all  rash  ac- 
tions done  in  a  hurry.  It  is  ordained,  that  all 
marriages  shall  be  proclaimed  before  celebration : 
this  is  a  severe  clog,  as  many  are  ashamed  to  have 
their  marriage  made  public,  from  motives  of  vicious 
modesty,  and  many  afraid  from  views  of  temporal 
interest.  It  is  ordained,  that  there  is  nothing  sacred 
in  the  ceremony,  but  that  it  may  be  dissolved,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  by  the  authority  of  any 
civil  magistrate.  And  yet,  opposite  to  this,  it  is 
ordained,  that  the  priest  shall  be  paid  a  large  sum 
of  money  for  granting  his  sacred  permission. 

Thus  you  see,  my  friend,  that  matrimony  here 
is  hedged  round  with  so  many  obstructions,  that 
those  who  are  willing  to  break  through  or  surmount 
them,  must  be  contented  if  at  last  they  find  it  a 
bed  of  thorns.  The  laws  are  not  to  blame,  for 
they  have  deterred  the  people  from  engaguig  as 
much  as  they  could.  It  is,  indeed,  become  a  very 
serious  afl^air  in  England,  and  none  but  serious 
people  are  generally  found  willing  to  engage.  The 
young,  the  gay,  and  the  beautiful,  who  have  mo- 
tives of  passion  only  to  induce  them,  are  seldom 
found  to  embark,  as  those  inducements  are  taLen 
away;  and  none  but  the  old,  the  ugly,  and  the 
mercenary,  are  seen  to  unite,  who,  if  they  have 
any  posterity  at  all,  will  probably  be  an  ill-favoured 
race  like  themselves. 

What  gave  rise  to  those  laws  might  have  been 
some  such  accidents  as  these : — It  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  a  miser,  who  had  spent  all  his  youth  in 
scraping  up  money  to  give  his  daughter  such  a 
fortune  as  might  get  her  a  mandarine  husband, 
found  his  expectations  disappointed  at  last,  by  her 
running  away  with  his  footman ;  this  must  have 
been  a  sad  shock  to  the  poor  disconsolate  parent, 
to  see  his  poor  daughter  in  a  one-horse  chaise, 
when  he  had  designed  her  for  a  coach  and  six. 
What  a  stroke  from  Providence !  to  see  his  dear 
money  go  to  enrich  a  beggar ;  all  nature  cried  out 
at  the  profanation ! 

It  sometimes  happened  also,  that  a  lady,  who  had 
inherited  all  the  titles,  and  all  the  nervous  com- 
plaints of  nobility,  thought  fit  to  impair  her  dignity 
and  mend  her  constitution,  by  marrying  a  farmer : 
this  must  have  been  a  sad  shock  to  her  inconsolable 
relations,  to  see  so  fine  a  flower  snatched  from  a 
flourishing  family,  and  planted  in  a  dunghill ;  this 
was  an  absolute  inversion  of  the  first  principles  of 
things. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  prevent  the  great  from  be- 
ing thus  contaminated  by  vulgar  alliances,  the  ob- 
stacles to  matrimony  have  been  so  contrived,  that 
the  rich  only  can  marry  amongst  the  rich,  and  the 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


339 


poor,  wh'o  would  leave  celibacy,  must  be  content  to 
increase  their  poverty  with  a  wife.  Thus  have 
their  laws  fairly  inverted  the  inducements  to  matri- 
mony. Nature  tells  us,  that  beauty  is  the  proper 
allurement  of  those  who  are  rich,  and  money  of 
those  who  are  poor ;  but  things  here  are  so  con- 
trived, that  the  rich  are  invited  to  marry,  by  that 
fortune  which  they  do  not  want,  and  the  poor  have 
no  inducementj  but  that  beauty  which  they  do 
not  feel. 

An  equal  diffusion  of  riches  through  any  coun- 
try ever  constitutes  its  happiness.  Great  wealth 
in  the  possession  of  one  stagnates,  and  extreme 
poverty  with  another  keeps  him  in  unambitious 
indigence ;  but  the  moderately  rich  are  generally 
active :  not  too  far  removed  from  poverty  to  fear  its 
calamities,  nor  too  near  extreme  wealth  to  slacken 
the  nerve  of  labour,  they  remain  still  between  both 
in  a  state  of  continual  fluctuation.  How  impolitic, 
therefore,  are  those  laws  which  promote  the  accu- 
mulation of  wealth  among  the  rich ;  more  impolitic 
still,  in  attempting  to  increase  the  depression  on 
poverty. 

Bacon,  the  English  philosopher,  compares  money 
to  manure — "If  gathered  in  heaps,"  says  he,  "it 
does  no  good ;  on  the  contrary,  it  becomes  ofiensive. 
But  being  spread,  though  never  so  thinly,  over  the 
surface  of  the  earth,  it  enriches  the  whole  country." 
Thus  the  wealth  a  nation  possesses  must  expati- 
ate, or  it  is  of  no  benefit  to  the  public ;  it  becomes 
rather  a  grievance,  where  matrimonial  laws  thus 
confine  it  to  a  few. 

But  this  restraint  upon  matrimonial  community, 
even  Considered  in  a  physical  light,  is  injurious.  I 
As  those' who  rear  up  animals,  take  all  possible! 
pains  to  cross  the  strain,  in  order  to  improve  the 
breed;  so,  in  those  countries  where  marriage  is 
most  free,  the  inhabitants  are  found  every  age  to 
improve  in  stature  and  in  beauty ;  on  the  contrary, 
where  it  is  confined  to  a  cast,  a  tribe,  or  a  horde, 
as  among  the  Gaurs,  the  Jews,  or  the  Tartars, 
each  division  soon  assjimes  a  family  likeness,  and 
every  tribe  degenerates  into  peculiar  deformity. 
Hence  it  may  be  easily  inferred,  that  if  the  man- 
darines here  are  resolved  only  to  marry  among  each 
other,  they  will  soon  produce  a  posterity  with  man- 
darine faces ;  and  we  shall  see  the  heir  of  some 
aonourable  family  scarcely  equal  to  the  abortion  of 
a  country  farmer. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  obstacles  to  marriage 
here,  and  it  is  certain  they  have,  in  some  measure, 
answered  the  end,  for  celibacy  is  both  frequent  and 
fashionable.  Old  bachelors  appear  abroad  without 
a  mask,  and  old  maids,  my  dear  Puni  Hoam,  have 
been  absolutely  known  to  ogle.  To  confess  in 
friendship,  if  I  were  an  Englishman,  I  fancy  I 
should  be  an  old  bachelor  myself;  1  should  never 
find  courage  to  run  through  all  the  adventures  pre- 
scribed by  the  law.     I  could  submit  to  court  my 


mistress  herself  upon  reasonable  terms;  but  to  court 
her  father,  her  mother,  and  a  long  train  of  cousins^ 
aunts,  and  relations,  and  then  stand  the  butt  of 
a  whole  country  church ;  I  would  as  soon  turn  tail 
and  make  love  to  her  grandmother. 

I  can  conceive  no  other  reason  for  thus  loading 
matrimony  with  so  many  prohibitions,  unless  it  be 
that  the  country  was  thought  already  too  populous, 
and  this  was  found  to  be  the  most  efiectual  means 
of  thinning  it.  If  this  was  the  motive,  I  cannot 
but  congratulate  the  wise  projectors  on  the  success 
of  their  scheme.  "  Hail,  O  ye  dim-sighted  politi- 
cians, ye  weeders  of  men  !  'Tis  yours  to  clip  the 
wing  of  industry,  and  convert  Hymen  to  a  broker. 
'Tis  yours  to  behold  small  objects  with  a  micro- 
scopic eye,  but  to  be  blind  to  those  which  require 
an  extent  of  vision.  'Tis  yours,  O  ye  discerners 
of  mankind  !  to  lay  the  Hne  between  society,  and 
weaken  that  force  by  dividing,  which  should  bind 
with  united  vigour.  'Tis  yours,  to  introduce  na- 
tional real  distress,  in  order  to  avoid  the  imaginary 
distresses  of  a  few.  Your  actions  can  be  justified' 
by  a  hundred  reasons  like  truth ;  they  can  be  op- 
posed by  but  a  few  reasons,  and  those  reasons  aref 
true."     Farewell. 


LETTER  LXXIII. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

Age,  that  lessensthe  enjoyment  of  life,  increases 
our  desire  of  living.  Those  dangers  which,  in  the 
vigour  of  youth,  we  had  learned  to  despise,  assume 
new  terrors  as  we  grow  old.  Our  caution  increasing 
as  our  years  increase,  fear  becomes  at  last  the  pre- 
vailing passion  of  the  mind ;  and  the  small  remain- 
der of  life  is  taken  up  in  useless  efTorts  to  keep  off 
our  end,  or  provide  for  a  continued  existence. 

Strange  contradiction  in  our  nature,  and  to 
which  even  the  wise  are  liable !  If  I  should  judge 
of  that  part  of  life  which  lies  before  me,  by  that 
which  I  have  already  seen,  the  prospect  is  hideous. 
Experience  tells  me,  that  my  past  enjoyments  have 
brought  no  real  felicity ;  and  sensation  assures  me, 
that  those  I  have  felt  are  stronger  than  those 
which  are  yet  to  come.  Yet  experience  and  sen- 
sation in  vain  persuade ;  hope,  more  powerful  than 
either,  dresses  out  the  distant  prospect  in  fancied 
beauty;  some  happiness  in  long  perspective  still 
beckons  me  to  pursue ;  and,  like  a  losing  gamester, 
every  new  disappointment  increases  my  ardour  to 
continue  the  game. 

Whence,  my  friend,  this  increased  love  of  lifoy 
vehich  grows  upon  us  with  our  years'?  whence 
comes  it,  that  we  thus  make  greater  efforts  to  pre> 
serve  our  existence,  at  a  period  when  it  becomes 
scarcely  worth  the  keeping?  Is  it  that  nature,  at- 
tentive to  the  preservation  of  mankind,  increase* 


340 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


our  wishes  to  live,  while  she  lessens  our  enjoy- 
ments ;  and,  as  she  robs  the  senses  of  every  plea- 
sure, equips  imagination  in  the  spoil  ?  Life  would 
be  insupportable  to  an  old  man,  who,  loaded  with 
infirmities,  feared  death  no  more  than  when  in  the 
vigour  of  manhood  ;  the  numberless  calamities  of 
decaying  nature,  and  the  consciousness  of  surviv- 
ing every  pleasure,  would  at  once  induce  him,  with 
his  own  hand,  to  terminate  the  scene  of  misery ; 
but  happily  the  contempt  of  death  forsakes  him,  at 
a  time  when  it  could  be  only  prejudicial;  and  life 
acquires  an  imaginary  value,  in  proportion  as  its 
real  value  is  no  more. 

Our  attachment  to  every  object  around  us  in- 
creases, in  general,  from  the  length  of  our  acquaint- 
ance with  it.  "  1  would  not  choose,"  says  a  French 
philosopher,  "  to  see  an  old  post  pulled  up,  with 
which  I  had  been  long  acquainted."  A  mind  long 
habituated  to  a  certain  set  of  objects,  insensibly 
becomes  fond  of  seeing  them;  visits  them  from 
habit,  and  parts  from  them  with  reluctance ;  from 
hence  proceeds  the  avarice  of  the  old  in  every  kind 
of  possession.  They  love  the  world  and  all  that 
it  produces;  they  love  hfe  and  all  its  advantages; 
not  because  it  gives  them  pleasure,  but  because  they 
have  known  it  long. 

Chinvang  the  Chaste,  ascending  the  throne  of 
China,  commanded  that  all  who  were  unjustly  de- 
tained in  prison,  during  the  preceding  reigns, 
should  be  set  free.  Among  the  number  who  came 
to  thank  their  deliverer  on  this  occasion,  there  ap- 
peared a  majestic  old  man,  who,  falUng  at  the  em- 
peror's feet,  addressed  him  as  follows:  "Great 
father  of  China,  behold  a  wretch,  now  eighty-five 


serve  to  bind  us  closer  to  earth,  and  embitter  our 
parting.  Life  sues  the  young  like  a  new  acquaint- 
ance ;  the  companion,  as  yet  unexhausted,  is  at 
once  instructive  and  amusing ;  its  company  pleases; 
yet,  for  all  this,  it  is  but  little  regarded.  To  us 
who  are  declined  in  years,  life  appears  hke  an  old 
friend ;  its  jests  have  been  anticipated  in  former 
cojiversation ;  it  has  no  new  story  to  make  us 
smile;  no  new  improvement  with  which  to  sur- 
prise ;  yet  still  we  love  it :  destitute  of  every  enjoy- 
ment, still  we  love  it ;  husband  the  wasting  trea- 
sure with  increased  frugality,  and  feel  all  the  poig- 
nancy of  anguish  in  the  fatal  separation. 

Sir  Philip  Mordaunt  was  young,  beautiful,  sin- 
cere, brave,  an  Englishman.  He  had  a  complete 
fortune  of  his  own,  and  the  love  of  the  king  his 
master,  which  was  equivalent  to  riches.  Life  open- 
ed all  her  treasure  before  him,  and  promised  a  long 
succession  of  future  happiness.  He  came,  tasted 
of  the  entertainment,  but  was  disgusted  even  in 
the  beginning.  He  professed  an  aversion  to  liv- 
ing ;  was  tired  of  walking  round  the  same  circle ; 
had  tried  every  enjoyment,  and  found  them  all  grow 
weaker  at  every  repetition.  "  If  life  be  in  youth  so 
displeasing,"  cried  he  to  himself,  "  what  will  it  ap- 
pear when  age  comes  on?  if  it  be  at  present  indif- 
ferent, sure  it  will  then  be  execrable."  This  thought 
embittered  every  reflection  ;  till  at  last,  with  all  the 
serenity  of  perverted  reason,  he  ended  the  debate 
with  a  pistol !  Had  this  self-deluded  man  been 
apprised,  that  existence  grows  more  desirable  to  us 
the  longer  we  exist,  he  would  have  then  faced  old 
age  without  shrinking,  he  would  have  boldly  dared 
to  live,  and  served  that  society  by  his  future  assi- 


years  old,  who  was  shut  up  in  a  dungeon  at  the  duity,  which  he  basely  injured  by  his  desertion, 
age  of  twenty -two.  I  was  imprisoned  though  a  Adieu, 
stranger  to  crime,  or  without  being  even  confront- 
ed by  my  accusers.  I  have  now  lived  in  solitude 
and  darkness  for  more  than  fifty  years,  and  am 
grown  familiar  with  distress.  As  yet,  dazzled  with 
the  splendour  of  that  sun  to  which  you  have  re- 
stored me,  I  have  been  wandering  the  streets  to 
find  some  friend  that  would  assist,  or  relieve,  or  re- 
member me ;  but  my  friends,  my  family,  and  rela- 
tions, are  all  dead,  and  I  am  forgotten.  Permit  me, 
then,  O  Chinvang,  to  wear  out  the  vn-etched  re- 
mains of  life  in  my  former  prison :  the  walls  of  my 
dungeon  are  to  me  more  pleasing  than  the  most 
splendid  palace ;  I  have  not  long  to  live,  and  shall 
be  unhappy  except  I  spend  the  rest  of  my  days 
where  my  youth  was  passed — ^in  that  prison  from 
which  you  were  pleased  to  release  me." 

The  old  man's  passion  for  confinement  is  simi- 
lar to  that  we  all  have  for  life.  "We  are  habituated 
to  the  prison,  we  look  round  with  discontent,  are 
displeased  with  the  abode,  and  yet  the  length  of 
our  captivity  only  increases  our  fondness  for  the 
cell.  The  trees  we  have  planted,  the  houses  we 
have  built,  or  the  posterity  we  liave  begotten,  all 


LETTER  LXXIV. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

In  reading  the  newspapers  here,  I  have  reckon- 
ed up  not  less  than  twenty-five  great  men,  seven- 
teen very  great  men,  and  nine  very  extraordinary 
men,  in  less  than  the  compass  of  half  a-year. 
"  These,"  say  the  gazettes,  "  are  the  men  that  pos- 
terity are  to  gaze  at  with  admiration ;  these  the 
names  that  fame  will  be  employed  in  holding  up 
for  the  astonishment  of  succeeding  ages."  Let  me 
see — forty-six  great  men  in  half  a-year,  amount 
just  to  ninety-two  in  a  year.  I  wonder  how  pos- 
terity will  be  able  to  remember  them  all,  or  whether 
the  people,  in  future  times  will  have  any  other  bu- 
siness to  mind,  but  that  of  getting  the  catalogue  by 
heart. 

Does  the  mayor  of  a  corporation  make  a  speech? 
he  is  instantly  set  down  for  a  great  man.    Does  a 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


341 


pedant  digest  his  common-place  book  into  a  folio  7 
he  quickly  becomes  great.  Does  a  poet  string  up 
trite  sentiments  in  rhyme?  he  also  becomes  the 
great  man  of  the  hour.  How  diminutive  soever 
the  object  of  admiration,  each  is  followed  by  a 
crowd  of  still  more  diminutive  admirers.  The 
shout  begins  in  his  train,  onward  he  marches  to- 
wards immortality,  looks  back  at  the  pursuing  crowd 
with  self  satisfaction ;  catching  all  the  oddities,  the 
whimsies,  the  absurdities,  and  the  littleness  of  con- 
scious greatness,  by  the  way. 

I  was  yesterday  invited  by  a  gentleman  to  din- 
ner, who  promised  that  our  entertainment  should 
consist  of  a  haunch  of  venison,  a  turtle,  and  a 
great  man.  I  came  according  to  appointment. 
The  venison  was  fine,  the  turtle  good,  but  the  great 
man  insupportable.  The  moment  I  ventured  to 
speak,  I  was  at  once  contradicted  with  a  snap.  I 
attempted,  by  a  second  and  a  third  assault,  to  re- 
trieve my  lost  reputation,  but  was  still  beat  back 
with  confusion.  I  was  resolved  to  attack  him  once 
more  from  intrenchment,  and  turned  the  conver- 
sation upon  the  government  of  China :  but  even 
here  he  asserted,  snapped,  and  contradicted  as  be- 
fore. "  Heavens,"  thought  I,  "  this  man  pretends 
to  know  China  even  better  than  myself!"  I  look- 
ed round  to  see  who  was  on  my  side ;  but  every 
eye  was  fixed  in  admiration  on  the  great  man :  I 
therefore  at  last  thought  proper  to  sit  silent,  and 
act  the  pretty  gentleman  during  the  ensuing  con- 
versation. 

When  a  man  has  once  secured  a  circle  of  ad- 
mirers, he  may  be  as  ridiculous  here  as  he  thinks 
proper ;  and  it  all  passes  for  elevation  of  sentiment, 
or  learned  absence.  If  he  transgresses  the  com- 
mon forms  of  breeding,  mistakes  even  a  tea-pot  for 
a  tobacco-box,  it  is  said  that  his  thoughts  are  fixed 
on  more  important  objects ;  to  speak  and  to  act  like 
the  rest  of  mankind,  is  to  be  no  greater  than  they. 
There  is  something  of  oddity  in  the  very  idea  of 
greatness ;  for  we  are  seldom  astonished  at  a  thing 
very  much  resembling  ourselves. 

When  the  Tartars  make  a  Lama,  their  first 
care  is  to  place  him  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  tem- 
ple :  here  he  is  to  sit  half  concealed  from  view,  to 
regulate  the  motion  of  his  hands,  lips,  and  eyes ; 
but,  above  all,  he  is  enjoined  gravity  and  silence. 
This,  however,  is  but  the  prelude  to  his  apotheo- 
sis :  a  set  of  emissaries  are  despatched  among  the 
people,  to  cry  up  his  piety,  gravity,  and  love  of 
Taw  flesh ;  the  people  take  them  at  their  word,  ap- 
proach the  Lama,  now  become  an  idol,  with  the 
most  humble  prostration ;  he  receives  their  address- 
es without  motion,  commences  a  god,  and  is  ever 
after  fed  by  his  priests  with  the  spoon  of  immor- 
tality. The  same  receipt  in  this  country  serves  to 
make  a  greai  man.  The  idol  only  keeps  close, 
Mnds  out  his  little  emissaries  to  be  hearty  in  his 


praise ;  and  straight,  whether  statesman  or  author, 
he  is  set  down  in  the  list  of  fame,  continuing  to 
be  praised  while  it  is  fashionable  to  praise,  or 
while  he  prudently  keeps  his  minuteness  conceal- 
ed from  the  public. 

I  have  visited  many  countries,  and  have  been  in 
cities  without  number,  yet  never  did  I  enter  a  town 
which  could  not  produce  ten  or  twelve  of  those 
little  great  men ;  all  fancj-ing  themselves  known 
to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  complimenting  each 
other  upon  their  extensive  reputation.  It  is  amus- 
ing enough  when  two  of  those  domestic  prodigies 
of  learning  mount  the  stage  of  ceremony,  and  give 
and  take  praise  from  each  other.  I  have  been  pre- 
sent when  a  German  doctor,  for  having  pronounced 
a  panegyric  upon  a  certain  monk,  was  thought  the 
most  ingenious  man  in  the  world :  till  the  monk 
soon  after  divided  this  reputation  by  returning  the 
compliment ;  by  which  means  they  both  marched 
off  with  universal  applause. 

The  same  degree  of  undeserved  adulation  that 
attends  our  great  man  while  hving  often  also  fol- 
lows him  to  the  tomb.  It  frequently  happens  that 
one  of  his  little  admirers  sits  down  big  with  the  im- 
portant subject,  and  is  delivered  of  the  history  of 
his  life  and  writings.  This  may  properly  be  called 
the  revolutions  of  a  life  between  the  fire-side  and 
the  easy-chair. 

In  this  we  learn,  the  year  in  which  he  was 
born,  at  what  an  early  age  he  gave  symptoms  of 
uncommon  genius  and  application,  together  with 
some  of  his  smart  sayings,  collected  by  his  aunt  and 
mother,  while  yet  but  a  boy.  The  next  book  in- 
troduces him  to  the  university,  where  we  are  in- 
formed of  his  amazing  progress  in  learning,  his 
excellent  skill  in  darning  stockings,  and  his  new 
invention  for  papering  books  to  save  the  covers. 
He  next  makes  his  appearance  in  the  republic  of 
letters,  and  publishes  his  folio.  Now  the  colossus 
is  reared,  his  works  are  eagerly  bought  up  by  all 
the  purchasers  of  scarce  books.  The  learned  so- 
cieties invite  him  to  become  a  member ;  he  dis- 
putes against  some  foreigner  with  a  long  Latin 
name,  conquers  in  the  controversy,  is  compliment- 
ed by  several  authors  of  gravity  and  importance,  is 
excessively  fond  of  egg-sauce  with  his  pig,  becomes 
president  of  a  literary  club,  and  dies  in  the  meri- 
dian of  his  glory.  Happy  they  who  thus  have 
some  little  faithful  attendant,  who  never  forsakes 
them  but  prepares  to  wrangle  and  to  praise  against 
every  opposer ;  at  once  ready  to  increase  their  pride 
while  living,  and  their  character  when  dead.  For 
you  and  I,  my  friend,  who  have  no  humble  ad- 
mirer thus  to  attend  us,  we,  who  neither  are,  not 
ever  will  be,  great  men,  and  who  do  not  much 
care  whether  we  are  great  men  or  no,  at  least  let 
us  strive  to  be  honest  men,  and  to  have  common 
Adieu. 


342 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


LETTER  LXXV. 


From  the  Same. 


There  are  numbers  in  this  city  who  live  by 
writing  new  books  :  and  yet  there  are  thousands  of 
volumes  in  every  large  library  unread  and  forgot- 
ten. This,  upon  my  arrival,  was  one  of  those 
contradictions  which  I  was  unable  to  account  for. 
"  Is  it  possible,"  said  I,  "  that  there  should  be  any 
demand  for  new  books,  before  those  already  pub- 
lished are  read  ?  Can  there  be  so  many  employed 
in  producing  a  commodity  with  which  the  mar- 
ket is  already  over-stocked  :  and  with  goods  also 


better  than 


any 


of  modern  manufacti 


What  at  first  view  appeared  an  inconsistence,  is 
a  proof  at  once  of  this  people's  wisdom  and  refine- 
ment. Even  allowing  the  works  of  their  ances- 
tors to  be  better  written  than  theirs,  yet  those  of 
the  moderns  acquire  a  real  value  by  being  marked 
with  the  impression  of  the  times.  Antiquity  has 
been  in  the  possession  of  others ;  the  present  is  our 
own  :  let  us  first  therefore  learn  to  know  what  be- 
longs to  ourselvesj  and  then,  if  we  have  leisure, 
cast  our  reflections  back  to  the  reign  of  Shonou, 
who  governed  twenty  thousand  years  before  the 
creation  of  the  moon. 

The  volumes  of  antiquity,  like  medais,  may  very 
well  serve  to  amuse  the  curious  ;  but  the  works  of 
the  moderns,  like  the  current  coin  of  a  kingdom, 
are  much  better  for  immediate  use  :  the  former  are 
often  prized  above  their  intrinsic  value,  and  kept 
with  care ;  the  latter  seldom  pass  for  more  than 
they  are  worth,  and  are  often  subject  to  the  merci- 
less hands  of  sweating  critics  and  clipping  compi- 
lers :  the  works  of  antiquity  were  ever  praised, 
those  of  the  moderns  read:  the  treasures  of  our 
ancestors  have  our  esteem,  and  we  boast  the  pas- 
sion: those  of  contemporary  genius  engage  our 
heart,  although  we  blush  to  own  it.  The  visits  we 
pay  the  former  resemble  those  we  pay  the  great, 
the  ceremony  is  troublesome,  and  yet  such  as  we 
would  not  choose  to  forego  ;  our  acquaintance  with 
modern  books  is  like  sitting  with  a  friend,  our 
pride  is  not  flattered  in  the  interview,  but  it  gives 
more  internal  satisfaction. 

In  proportion  as  society  refines,  new  books  must 
ever  become  more  necessary.  Savage  rusticity  is 
reclaimed  by  oral  admonition  alone:  but  the  elegant 
excesses  of  refinement  are  best  corrected  by  the 
still  voice  of  studious  inquiry.  In  a  polite  age,  al- 
most every  person  becomes  a  reader,  and  receives 
more  instruction  from  the  press  than  the  pulpit. 
The  preaching  Bonze  may  instruct  the  illiterate 
peasant ;  but  nothing  less  than  the  insinuating  ad- 
dress of  a  fine  writer  can  win  its  way  to  a  heart  al- 
ready relaxed  in  all  the  effeminacy  of  refinement. 
Books  are  necessary  to  correct  the  vices  of  the  po- 
lite; but  those  vices  are  ever  changing,  and  the 


antidote  should  be  changed  accordingly-r— should 
still  be  new. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  thinking  the  number  of 
new  publications  here  too  great,  1  could  wish  it  still 
greater,  as  they  are  the  most  useful  instruments  of 
reformation.  Every  country  must  be  instructed 
either  by  writers  or  preachers;  but  as  the  number 
of  readers  increases,  the  number  of  hearers  is  pro- 
portionably  diminished,  the  writer  becomes  more 
useful,  and  the  preaching  Bonze  less  necessary. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  complaining  that  writers 
are  overpaid,  when  their  works  procure  them  a  bare 
subsistence,  I  should  imagine  it  the  duty  of  a  state, 
not  only  to  encourage  their  numbers,  but  their  in- 
dustry. A  Bonze  is  rewarded  with  immense  riches 
for  instructing  only  a  few,  even  of  the  most  igno- 
rant of  the  people;  and  sure  the  poor  scholar  should 
not  beg  his  bread,  who  is  capable  of  instructing  a 
million. 

Of  all  rewards,  I  grant,  the  most  pleasing  to  a 
man  of  real  merit,  is  fame ;  but  a  polite  age,  of  all 
times,  is  that  in  which  scarcely  any  share  of  merit 
can  acquire  it.  What  numbers  of  fine  writers  in 
the  latter  empire  of  Rome,  when  refinement  was 
carried  to  the  highest  pitch,  have  missed  that  fame 
and  immortality  which  they  had  fondly  arrogated 
to  themselves!  How  many  Greek  authors  who  wrote 
at  that  period  when  Constantinople  was  the  refined 
mistress  of  the  empire,  now  rest,  either  not  print- 
ed, or  not  read,  in  the  libraries  of  Europe!  Those 
who  came  first,  while  either  state  as  yet  was  bar- 
barous, carried  all  the  reputation  away.  Authors, 
as  the  age  refined,  became  more  numerous,  and 
their  numbers  destroyed  their  fame.  It  is  but 
natural,  therefore,  for  the  writer,  when  conscious 
that  his  works  will  not  procure  him  fame  hereafter, 
to  endeavour  to  make  them  turn  out  to  his  tem- 
poral interest  here. 

Whatever  be  the  motives  which  induce  men  to 
write,  whether  avarice  or  fame,  the  country  be- 
comes most  wise  and  happy,  in  which  they  most 
serve  for  instructors.  The  countries  where  sacer- 
dotal instruction  alone  is  permitted,  remain  in  ig- 
norance, superstition,  and  hopeless  slavery.  In  En- 
gland, where  there  are  as  many  new  books  pubhshed 
as  in  all  the  rest  of  Europe  together,  a  spirit  of  free- 
dom and  reason  reigns  among  the  people;  they 
have  been  often  known  to  act  like  fools;  they  are 
generally  found  to  think  like  men. 

The  only  danger  that  attends  a  multiplicity  of 
publications  is,  that  some  of  them  may  be  calculated 
to  injure  rather  than  benefit  society.  But  where 
writers  are  numerous,  they  also  serve  as  a  check 
upon  each  other;  and  perhaps,  a  literary  inquisi- 
tion is  the  most  terrible  punishment  that  jcan  be 
conceived  to  a  literary  transgressor. 

But  to  do  the  English  justice,  there  are  but  fsw 
offenders  of  this  kind ;  their  publications  in  general 
aim  at  mending  either  the  heart,  or  improving  tii« 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


943 


commonweal.  The  dullest  writer  talks  of  virtue, 
and  liberty,  and  benevolence,  with  esteem ;  tells  his 
true  story,  filled  with  good  and  wholesome  advice ; 
warns  against  slavery,  bribery,  or  the  bite  of  a  mad 
dog ;  and  dresses  up  his  little  useful  magazine  of 
knowledge  and  entertainment,  at  least  with  a  good 
intention.  The  dunces  of  France,  on  the  other 
hand,  who  have  less  encouragement,  are  more  vi- 
cious. Tender  hearts,  languishing  eyes,  Leonora 
in  love  at  thirteen,  ecstatic  transports,  stolen  blisses, 
are  the  frivolous  subjects  of  their  frivolous  memoirs. 
In  England,  if  an  obscene  blockhead  thus  breaks 
in  on  the  community,  he  sets  his  whole  fraternity 
in  a  roar ;  nor  can  he  escape,  even  though  he  should 
fly  to  nobility  for  shelter. 

Thus  even  dunces,  my  friend,  may  make  them- 
selves useful.  But  there  are  others,  whom  nature 
has  blessed  with  talents  above  the  rest  of  mankind; 
men  capable  of  thinking  with  precision,  and  im- 
pressing their  thought  with  rapidity;  beings  who 
diffuse  those  regards  upon  mankind,  which  others 
contract  and  settle  upon  themselves.  These  deserve 
every  honour  from  that  community  of  which  they 
are  more  p^uliarly  the  children;  to  such  I  would 
give  my  heart,  since  to  them  I  am  indebted  for  its 
humanity!  Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXVI. 

From  Hingpo  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  by  tlie  way  of  Moscow. 

I  STILL  remain  at  Terki,  where  I  have  received 
that  money  which  was  remitted  here  in  order  to  re- 
lease me  from  captivity.  My  fair  companion  still  im- 
proves in  my  esteem ;  the  more  I  know  her  mind, 
her  beauty  becomes  more  poignant;  she  appears 
charming,  even  among  the  daughters  of  Circassia. 

Yet  were  I  to  examine  her  beauty  with  the  art 
of  a  statuary,  I  should  find  numbers  here  that  far 
surpass  her ;  nature  has  not  granted  her  all  the 
boasted  Circassian  regularity  of  feature,  and  yet 
she  greatly  exceeds  the  fairest  of  the  country,  in  the 
art  of  seizing  the  affections.  "  Whence,"  have  I 
often  said  to  myself,  "  this  resistless  magic  that  at- 
tends even  moderate  charms?  though  1  regard  the 
beauties  of  the  country  with  admiration,  every  in- 
terview weakens  the  impression,  but  the  form  of 
ZeUs  grows  upon  my  imagination ;  I  never  behold 
her  without  an  increase  of  tenderness  and  respect. 


ley  of  the  Graces :  the  one  adorned  with  all  that 
luxuriant  nature  could  bestow ;  the  fruits  of  va- 
rious climates  adorned  the  trees,  the  grove  resound- 
ed with  music,  the  gale  breathed  perfume,  every 
charm  that  could  arise  from  symmetry  and  exact 
distribution  were  here  conspicuous,  the  whole  of- 
fering a  prospect  of  pleasure  without  end.  The 
Valley  of  the  Graces,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  by 
no  means  so  inviting ;  the  streams  and  the  groves 
appeared  just  as  they  usually  do  in  frequented 
countries:  no  magnificent  parterres,  no  concert  in 
the  grove,  the  rivulet  was  edged  with  weeds,  and 
the  rook  joined  its  voice  to  that  of  the  nightingale. 
All  was  simplicity  and  nature. 

The  most  striking  objects  ever  first  allure  the 
traveller.  1  entered  the  Region  of  Beauty  with 
increased  curiosity,  and  promised  myself  endless 
satisfaction  in  being  introduced  to  the  presiding 
goddess.  I  perceived  several  strangers,  who  entered 
with  the  same  design ;  and  what  surprised  me  not 
a  little,  was  to  see  several  others  hastening  to  leave 
this  abode  of  seeming  felicity. 

After  some  fatigue,  I  had  at  last  the  honour  of  be- 
ing introduced  to  the  goddess  who  represented 
Beauty  in  person.  She  was  seated  on  a  throne,  at 
the  foot  of  which  stood  several  strangers,  lately  in- 
troduced like  me,  all  regarding  her  form  in  ecstasy. 
"  Ah,  what  eyes !  what  Ups !  how  clear  her  com- 
plexion !  how  perfect  her  shape !"  At  these  excla- 
mations. Beauty,  with  downcast  eyes,  would  en- 
deavour to  counterfeit  modesty,  but  soon  again 
looking  round  as  if  to  confirm  every  spectator  in 
his  favourable  sentiments;  sometimes  she  would 
attempt  to  allure  us  by  smiles ;  and  at  intervals 
would  bridle  back,  in  order  to  inspire  us  with 
respect  as  well  as  tenderness. 

This  ceremony  lasted  for  some  time,  and  had  so 
much  employed  our  eyes,  that  we  had  forgot  all 
this  while  that  the  goddess  was  silent.  We  soon, 
however,  began  to  perceive  the  defect.  *'  What!" 
said  we,  among  each  other,  "  are  we  to  have,nothing 
but  languishing  airs,  soft  looks,  and  inclinations 
of  the  head ;  will  the  goddess  only  deign  to  satisfy 
our  eyes  7"  Upon  this  one  of  the  company  stepped 
up  to  present  her  with  some  fruits  he  had  gathered 
by  the  way.  She  received  theipresent  most  sweetly 
smiling,  and  with  one  of  the  whitest  hands  in  the 
world,  but  still  not  a  word  escaped  her  lips. 

I  now  found  that  my  companions  grew  weary 
of  their  homage;  they  went  off  one  by  one,  and  re- 


Whence  this  injustice  of  the  mind,  in  preferring  solving  not  to  be  left  behind,  1  offered  to  go  in  my 


imperfect  beauty  to  that  which  nature  seems  to  hav 
finished  with  care.  Whence  the  infatuation,  thai 
he  whom  a  comet  could  pot  amaze,  should  be  as- 
tonished at  a  meteor?"  When  reason  was  thus 
fatigued  to  find  an  answer,  my  imagination  pursu- 
ed the  subject,  and  this  was  the  result. 

I  fancied  myself  placed  between  two  landscapes, 
this  called  the  Region  of  Beauty,  and  that  the  Val- 


turn,  when,  just  at  the  door  of  the  temple,  i  was 
called  back  by  a  female,  whose  name  was  Pride, 
and  who  seemed  displeased  at  the  behaviour  of  the 
company.  "  Where  are  you  hastening  ?"  said  she 
to  me  with  an  angry  air ;  "  the  Goddess  of  Beauty 
is  here." — "  I  have  been  to  visit  her,  madam,"  re- 
plied I,  "and  find  her  more  beautiful  even  than 
report  had  made  her." — '■  And  why  then  will  you 


344 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


leave  her?"  added  the  female.  "  I  have  seen  her 
long  enough,"  returned  I,  "  I  have  got  all  her  fea- 
tures by  heart.  Her  eyes  are  still  the  same.  Her 
nose  is  a  very  fine  one,  but  it  is  still  just  such  a  nose 
now  as  it  was  half  an  hour  ago:  could  she  throw  a 
little  more  miud  into  her  face,  perhaps  I  should  be 
for  wishing  to  have  more  of  her  company." — 

What  signifies,"  replied  my  female,  "whether 
she  has  a  mind  or  not;  has  she  any  occasion  for  a 
mind,  so  formed  as  she  is  by  nature?  If  she  had  a 
common  face^  indeed,  there  might  be  some  reason 
for  thinking  to  improve  it;  but  when  features  are 
already  perfect,  every  alteration  would  but  impair 
them.  A  fine  face  is  already  at  the  point  of  per- 
fection, and  a  fine  lady  should  endeavour  to  keep 
it  so :  the  impression  it  would  receive  from  thought 
would  but  disturb  its  whole  economy." 

To  this  speech  I  gave  no  reply,  but  made  the 
best  of  my  way  to  the  Valley  of  the  Graces.  Here 
I  found  all  those  who  before  had  been  my  com- 
panions in  the  Region  of  Beauty,  now  upon  the 
same  errand. 

As  we  entered  the  valley,  the  prospect  insensibly 
Jeemed  to  improve ;  we  found  every  thing  so  na- 
tural, so  domestic,  and  pleasing,  that  our  minds, 
which  before  were  congealed  in  admiration,  now 
relaxed  into  gaiety  and  good-humour.  We  had 
designed  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  presiding  god- 
dess, but  she  was  no  where  to  be  found.  One  of 
our  companions  asserted,  that  her  temple  lay  to  the 
right ;  another,  to  the  left ;  a  third  insisted  that  it 
was  straight  before  us ;  and  a  fourth,  that  we  had 
left  it  behind.  In  short,  we  found  every  thing  fa- 
miliar and  charming,  but  could  not  determine 
where  to  seek  for  the  Grace  in  person. 

In  this  agreeable  incertitude  we  passed  several 
hours,  and  though  very  desirous  of  finding  the  god- 
dess, by  no  means  impatient  of  the  delay.  Every 
part  of  the  valley  presented  some  minute  beauty, 
^vhich,  without  offering  itself,  at  once  stole  upon 
the  soul,  and  captivated  us  with  the  charms  of  our 
letreat.  Still,  however,  we  continued  to  search, 
and  might  still  have  continued^  had  we  not  been 
interrupted  by  a  voice,  which,  though  we  could  not 
see  from  whence  it  came,  addressed  us  in  this  man- 
ner :  "  If  you  would  find  the  Goddess  of  Grace, 
seek  her  not  under  one  form,  for  she  assumes  a 
thousand.  Ever  changing  under  the  eye  of  inspec- 
lion,  her  variety,  rather  than  her  figure,  is  pleasing. 
In  contemplating  her  beauty,  the  eye  glides  over 
every  perfection  with  giddy  delight,  and,  capable 
of  fixing  no  where,  is  charmed  with  the  whole.* 
She  is  now  Contemplation  with  solemn  look,  again 
Compassion  with  humid  eye;  she  now  sparkles 
with  joy,  soon  every  feature  speaks  distress ;  her 
looks  at  times  invite  our  approach,  at  others  repress 
our  presumption :  the  goddess  can  not  be  properly 


called  beautiful  under  aqy  one  of  these  forms,  but 
by  combining  them  all  she  becomes  irresistibly 
-'    "      ■•     Adieu. 


*  Vultus  nimium  lubricus  aspici.— JHbr. 


LETTER  LXXVII. 

From  Lieo  Chi  Altangi  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  PrCTident  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  In  China. 

The  shops  of  London  are  as  well  furnished  as 
those  of  Pekin.  Those  of  London  have  a  picture 
hung  at  their  door,  informing  the  passengers  what 
they  have  to  sell,  as  those  at  Pekin  have  a  board, 
to  assure  the  buyer  that  they  have  no  intention  to 
cheat  him. 

I  went  this  morning  to  buy  silk  for  a  nightcap : 
immediately  upon  entering  the  mercer's  shop,  the 
master  and  his  two  men,  with  wigs  plastered  with 
powder,  appeared  to  ask  my  commands.  They 
were  certainly  the  civilest  people  alive :  if  I  but 
looked,  they  flew  to  the  place  where  I  cast  my  eye; 
every  motion  of  mine  sent  them  running  round  the 
whole  shop  for  my  satisfaction.  I  iij^prmed  them 
that  I  wanted  what  was  good,  and  they  showed  me 
not  less  than  forty  pieces,  and  each  was  better  than 
the  former,  the  prettiest  pattern  in  nature,  and  the 
fittest  in  the  world  for  nightcaps.  •'  My  very  good 
friend,"  said  I  to  the  mercer,  "you  must  not  pre- 
tend to  instruct  me  in  silks ;  I  know  these  in  par- 
ticular to  be  no  better  than  your  mere  flimsy  Bun 
geesj' — "  That  may  be,"  cried  the  mercer,  who 
I  afterwards  found  had  never  contradicted  a  man 
in  his  life ;  "  I  can  not  pretend  to  say  but  they  may; 
but,  I  can  assure  you,  my  Lady  Trail  has  had  a 
sack  from  this  piece  this  very  morning." — "  But, 
friend,"  said  I,  "though  my  lady  has  chosen  a  sack 
from  it,  I  see  no  necessity  that  I  should  wear  it  for 
a  nightcap." — "  That  may  be,"  returned  he  again, 
"yet  what  becomes  a  pretty  lady,  will  at  any  time 
look  well  on  a  handsome  gentleman."  This  short 
compliment  was  thrown  in  so  very  seasonably  upon 
my  ugly  face,  that,  even  though  I  disUked  the  silk, 
I  desired  him  to  cut  off  the  pattern  of  a  nightcap. 

While  this  business  was  consigned  to  his  jour- 
neyman, the  master  himself  took  down  some  pieces 
of  silk  still  finer  than  any  I  had  yet  seen,  and 
spreading  them  before  me,,  "There,"  cries  he, 
"there's  beauty;  my  Lord  Snakeskin  has  bespoke 
the  fellow  to  this  for  the  birthnight  this  very  morn- 
ing; it  would  look  charmingly  in  waistcoats." — 
'But  I  don't  want  a  waistcoat,"  replied  I.  '*Not 
want  a  waistcoat !"  returned  the  mercer,  "then  I 
would  advise  you  to  buypne;  when  waistcoats  are 
wanted  you  may  depend  upon  it  they  will  come  dear. 
Always  buy  before  you  want,  and  you  are  sure 
to  be  well  used,  as  they  say  in  Cheapside."  There 
was  so  much  justice  in  his  advice,  that  I  could  not 
refuse  taking  it;  besides,  the  silk,  which  was  really 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


345 


a  good  one,  increased  the  temptation ;  so  I  gave  or- 
ders for  that  too. 

As  I  was  waiting  to  have  my  bargains  measured 
and  cut,  which,  I  know  not  how,  they  executed  but 
slowly,  during  the  interval  the  mercer  entertained 
me  with  the  modern  manner  of  some  of  the  nobility 
receiving  company  in  their  morning-gowns;  "Per- 
haps, sir,"  adds  he,  "you  have  a  mind  to  see  what 
kind  of  silk  is  universally  worn."  Without  wait- 
ing for  my  reply,  he  spreads  a  piece  before  me, 
which  might  be  reckoned  beautiful  even  in  China. 
"If  the  nuDiIity,"  continues  he,  "were  to  know  1 
sold  this  to  any  under  a  Right  Honourable,  I 
should  certainly  lose  their  custom;  you  see,  my 
lord,  it  is  at  once  rich,  tasty,  and  quite  the  thing." 

-"I  am  no  lord,"  interrupted  I. — "  I  beg  pardon," 
cried  he;  "but  be  pleased  to  remember,  when  you 
intend  buying  a  morning-gown,  that  you  had  an 
offer  from  me  of  something  worth  money.  Con- 
science, sir,  conscience,  is  my  way  of  dealing ;  you 
may  buy  a  morning-gown  now,  or  you  may  stay 
(ill  they  become  dearer  and  less  fashionable;  but  it 
is  not  my  business  to  advise."  In  short,  most 
reverend  Fum,  he  persuaded  me  to  buy  a  morning- 
gown  also,  and  would  probably  have  persuaded  me 
to  have  bought  half  the  goods  in  his  shop,  if  I  had 
stayed  long  enough,  or  was  furnished  with  suf- 
ficient money. 

Upon  returning  home,  I  could  not  help  reflect- 
ing, with  some  astonishment,  how  this  very  man, 
with  such  a  confined  education  and  capacity,  was 
yet  capable  of  turning  me  as  he  thought  proper, 
and  moulding  me  to  his  inclinations!  I  knew  he 
was  only  answering  his  own  purposes,  even  while 
he  attempted  to  appear  solicitous  about  mine;  yet, 
by  a  voluntary  infatuation,  a  sort  of  passion,  com- 
pounded of  vanity  and  good-nature,  1  walked  into 
the  snare  with  my  eyes  open,  and  put  myself  to 
future  pain  in  order  to  give  him  immediate  pleasure. 
The  wisdom  of  the  ignorant  somewhat  resembles 
the  instinct  of  animals ;  it  is  diffused  in  but  a  very 
narrow  sphere,  but  within  that  circle  it  acts  with 
vigour,  uniformity,  and  success.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXVIII. 


From  the  Same. 


From  my  former  accounts,  you  may  be  apt  to 
Uncy  the  English  the  most  ridiculous  people  under 
the  sun.  They  are  indeed  ridiculous;  yet  every 
other  nation  in  Europe  is  equally  so;  each  laughs 
at  each,  and  the  Asiatic  at  all. 

I  may,  upon  another  occasion,  point  out  what  is 
most  strikingly  absurd  in  other  countries;  I  shall 
at  present  confine  myself  only  to  France.  The 
first  national  peculiarity  a  traveller  meets  upon  en- 
tering th&t  kingdom,  is  an  odd  sort  of  staring  vi- 


vacity in  every  eye,  not  excepting  even  the  child- 
ren ;  the  people,  it  seems,  have  got  it  mto  their 
heads,  that  they  have  more  wit  than  otliers,  and  so 
stare  in  order  to  look  smart. 

I  know  not  how  it  happens,  but  there  appears  a 
sickly  delicacy  in  the  faces  of  their  finest  women. 
This  may  have  introduced  the  use  of  paint,  and 
paint  produces  wrinkles ;  so  that  a  fine  lady  shall 
look  like  a  hag  at  twenty-three.  But  as.  in  some 
measure,  they  never  appear  young,  so  it  may  be 
equally  asserted,  that  they  actually  think  them- 
selves never  old ;  a  gentle  miss  shall  prepare  for 
new  conquests  at  sixty,  shall  hobble  a  rigadoon 
when  she  can  scarcely  walk  out  without  a  crutch; 
she  shall  affect  the  girl,  play  her  fan  and  her  eyes, 
and  talk  of  sentiments,  bleeding  hearts,  and  ex- 
piring for  love,  when  actually  dying  with  age. 
Like  a  departing  philosopher,  she  attempts  to 
make  her  last  moments  the  most  brilliant  of  her 
life. 

Their  civility  to  strangers  is  what  they  are  chief- 
ly proud  of;  and  to  confess  sincerely,  their  beggars 
are  the  very  politest  beggars  I  ever  knew :  in  other 
places,  a  traveller  is  addressed  with  a  piteous  whiue^ 
or  a  sturdy  solemnity,  but  a  French  beggar  shall 
ask  your  charity  with  a  very  genteel  bow,  and 
thank  you  for  it  with  a  smile  and  shrug. 

Another  instance  of  this  people's  breeding  I  must 
not  forget.  An  Englishman  would  not  speak  his 
native  language  in  a  company  of  foreigners,  where 
he  was  sure  that  none  understood  him ;  a  travelling 
Hottentot  himself  would  be  silent  if  acquainted 
only  with  the  language  of  his  country:  but  a 
Frenchman  shall  talk  to  you  whether  you  under- 
stand his  language  or  not ;  never  troubling  his  head 
whether  you  have  learned  French,  still  he  keeps 
up  the  conversation,  fixes  his  eye  full  in  your  face, 
and  asks  a  thousand  questions,  which  he  answers 
himself,  for  want  of  a  more  satisfactory  reply. 

But  their  civility  to  foreigners  is  not  half  so  great 
as  their  admiration  of  themselves.  Every  thing 
that  belongs  to  them  and  their  nation  is  great, 
magnificent  beyond  expression,  quite  romantic! 
every  garden  is  a  paradise,  every  hovel  a  palace, 
and  every  woman  an  angel.  They  shut  their  eyes 
close,  throw  their  mouths  wide  open,  and  cry  out 
in  a  rapture,  "  Sucre!  what  beauty ! — O  Ciel! 
what  taste ! — mort  de  Tna  vie !  what  grandeur ! 
was  ever  any  people  like  ourselves?  we  are  the  na- 
tion of  men,  and  all  the  rest  no  better  than  two- 
legged  barbarians." 

I  fancy  the  French  Would  make  the  best  cooks 
in  the  world  if  they  had  but  meat:  as  it  is,  they 
can  dress  you  out  five  different  dishes  from  a  nettle- 
pot,  seven  from  a  dock-leaf,  and  twice  as  many  fron: 
a  frog's  haunches ;  these  eat  prettily  enough  whe* 
one  is  a  little  used  to  them,  are  easy  of  digestion^ 
and  seldom  overload  the  stomach  with  crudities. 
They  seldom  dine  under  seven  hot  dishes:  it  v> 


346 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


true,  indeed,  with  all  this  magnificence,  they  sel- 
dom spread  a  cloth  before  the  guests ;  but  in  that  I 
can  not  be  angry  with  them,  since  those  who  have 
got  no  linen  on  their  backs  may  very  well  be  ex- 
cused for  wanting  it  upon  their  tables. 

Even  religion  itself  loses  its  solemnity  among 
t.hem.  Upon  their  roads,  at  about  every  five  miles' 
distance,  you  see  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
dressed  up  in  grim  head-clothes,  painted  cheeks, 
and  an  old  Ted  petticoat;  before  her  a  lamp  is  often 
kept  burning,  at  which,  with  the  saint's  permission, 
I  have  frequently  Hghted  my  pipe.  Instead  of  the 
Virgin,  you  are  sometimes  presented  with  a  cruci- 
fix, at  other  times  with  a  wooden  Saviour,  fitted 
out  in  complete  garniture,  with  sponge,  spear, 
nails,  pincers,  hammer,  bees'  wax,  and  vinegar- 
bottle.  Some  of  those  images,  1  have  been  told, 
came  down  from  heaven ;  if  so,  in  heaven  they  have 
but  bungling  workmen. 

In  passing  through  their  towns,  you  frequently 
see  the  men  sitting  at  the  doors  knitting  stockings, 
while  the  care  of  cultivating  the  ground  and  pruning 
the  vines  falls  to  the  women.  This  is,  perhaps, 
the  reason  why  the  fair  sex  are  granted  some  pe- 
culiar privileges  in  this  country ;  particularly,  when 
they  can  get  horses,  of  riding  without  a  side- 
saddle 

But  I  begin  to  think  you  may  find  this  descrip- 
tion pert  and  dull  enough  ;  perhaps  it  is  so,  yet,  in 
general,  it  is  the  manner  in  which  the  French 
usually  describe  foreigners ;  and  it  is  but  just  to 
force  a  part  of  that  ridicule  back  upon  them  which 
they  attempt  to  lavish  on  others.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXIX. 


From  the  Same. 


The  two  theatres,  which  serve  to  amuse  the 
citizens  here,  are  again  opened  for  the  winter. 
The  mimetic  troops,  different  from  those  of  the 
state,  begin  their  campaign  when  all  the  others 
quit  the  field ;  and,  at  a  time  when  the  Europeans 
cease  to  destroy  each  other  in  reality,  they  are  en- 
tertained with  mock  battles  upon  the  stage. 

The  dancing  master  once  more  shakes  his  quiver- 
ing feet;  the  carpenter  prepares  his  paradise  of 
pasteboard ;  the  hero  resolves  to  cover  his  forehead 
with  brass,  and  the  heroine  begins  to  scour  up  her 
,  copper  tail,  preparative  to  future  operations ;  in 
short,  all  are  in  motion,  from  the  theatrical  letter- 
carrier  in  yellow  clothes,  to  Alexander  the  Great 
that  stands  on  a  stool. 

Both  houses  have  already  commenced  hostilities. 
War,  open  war,  and  no  quarter  received  or  given ! 
Two  singing  women,  Uke  heralds,  have  begun  the 
contest ;  the  whole  town  is  divided  on  this  solemn 
occasion;  one  has  the  finest  pipe,  the  other  the 


finest  manner ;  one  courtesies  to  the  ground,  tht> 
other  salutes  the  audience  with  a  smile ;  one  cornea 
on  with  modesty  which  asks,  the  other  with  bold 
ness  which  extorts,  applause;  one  wears  powder, 
the  other  has  none ;  one  has  the  longest  waist,  but 
the  other  appears  most  easy:  all,  all  is  important 
and  serious ;  the  town  as  yet  perseveres  in  its  neu- 
trality ;  a  cause  of  such  moment  demands  the  most 
mature  deliberation ;  they  continue  to  exhibit,  and 
it  is  very  possible  this  contest  may  continue  to 
please  to  the  end  of  the  season. 

Biit  the  generals  of  either  army  have,  as  I  am 
told,  several  reinforcements  to  lend  occasional  as- 
sistance. If  they  produce  a  pair  of  diamond  buckles 
at  one  house,  we  have  a  pair  of  eyebrows  that 
can  match  them  at  the  other.  If  we  outdo  them  in 
our  attitude,  they  can  overcome  us  by  a  shrug ;  if 
we  can  bring  more  children  on  the  stage,  they  can 
bring  more  guards  in  red  clothes,  who  strut  and 
shoulder  their  swords  to  the  astonishment  of  every 
spectator. 

They  tell  me  here,  that  people  frequent  the 
theatre  in  order  to  be  instructed  as  well  as  amused. 
I  smile  to  hear  the  assertion.  If  I  ever  go  to  one 
of  their  playhouses,  what  with  trumpets,  hallooing 
behind  the  stage,  and  bawling  upon  it,  I  am  quite 
dizzy  before  the  performance  is  over.  If  I  enter  the 
house  with  any  sentiments  in  my  head,  I  am  sure 
to  have  none  going  away,  the  whole  mind  being 
filled  with  a  dead  march,  a  funeral  procession,  a 
cat-call,  a  jig,  or  a  tempest. 

There  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  easy  than  to 
write  properly  for  the  English  theatre;  I  am  amazed 
that  none  are  apprenticed  to  the  trade.  The  au- 
thor, when  well  acquainted  with  the  value  of 
thunder  and  lightning ;  when  versed  in  all  the  mys- 
tery of  scene-shifting  and  trap-doors;  when  skilled 
in  the  proper  periods  to  introduce  a  wire- walker  or 
a  waterfall ;  when  instructed  in  every  actor's  pe- 
culiar talent,  and  capable  of  adapting  his  speeches 
to  the  supposed  excellence ;  when  thus  instructed, 
he  knows  all  that  can  give  a  modern  audience 
pleasure.  One  player  shines  in  an  exclamation, 
another  in  a  groan,  a  third  in  a  horror,  a  fourth  in 
a  start,  a  fifth  in  a  smile,  a  sixth  faints,  and  a 
seventh  fidgets  round  the  stage  with  peculiar  vi- 
vacity; that  piece,  therefore,  will  succeed  best, 
where  each  has  a  proper  opportunity  of  shining ; 
the  actor's  business  is  not  so  much  to  adapt  him- 
self to  the  poet,  as  the  poet's  to  adapt  himself  to  the 
actor. 

The  great  secret,  therefore,  of  tragedy-writing, 
at  present,  is  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  theatri- 
cal ahs  and  ohs ;  a  certain  number  of  these,  inter- 
spersed with  g"orfs  / /orittres  /  racks!  and  damna- 
tion! shall  distort  every  actor  almost  into  convuK 
sions,  and  draw  tears  from  every  spectator ;  a  proper 
use  of  these  will  infallibly  fill  the  whole  house  with 
applause.     But,  above  all,  a  whining  scene  must 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


347 


must  strike  most  forcibly.  I  would  advise,  from 
my  present  knowledge  of  the  audience,  the  two  fa- 
vourite players  of  the  town  to  introduce  a  scene  of 
this  sort  in  every  play.  Towards  the  middle  of  the 
last  act,  I  would  have  them  enter  with  wild  looks 
and  outspread  arms:  there  is  no  necessity  for 
speaking,  they  are  only  to  groan  at  each  other,  they 
must  vary  the  tones  of  exclamation  and  despair 
through  the  whole  theatrical  gamut,  wring  their 
figures  into  every  shape  of  distress,  and  when  their 
eaJamities  have  drawn  a  proper  quantity  of  tears 
Trom  the  sympathetic  spectators,  they  may  go  off 
in  dumb  solemnity  at  different  doors,  clasping  their 
hands,  or  slapping  their  pocket  holes ;  this,  which 
may  be  called  a  tragic  pantomime,  will  answer 
every  purpose  of  moving  the  passions  as  well  as 
words  could  have  done,  and  it  must  save  those  ex- 
penses which  go  to  reward  an  author. 

All  modern  plays  that  would  keep  the  audience 
alive,  must  be  conceived  in  this  manner ;  and,  in- 
deed, many  a  modern  play  is  made  up  on  no  other 
plan.  This  is  the  merit  that  lifts  up  the  heart,  like 
opium,  into  a  rapture  of  insensibility,  and  can  dis- 
miss the  mind  from  all  the  fatigue  of  thinking :  this 
is  the  eloquence  that  shines  in  many  a  long-forgot- 
ten scene,  which  has  been  reckoned  excessively 
fine  upon  acting;  this  is  the  lightning  that  flashes 
no  less  in  the  hyperbolical  tyrant  "  who  breakfasts 
on  the  wind,"  than  in  little  Norval,  "as  harm- 
less as  the  babe  unborn."     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXX. 


From  the  Same. 


I  HAVE  always  regarded  the  spirit  of  mercy 
which  appears  in  the  Chinese  laws  with  admira- 
tion. An  order  for  the  execution  of  a  criminal  is 
carried  from  court  by  slow  journeys  of  six  miles 
a-day,  but  a  pardon  is  sent  down  with  the  most 
rapid  dispatch.  If  five  sons  of  the  same  father  be 
guilty  of  the  same  offence,  one  of  them  is  forgiven, 
in  order  to  continue  the  family,  and  comfort  his 
aged  parents  in  their  decline. 

Similar  to  this,  there  is  a  spirit  of  mercy  breathes 
through  the  laws  of  England,  which  some  errone- 
ously endeavour  to  suppress ;  the  laws,  however, 
seem  unwilling  to  punish  the  offender,  or  to  fur- 
nish the  officers  of  justice  with  every  means  of  act- 
ing with  severity.  Those  who  arrest  debtors  are 
denied  the  use  of  arms ;  the  nightly  watch  is  per- 
mitted to  repress  the  disorders  of  the  drunken 
citizens  only  with  clubs ;  Justice  in  such  a  case 
seems  to  hide  her  terrors,  and  permits  some  offend- 
ers to  escape,  rather  than  load  any  with  a  punish- 
ment disproportioned  to  the  crime. 

Thus  it  is  the  glory  of  an  Englishman,  that  he 
is  not  only  governed  by  laws,  but  that  these  are 
also  tempered  by  mercy ;  a  country  restrained  by 


severe  laws,  and  those  too  executed  with  severity 
(as  in  Japan),  is  under  the  most  terrible  species  of 
tyranny ;  a  royal  tyrant  is  generally  dreadful  to  the 
great,  but  numerous  penal  laws  grind  every  rank 
of  people,  and  chiefly  those  least  able  to  resist  op- 
pression, the  poor. 

It  is  very  possible  thus  for  a  people  to  become 
slaves  to  laws  of  their  own  enacting,  as  the  Athe- 
nians were  to  those  of  Draco,  "it  might  first 
happen,"  says  the  historian,  "  that  men  with  pe- 
culiar talents  for  villany  attempted  to  evade  the 
ordinances  already  established:  their  practices, 
therefore,  soon  brought  on  a  new  law  levelled 
against  them;  but  the  same  degree  of  cunning 
which  had  taught  the  knave  to  evade  the  former 
statutes,  taught  him  to  evade  the  latter  also ;  he 
flew  to  new  shifts,  while  Justice  pursued  with  new 
ordinances ;  still,  however,  he  kept  his  proper  dis- 
tance, and  whenever  one  crime  was  judged  penal 
by  the  state,  he  left  committing  it,  in  order  to  prac- 
tise some  unforbidden  species  of  villany.  Thus 
the  criminal  against  whom  the  threatenings  were 
denounced  always  escaped  free,  while  the  simple 
rogue  alone  felt  the  rigour  of  justice.  In  the  mean 
time,  penal  laws  became  numerous ;  almost  every 
person  in  the  state,  unknowingly,  at  different  times 
offended,  and  was  every  moment  subject  to  a  ma- 
licious prosecution."  In  fact,  penal  laws,  instead 
of  preventjnfir  crimes,  are  generally  enacted  after 
the  commission ;  instead  of  repressing  the  growth 
of  ingenious  villany,  only  multiply  deceit,  by  put- 
ting it  upon  new  shifts  and  expedients  of  prac- 
tising with  impunity. 

Such  laws,  therefore,  resemble  the  guards  which 
are  sometimes  imposed  upon  tributary  princes,  ap- 
parently indeed  to  secure  them  from  danger,  but 
in  reality  to  confirm  their  captivity. 

Penal  laws,  it  must  be  allowed,  secure  property 
in  a  state,  but  they  also  diminish  personal  security 
in  the  same  proportion :  there  is  no  positive  law, 
how  equitable  soever,  that  may  not  be  sometimes 
capable  of  injustice.  When  a  law,  enacted  to 
make  theft  punishable  with  death,  happens  to  be 
equitably  executed,  it  can  at  bes^  only  guard  our 
possessions;  but  when,  by  favour  or  ignorance, 
Justice  pronounces  a  wrong  verdict,  it  then  attacks 
our  lives,  since,  in  such  a  case,  the  whole  commu- 
nity suffers  with  the  innocent  victim  :  if,  therefore, 
in  order  to  secure  the  effects  of  one  man,  1  should 
make  a  law  which  may  take  away  the  life  of  ano- 
ther, in  such  a  case,  to  attain  a  smaller  good,  I  am 
guilty  of  a  greater  evil ;  to  secure  society  in  the 
possession  of  a  bauble,  I  render  a  real  and  valuable 
possession  precarious.  And  indeed  the  experi- 
ence of  every  age  may  serve  to  vindicate  the  asser- 
tion ;  no  law  could  be  more  just  than  that  called 
les(B  majestatis^  when  Rome  was  governed  by  em- 
perors. It  was  but  reasonable,  that  every  conspi- 
racy against  the  administration  should  be  detected 


348 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


and  punished ;  yet  what  terrible  slughters  succeed- 
ed in  consequence  of  its  enactment:  proscriptions, 
stranglings,  poisonings,  in  almost  every  family  of 
distinction ;  yet  all  done  in  a  legal  way,  every 
criminal  had  his  trial,  and  lost  his  life  by  a  majori- 
ty of  witnesses. 

And  such  will  ever  be  the  case,  where  punish- 
ments are  numerous,  and  where  a  weak,  vicious, 
but,  above  all,  where  a  mercenary  magistrate  is  con- 
cerned in  their  execution :  such  a  man  desires  to 
see  penal  laws  increased,  since  he  too  frequently 
has  it  in  his  power  to  turn  them  into  instruments 
of  extortion ;  in  such  hands,  the  more  laws,  the 
wider  means,  not  of  satisfying  justice,  but  of  sati- 
ating avarice. 

A  mercenary  magistrate,  who  is  rewarded  in 
proportion,  not  to  his  integrity,  but  to  the  number 
he  convicts,  must  be  a  person  of  the  most  unblem- 
ished character,  or  he  will  lean  on  the  side  of  cruel- 
ty :  and  when  once  the  work  of  injustice  is  begun, 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  how  far  it  will  proceed.  It 
IS  said  of  the  hyaena,  that,  naturally,  it  is  no  way 
ravenous,  but  when  once  it  has  tasted  human  flesh, 
It  becomes  the  most  voracious  animal  of  the  forest, 
and  continues  to  persecute  mankind  ever  after.  A 
corrupt  magistrate  may  be  considered  as  a  human 
hysena ;  he  begins,  perhaps,  by  a  private  snap,  he 
goes  on  to  a  morsel  among  friends,  he  proceeds 
to  a  meal  in  public,  from  a  meal  he  advances  to  a 
surfeit,  and  at  last  sucks  blood  like  a  vampyre. 

Not  into  such  hands  should  the  administration 
of  justice  be  intrusted,  but  to  those  who  know  how 
to  reward  as  well  as  to  punish.  It  was  a  fine  say- 
ing of  Nangfu  the  emperor,  who,  being  told  that 
his  enemies  had  raised  an  insurrection  in  one  of 
the  distant  provinces, — "  Come,  then,  my  friends," 
said  he,  "follow  me,  and  I  promise  you  that  we 
shall  quickly  destroy  them."  He  marched  forward, 
and  the  rebels  submitted  upon  his  approach.  All 
now  thought  that  he  would  take  the  most  signal 
revenge,  but  were  surprised  to  see  the  captives 
treated  with  mildness  and  humanity.  "  How !" 
cries  his  first  minister,  "is  this  the  manner  in 
which  you  fulfil  your  promise  7  your  royal  word 
was  given  that  your  enemies  should  be  destroyed, 
and  behold  you  have  pardoned  all,  and  even  ca- 
ressed some  !" — "  I  promised,"  replied  the  empe- 
ror, with  a  generous  air,  "  to  destroy  my  enemies  ; 
I  have  fulfilled  my  word,  for  see  they  are  enemies 
no  longer, — I  have  mdn^e  friends  of  them." 

This,  could  it  alvyays  succeed,  were  the  true 
method  of  destroying  the  enemies  of  a  state ;  well 
it  were,  if  rewards  and  mercy  alone  could  regulate 
the  commonwealth  :  but  since  punishments  are 
sometimes  necessary,  let  them  at  least  be  rendered 
terrible,  by  being  executed  but  seldom;  and  let 
Justice  lift  her  sword  rather  to  terrify  than  revenge. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXI. 


From  the  Same. 


I  HAVE  as  yet  given  you  but  a  short  and  imper- 
fect description  of  the  ladies  of  England.  Woman, 
my  friend,  is  a  subject  not  easily  understood,  even 
in  China ;  what  therefore  can  be  expected  from  my 
knowledge  of  the  sex,  in  a  country  where  they  are 
universally  allowed  to  be  riddles,  and  I  but  a  stran 
ger?' 

To  confess  a  truth,  I  was  afraid  to  begin  the 
description,  lest  the  sex  should  undergo  some  new 
revolution  before  it  was  finished ;  and  my  picture 
should  thus  become  old  before  it  could  well  be  said 
to  have  ever  been  new.  To-day  they  are  lifted 
upon  stilts,  to-morrow  they  lower  their  heels,  and 
raise  their  heads ;  their  clothes  at  one  time  are 
bloated  out  with  whalebone ;  at  present  they  have 
laid  their  hoops  aside,  and  are  become  as  slim  as 
mermaids.  All,  all  is  in  a  state  of  continual  fluc- 
tuation, from  the  mandarine's  wife,  who  rattles 
through  the  streets  in  her  chariot,  to  the  humble 
seamstress,  who  clatters  over  the  pavement  in  iron- 
shod  pattens. 

What  chiefly  distinguishes  the  sex  at  present  is 
the  train.  As  a  lady's  quality  or  fashion  was 
once  determined  here  by  the  circumference  of  her 
hoop,  both  are  now  measured  by  the  length  of  her 
tail.  Women  of  moderate  fortunes  are  contented 
with  tails  moderately  long ;  but  ladies  of  true  taste 
and  distinction  set  no  bounds  to  their  ambition  in 
this  particular.  I  am  told,  the  lady  mayoress,  on 
days  of  ceremony,  carries  one  longer  than  a  bell- 
wether of  Bantam,  whose  tail,  you  know,  is  trun- 
dled along  in  a  wheelbarrow. 

Sun  of  China,  what  contradictions  do  we  find  in 
this  strange  world !  not  only  the  people  of  differ- 
ent countries  think  in  opposition  to  each  other;  but 
the  inhabitants  of  a  single  island  are  often  found 
inconsistent  with  themselves.  Would  you  believe 
it  1  this  very  people,  my  Fum,  who  are  so  fond  of 
seeing  their  women  with  long  tails,  at  the  &ame 
time  dock  their  horses  to  the  very  rump ! 

But  you  may  easily  guess  that  I  am  no  ways 
displeased  with  a  fashion  which  tends  to  increase  a 
demand  for  the  commodities  of  the  East,  and  is  so 
very  beneficial  to  the  country  in  which  I  was  born. 
Nothing  can  be  better  calculated  to  increase  the 
price  of  silk  than  the  present  manner  of  dressing. 
A  lady's  train  is  not  bought  but  at  some  expense, 
and  after  it  has  swept  the  public  walks  for  a  very 
few  evenings,  is  fit  to  be  worn  no  longer ;  more 
silk  must  be  bought  in  order  to  repair  the  breach, 
and  some  ladies  of  peculiar  economy  are  thus  found 
to  patch  up  their  tails  eight  or  ten  times  in  a  sea- 
son.    This  unnecessary  consumption  may  Intro- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


349 


duce  poverty  here,  but  then  we  shall  be  the  richer 
for  it  in  China. 

The  man  in  black,  who  is  a  professed  enemy  to 
this  manner  of  ornamenting  the  tail,  assures  me, 
there  are  numberless  inconveniences  attending  it, 
and  that  a  lady,  dressed  up  to  the  fashion,  is  as  much 
a  cripple  as  any  in  Nankin.  But  his  chief  indigna- 
tion is  leveled  at  those  who  dress  in  this  manner, 
without  a  proper  fortune  to  support  it.  He  assures 
me,  that  he  has  known  some  who  have  a  tail  though 
they  wanted  a  petticoat ;  and  others,  who,  without 
any  other  pretensions,  fancied  they  became  ladies, 
merely  from  the  addition  of  three  superfluous 
yards  of  ragged  silk:— "I  know  a  thrifty  good 
woman,"  continues  he,  "who,  thinking  herself 
obliged  to  carry  a  train  like  her  betters,  never  walks 
from  home  without  the  uneasy  apprehensions  of 
wearing  it  out  too  soon :  every  excursion  she  makes, 
gives  her  new  anxiety;  and  her  train  is  every  bit 
as  importunate,  and  Wounds  her  peace  as  much, 
as  the  bladder  we  sometimes  see  tied  to  the  tail  of  a 
rat." 

Nay,  he  ventures  to  affirm,  that  a  train  may 
often  bring  a  lady  into  the  most  critical  circum- 
stances: "for  should  a  rude  fellow,"  says  he, 
"  offer  to  come  up  to  ravish  a  kiss,  and  the  lady  at- 
tempt to  avoid  it,  in  retiring  she  must  necessarily 
tread  upon  her  train,  and  thus  fall  fairly  upon  her 
back;  by  which  means  every  one  knows — her 
clothes  may  be  spoiled." 

The  ladies  here  make  no  scruple  to  laugh  at  the 
smallness  of  a  Chinese  slipper,  but  I  fancy  our 
wives  at  China  would  have  a  more  real  cause  of 
laughter,  could  they  but  see  the  immoderate  length 
of  a  European  train.  Head  of  Confucius!  to 
view  a  human  being  crippling  herself  with  a  great 
unwieldy  tail  for  our  diversion !  Backward  she 
i  can  not  go,  forward  she  must  move  but  slowly ;  and 
if  ever  she  attempts  to  turn  round,  it  must  be  in  a 
circle  not  smaller  than  that  described  by  the  wheel- 
ing crocodile,  when  it  would  face  an  assailant. 
And  yet  to  think  that  all  this  confers  importance 
and  majesty !  to  think  that  a  lady  acquires  addi- 
tional respect  from  fifteen  yards  of  trailing  taffeta ! 
I  can  not  contain  ;  ha !  ha !  ha !  this  is  certainly  a 
remnant  of  European  barbarity ;  the  female  Tar 
tar,  dressed  in  sheep-skins,  is  in  far  more  conve 
nient  drapery.  Their  own  writers  have  sometimes 
inveighed  against  the  absurdity  of  this  fashion,  but 
perhaps  it  has  never  been  ridiculed  so  well  as  upon 
the  Italian  theatre,  where  Pasquariello  being  en- 
{gaged  to  attend  on  the  Countess  of  Fernambroco, 
having  one  of  his  hands  employed  in  carrying  her 
!■  muff,  and  the  other  her  lapdog,  he  bears  her  train 
►'majestically  along,  by  sticking  it  in  the  waistband 
ff  his  breeches.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXII. 


From  the  Same. 


A  DISPUTE  has  for  some  time  divided  the  phi- 
losophers of  Europe ;  it  is  debated  whether  arts 
and  sciences  are  more  serviceable  or  prejudicial  to 
mankind  ?  They  who  maintain  the  cause  of  lite- 
rature, endeavour  to  prove  their  usefulness,  from 
the  impossibility  of  a  large  number  of  men  subsist- 
ing in  a  small  tract  of  country  without  them ;  from 
the  pleasure  which  attends  the  acquisition :  and 
from  the  influence  of  knowledge  in  promoting 
practical  morality. 

They  who  maintain  the  opposite  opinion,  display 
the  happiness  and  innocence  of  those  uncultivated 
nations  who  live  without  learning ;  urge  the  nu- 
merous vices  which  are  to  be  found  only  in  polish- 
ed society ;  enlarge  upon  the  oppression,  the  cruelty, 
and  the  blood  which  must  necessarily  be  shed,  in 
order  to  cement  civil  society ;  and  insist  upon  the 
happy  equality  of  conditions  in  a  barbarous  state, 
preferable  to  the  unnatural  subordination  of  a  more 
refined  constitution. 

This  dispute,  which  has  already  given  so  much 
employment  to  speculative  indolence,  has  been 
managed  with  much  ardour,  and  (not  to  suppress 
our  sentiments)  with  but  little  sagacity.  They  wha 
insist  that  the  sciences  are  useful  in  refined  society 
are  certainly  right,  and  they  who  maintain  that 
barbarous  nations  are  more  happy  without  them 
are  right  also ;  but  when  one  side,  for  this  reason, 
attempts  to  prove  them  as  universally  useful  to  the 
solitary  barbarian  as  to  the  native  of  a  crowded 
commonwealth ;  or  when  the  other  endeavours  to 
banish  them  as  prejudicial  to  all  society,  even  from 
populous  states,  as  well  as  from  the  inhabitants  of 
the  wilderness,  they  are  both  wrong ;  since  that 
knowledge  which  makes  the  happiness  of  a  refined 
European  would  be  a  torment  to  the  precarious 
tenant  of  an  Asiatic  wild. 

Let  me,  to  prove  this,  transport  the  imagination 
for  a  moment  to  the  midst  of  a  forest  in  Siberia. 
There  we  behold  the  inhabitant,  poor  indeed,  but 
equally  fond  of  happiness  with  the  most  refined 
philosopher  of  China.  The  earth  lies  uncultivated 
and  uninhabited  for  miles  around  him;  his  little 
family  and  he  the  sole  and  undisputed  possessors. 
In  such  circumstances,  nature  and  reason  will  in- 
duce him  to  prefer  a  hunter's  life  to  that  of  culti- 
vating the  earth.  He  will  certainly  adhere  to  that 
manner  of  living  which  is  carried  on  at  the  small- 
est expense  of  labour,  and  that  food  which  is  most 
agreeable  to  the  appetite ;  he  will  prefer  indolent, 
though  precarious  luxury,  to  a  laborious,  though 
permanent  competence ;  and  a  knowledge  of  his 


350 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


own  happiness  will  determine  him  to  persevere  in 
native  barbarity. 

In  like  manner,  his  happiness  will  incline  him 
to  bind  himself  by  no  law  :  laws  are  made  in  order 
to  secure  present  property ;  but  he  is  possessed  of 
no  property  which  he  is  afraid  to  lose,  and  desires 
no  more  than  will  be  sufficient  to  sustain  him;  to 
enter  into  compacts  with  others,  would  be  under- 
going a  voluntary  obligation  without  the  expect- 
ance of  any  reward.  He  and  his  countrymen  are 
tenants,  not  rivals,  in  the  same  inexhaustible  for- 
est ;  the  increased  possessions  of  one  by  no  means 
diminishes  the  expectations  arising  from  equal  as- 
siduity in  another ;  there  is  no  need  of  laws,  there- 
fore, to  repress  ambition,  where  there  can  be  no 
mischief  attending  its  most  boundless  gratification. 

Our  solitary  Siberian  will,  in  like  manner,  find 
the  sciences  not  only  entirely  useless  in  directing 
his  practice,  but  disgusting  even  in  speculation. 
In  every  contemplation,  our  curiosity  must  be  first 
excited  by  the  appearances  of  things,  before  our 
reason  undergoes  the  fatigue  of  investigating  the 
causes.  Some  of  those  appearances  are  produced 
by  experiment,  others  by  minute  inquiry ;  some 
arise  from  a  knowledge  of  foreign  climates,  and 
others  from  an  intimate  study  of  our  own.  But 
there  are  few  objects  in  comparison  which  present 
themselves  to  the  inhabitant  of  a  barbarous  coun- 
try: the  game  he  hunts,  or  the  transient  cottage 
he  builds,  make  up  the  chief  objects  of  his  concern ; 
his  curiosity,  therefore,  must  be  proportionably  less ; 
and  if  that  is  diminished,  the  reasoning  faculty  will 
be  diminished  in  proportion. 

Besides,  sensual  enjoyment  adds  wings  to  curi- 
osity. We  consider  few  objects  with  ardent  atten- 
tion, but  those  which  have  some  connexion  with 
our  wishes,  our  pleasures,  or  our  necessities.  A 
desire  of  enjoyment  first  interests  our  passions  in 
the  pursuit,  points  out  the  object  of  investigation, 
and  reason  then  comments  where  sense  has  led  the 
way.  An  increase  in  the  number  of  our  enjoy- 
ments, therefore,  necessarily  produces  an  increase 
of  scientific  research:  but  in  countries  where 
almost  every  enjoyment  is  wanting,  reason  there 
seems  destitute  of  its  great  inspirer,  and  specula- 
tion is  the  business  of  fools  when  it  becomes  its 
o»vn  reward. 

The  barbarous  Siberian  is  too  wise,  therefore, 
to  exhaust  his  time  in  quest  of  knowledge,  which 
neither  curiosity  prompts,  nor  pleasure  impels  him 
to  pursue.  When  told  of  the  exact  admeasure- 
ment of  a  degree  upon  the  equator  of  Q,uito,  he 
feels  no  pleasure  in  the  account ;  when  informed 
that  such  a  discovery  tends  to  promote  navigation 
and  commerce,  he  finds  himself  no  way  interested 
in  either.  A  discovery,  which  some  have  pursued 
at  thehazardof  their  lives,  aflfects  him  with  neither 
astomshment  nor  pleasure.  He  is  satisfied  with 
thoroughly  understanding  the  few  objects  which 


contribute  to  his  own  felicity ;  he  knows  the  pro- 
perest  places  where  to  lay  the  snare  for  the  sable, 
and  discerns  the  value  of  furs  with  more  than  Eu- 
ropean sagacity.  More  extended  knowledge  would 
only  serve  to  render  him  unhappy ;  it  might  lend 
a  ray  to  show  him  the  misery  of  his  situation,  but 
could  not  guide  him  in  his  efforts  to  avoid  it.  Igno- 
rance is  the  happiness  of  the  poor. 

The  misery  of  a  being  endowed  with  sentiments 
above  its  capacity  of  fruition,  is  most  admirably 
described  in  one  of  the  fables  of  Locman,  the  In- 
dian moralist.  "  An  elephant  that  had  been  pe- 
culiarly serviceable  in  fighting  the  battles  of  Wist- 
now,  was  ordered  by  the  god  to  wish  for  whatever 
he  thought  proper,  and  the  desire  should  be  attend- 
ed with  immediate  gratification.  The  elephant 
thanked  his  benefactor  on  bended  knees,  and  de- 
sired to  be  endowed  with  the  reason  and  faculties 
of  a  man.  Wistnow  was  sorry  to  hear  the  foolish 
request,  and  endeavoured  to  dissuade  him  from  his 
misplaced  ambiti.m  ;  but  finding  it  to  no  purpose, 
gave  him  at  last  such  a  portion  of  wisdom  as  could 
correct  even  the  Zendavesta  of  Zoroaster.  The 
reasoning  elephant  went  away  rejoicing  in  his  new 
acquisition;  and  though  his  body  still  retained  its 
ancient  form,  he  found  his  appetites  and  passions 
entirely  altered.  He  first  considered,  that  it  would 
not  only  be  more  comfortable,  but  also  more  be- 
coming, to  wear  clothes ;  but,  unhappily  he  had  no 
method  of  making  them  himself,  nor  had  he  the 
use  of  speech  to  demand  them  from  others  ;  and 
this  was  the  first  time  he  felt  real  anxiety.  He 
soon  perceived  how  much  more  elegantly  men  were 
fed  than  he,  therefore  he  began  to  loathe  his  usual 
food,  and  longed  for  those  delicacies  which  adorn 
the  tables  of  princes ;  but  here  again  he  found  it 
impossible  to  be  satisfied,  for  though  he  could  easily 
obtain  flesh,  yet  he  found  it  impossible  to  dress  it 
in  any  degree  of  perfection.  In  short,  every  plea- 
sure that  contributed  to  the  felicity  of  mankind, 
served  only  to  render  him  more  miserable,  as  he 
found  himse/lf  utterly  deprived  of  the  power  of  en- 
joyment. In  this  manner  he  led  a  repining,  dis- 
contented life,  detesting  himself,  and  displeased 
with  his  ill-judged  ambition  ;  till  at  last  his  bene- 
factor, WistnoWj  taking  compassion  on  his  forlorn 
situation,  restored  him  to  the  ignorance  and  the 
happiness  which  he  was  originally  formed  to  en- 

No,  my  friend,  to  attempt  to  introduce  the  scien- 
ces into  a  nation  of  wandering  barbarians,  is  only 
to  render  them  more  miserable  than  even  nature 
designed  they  should  be.  A  life  of  simplicity  is 
best  fitted  to  a  state  of  solitude. 

The  great  lawgiver  of  Russia  attempted  to  im- 
prove the  desolate  inhabitants  of  Siberia,  by  send- 
ing among  them  some  of  the  politest  men  of  Eu- 
rope. The  consequence  has  shown,  that  the  coun- 
try was  as  yet  unfit  to  receive  them  :  they  languish- 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


35i 


ed  for  a  time,  with  a  sort  of  exotic  malady;  every 
day  degenerated  from  themselves,  and  at  last,  in- 
stead of  rendering  the  country  more  polite,  they 
conformed  to  the  soil,  and  put  on  barbarity. 

No,  my  friend,  in  order  to  make  the  sciences 
useful  in  any  country,  it  must  first  become  popu- 
lous ;  the  inhabitant  must  go  through  the  different 
stages  of  hunter,  shepherd,  and  husbandman ;  then, 
when  property  becomes  valuable,  and  consequent- 
ly gives  cause  for  injustice;  then,  when  laws  are 
appointed  to  repress  injury,  and  secure  possession; 
when  men,  by  the  sanction  of  those  laws,  become 
possessed  of  superfluity;  when  luxury  is  thus  in- 
troduced, and  demands  its  continual  supply ;  then 
it  is  that  the  sciences  become  necessary  and  useful ; 
^he  state  then  can  not  subsist  without  them;  they 
must  then  be  introduced,  at  once  to  teach  men  to 
draw  the  greatest  possible  quantity  of  pleasure 
from  circumscribed  possession,  and  to  restrain 
them  within  the  bounds  of  moderate  enjoyment. 

The  sciences  are  not  the  cause  of  luxury,  but 
its  consequence;  and  this  destroyer  thus  brings 
with  it  an  antidote  which  resists  the  virulence  of 
its  own  poison.  By  asserting  that  luxury  intro- 
duces the  sciences,  we  assert  a  truth ;  but  if,  with 
those  who  reject  the  utility  of  learning,  we  assert 
that  the  sciences  also  introduce  luxury,  we  shall 
be  at  once  false,  absurd,  and  ridiculous.     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXIII. 

From  Lien  Chi  Aitangi  to  Hingpo,  by  tlie  way  of  Moscow. 

You  are  now  arrived  at  an  age,  my  son,  when 
pleasure  dissuades  from  application ;  but  rob  not, 

\  by  present  gratification,  all  the  succeeding  period 
of  life  of  its  happiness.     Sacrifice  a  little  pleasure 

j  at  first  to  the  expectance  of  greater.  The  study 
of  a  few  years  will  make  the  rest  of  life  completely 
easy. 

But  instead  of  continuing  the  subject  myself, 
take  the  following  instructions,  borrowed  from  a 
modern  philosopher  of  China.*  "  He  who  has  be- 
gun his  fortune  by  study,  will  certainly  confirm  it 
by  perseverance.  The  love  of  books  damps  the 
passion  for  pleasure ;  and  when  this  passion  is  once 
extinguished,  Ufe  is  then  cheaply  supported :  thus 
a  man,  being  possessed  of  more  than  he  wants,  can 
never  be  subject  to  great  disappointments,  and 
avoids  all  those  meannesses  which  indigence  some- 
times unavoidably  produces. 

"  There  is  unspeakable  pleasure  attending  the 
life  of  a  voluntary  student.     The  first  time  I  read 


•  A  translation  of  this  passage  may  also  be  seen  in  Du  Halde, 
VdL  II.  fol.  pp.  47  and  58.  This  extract  wiU  at  least  serve  to 
show  that  fondness  for  humour  which  appears  in  the  writings 
rf  the  Chinese. 


an  excellent  book,  it  is  to  me  just  as  if  I  had  gained 
a  new  friend.  "When  I  read  over  a  book  1  have 
perused  before,  it  resembles  the  meeting  with  an 
old  one.  We  ought  to  lay  hold  of  every  incident 
in  Hfe  for  improvement,  the  trifling  as  well  as  jthe 
important.  It  is  not  one  diamond  alone  which  gives 
lustre  to  another ;  a  common  coarse  stone  is  also 
employed  for  that  purpose.  Thus  I  ought  to  draw 
advantage  from  the  insults  and  contempt  1  meet 
with  from  a  worthless  fellow.  His  brutality  ought 
to  induce  me  to  self-examination,  and  correct  every 
blemish  that  may  have  given  rise  to  his  calumny. 
"  Yet  with  all  the  pleasures  and  profits  which 
are  generally  produced  by  learning,  parents  often 
find  it  diflScult  to  induce  their  children  to  study. 
They  often  seem  dragged  to  what  wears  the  ap- 
pearance of  application.  Thus,  being  dilatory  in 
the  beginning,  all  future  hopes  of  eminence  are 
entirely  cut  off'.  If  they  find  themselves  obliged 
to  write  two  lines  more  polite  than  ordinary,  their 
pencil  then  seems  as  heavy  as  a  millstone,  and  they 
spend  ten  days  in  turning  two  or  three  periods  with 
propriety.  |^ 

"  These  persons  are  most  at  a  loss  when  a  ban- 
quet is  almost  over;  the  plate  and  the  dice  go  round, 
that  the  number  of  little  verses,  which  each  is 
obliged  to  repeat,  may  be  determined  by  chance. 
The  booby,  when  it  comes  to  his  turn,  appears 
quite  stupid  and  insensible.  The  company  divert 
themselves  with  his  confusion;  and  sneers,  winks 
and  whispers,  are  circulated  at  his  expense.  As 
for  him,  he  opens  a  pair  of  large  heavy  eyes,  stares 
at  all  about  him,  %nd  even  offers  to  join  in  the 
laugh,  without  ever  considering  himself  as  the  , 
burden  of  all  their  good-humour. 

"  But  it  is  of  no  importance  to  read  much,  except 
you  be  regular  in  your  reading.  If  it  be  interrupted 
for  any  considerable  time,  it  can  never  be  attended 
with  proper  improvement.  There  are  some  who 
study  for  one  day  with  intense  application,  and  re- 
pose themselves  for  ten  days  after.  But  wisdom 
is  a  coquette,  and  must  be  courted  with  unabating 
assiduity. 

"  It  was  a  saying  of  the  ancients,  that  a  man 
never  opens  a  book  without  reaping  some  advantage 
by  it.  I  say  with  them,  that  every  book  can  serve 
to  make  us  more  expert,  except  romances,  and 
these  are  no  better  than  instruments  of  debauchery. 
They  are  dangerous  fictions,  where  love  is  the 
ruling  passion. 

"The  most  indecent  strokes  there  pass  for  turns, 
of  wit ;  intrigue  and  criminal  liberties  for  gallantry 
and  politeness.  Assignations,  and  even  villany, 
are  put  in  such  strong  lights,  as  may  inspire  even 
grown  men  with  the  strongest  passion ;  how  much 
more,  therefore,  ought  the  youth  of  either  sex  to 
dread  them,  whose  reason  is  so  weak,  and  whose 
hearts  are  so  susceptible  of  passion. 

"  To  slip  in  bv  a  l>ack-door,  or  leap  a  wall,  are 


852 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


accomplishments  that,  when  handsomely  set  off, 
enchant  a  young  heart.  It  is  true,  the  plot  is  com- 
monly wound  up  by  a  marriage  concluded  with 
the  consent  of  parents,  and  adjusted  by  every  cere- 
mony prescribed  by  law.  But  as  in  the  body  of 
the  work  there  are  many  passages  that  offend  good 
morals,  overthrow  laudable  customs,  violate  the 
laws,  and  destroy  the  duties  most  essential  to  so- 
ciety, virtue  is  thereby  exposed  to  the  most  danger- 
ous attacks. 

"But,  say  some,  the  authors  of  these  romances 
have  nothing  in  view,  but  to  represent  vice  punish- 
ed, and  virtue  rewarded.  Granted.  But  will  the 
greater  number  of  readers  take  notice  of  these 
punishments  and  rewards'?  Are  not  their  minds 
carried  to  something  else?  Can  it  be  imagined 
that  the  art  with  which  the  author  inspires  the 
love  of  virtue,  can  overcome  that  crowd  of  thoughts 
which  sway  them  to  licentiousness?  To  be  able 
to  inculcate  virtue  by  so  leaky  a  vehicle,  the  author 
must  be  a  philosopher  of  the  first  rank.  But  in 
our  age,  we  can  find  but  few  first-rate  philoso- 
phers. 

"  Avoid  such  performances  where  vice  assumes 
the  face  of  virtue :  seek  wisdom  and  knowledge, 
without  ever  thinking  you  have  found  them.  A 
man  is  wise,  while  he  continues  in  the  pursuit  of 
wisdom ;  but  when  he  once  fancies  that  he  has 
found  the  object  of  his  inquiry,  he  then  becomes  a 
fool.  Learn  to  pursue  virtue  from  the  man  that  is 
blind,  who  never  makes  a  step  without  first  ex- 
amining the  ground  with  his  staff. 

"The  world  is  like  a  vast  sea;  mankind  like  a 
vessel  sailing  on  its  tempestuous  bosom.  Our 
prudence  is  its  sails,  the  sciences  serve  us  for  oars, 
good  or  bad  fortune  are  the  favourable  or  contrary 
winds,  and  judgment  is  the  rudder;  without  this 
last,  the  vessel  is  tossed  by  every  billow,  and  will 
find  shipwreck  in  every  breeze.  In  a  word,  ob- 
scurity and  indigence  are  the  parents  of  vigilance 
and  economy;  vigilance  and  economy,  of  riches 
and  honour;  riches  and  honour,  of  pride  and  luxury ; 
pride  and  luxury,  of  impurity  and  idleness;  and 
impurity  and  idleness  again  produce  indigence  and 
obscurity.  Such  are  the  revolutions  of  life." 
Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXIV. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of 
the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China, 

I  FANCY  the  character  of  a  poet  is  in  every  coun- 
try the  same ;  fond  of  enjoying  the  present,  care- 
less of  the  future,  his  conversation  that  of  a  man  of 
sense,  his  actions  those  of  a  fool ;  of  fortitude  able 
to  stand  unmoved  at  the  bursting  of  an  earthquake, 
yet  of  sensibility  to  be  affected  by  the  breaking  of 


a  tea-cup; — such  is  his  character,  which,  consider- 
ed in  every  light,  is  the  very  opposite  of  that  which 
leads  to  riches. 

The  poets  of  the  West  are  as  remarkable  for 
their  indigence  as  their  genius,  and  yet,  among  tne 
numerous  hospitals  designed  to  relieve  the  poor,  I 
have  heard  of  but  one  erected  for  the  benefit  of  de- 
cayed authors.  This  w  as  founded  by  Pope  Urban 
VIII.,  and  called  the  retreat  of  the  incurables,  in^ 
timating,  that  it  was  equally  impossible  to  reclaim 
the  patients,  who  sued  for  reception,  from  poverty 
or  from  poetry.  To  be  sincere,  were  I  to  send  you 
an  account  of  the  lives  of  the  western  poets,  either 
ancient  or  modern,  I  fancy  you  would  think  me 
employed  in  collecting  materials  for  a  history  of 
human  wretchedness. 

Homer  is  the  first  poet  and  beggar  of  note  among 
the  ancients ;  he  was  blind,  and  sung  his  ballads 
about  the  streets ;  but  it  is  observed  that  his  mouth 
was  more  frequently  filled  with  verses  than  with 
bread.  Plautus,  the  comic  poet,  was  better  off— he 
had  two  trades,  he  was  a  poet  for  his  diversion,  and 
helped  to  turn  a  mill  in  order  to  gain  a  livelihood. 
Terence  was  a  slave ;  and  Boethius  died  in  a  gaol. 

Among  the  Italians,  Paulo  Borghese,  almost  as 
good  a  poet  as  Tasso,  knew  fourteen  different 
trades,  and  yet  died  because  he  could  get  employ- 
ment in  none.  Tasso  himself,  who  had  the  most 
amiable  character  of  all  poets,  has  often  been  obliged 
to  borrow  a  crown  from  some  friend,  in  order  to 
pay  for  a  month's  subsistence;  he  has  left  us  a 
pretty  sonnet,  addressed  to  his  cat,  in  which  he 
begs  the  light  of  her  eyes  to  write  by,  being  too  poor 
to  afford  himself  a  candle.  But  Bentivoglio,  poor 
Bentivoglio!  chiefly  demands  our  pity.  His  come- 
dies will  last  with  the  Italian  language:  he  dissi- 
pated a  noble  fortune  in  acts  of  charity  and  benevo- 
lence ;  but,  falling  into  misery  in  his  old  age,  was 
refused  to  be  admitted  into  an  hospital  which  he 
himself  had  erected. 

In  Spain,  it  is  said,  the  great  Cervantes  died  of 
hunger ;  and  it  is  certain,  that  the  famous  Camoena 
ended  his  days  in  an  hospital. 

IfVe  turn  to  France,  we  shall  there  find  even 
stronger  instances  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  public. 
Vaugelas,  one  of  the  politest  writers,  and  one  of  the 
honestest  men  of  his  time,  was  surnamed  the  Owl, 
from  his  being  obliged  to  keep  within  all  day,  and 
venture  out  only  by  night,  through  fear  of  his  credi- 
tors. His  last  will  is  very  remarkable,  Af^er 
having  bequeathed  all  his  worldly  substance  to  the 
discharging  his  debts,  he  goes  on  thus:  "But,  aa 
there  still  may  remain  some  creditors  unpaid,  even 
after  all  that  I  have  shall  be  disposed  of,  in  such  a 
case  it  is  my  last  will,  that  my  body  should  be  sold 
to  the  surgeons  to  the  best  advantage,  and  that  the 
purchase  should  go  to  the  discharging  those  debt« 
which  I  owe  to  society;  so  that  if  I  could  not,  while 
living,  at  least  when  dead,  I  may  be  useful." 


(biTIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD! 


a53 


Cassander  was  one  of  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
his  time,  yet  all  his  merit  could  not  procure  hiiii  a 
bare  subsistence.  Being  by  degrees  driven  into  a 
hatred  of  all  mankind,  from  the  little  pity  he  found 
amongst  thiem,  he  even  ventured  at  last  ungrate- 
fully to  impute  his  calamities  to  Providence.  In 
his  last  agohies,  when  the  priest  entreated  him  to 
rely  on  the  justice  of  Heaven,  and  ask  mercy  from 
him  that  made  him — "If  God,"  replies  he,  "has 
shown  me  no  justice  here,  what  reason  have  I  to  ex- 
pect any  frohi  him  hereafter?"  But  being  answer- 
ed, that  a  suspension  of  justice  was  no  argument 
that  should  induce  us  to  doubt  of  its  reality — "Let 
me  entreat  you,"  continued  his  confessor,  "  by  all 
that  is  dear,  to  be  reconciled  to  God,  your  father, 
your  maker,  and  friend." — "  No,"  replied  the  ex- 
asperated w'retch,  "you  know  the  manner  in  which 
he  left  me  to  Uve ;  and  (pointing  to  thfe  ^raw  on 
which  he  was  stretched)  you  see  the  manner  in 
which  he  leaves  me  to  die!" 

But  the  sufferings  of  the  poet  in  other  countries 
is  nothing,  when  compared  to  his  distresses  here; 
the  names  of  Spenser  and  Otway,  Butler  and  Dry- 
den,  are  every  day  mentioned  as  a  national  re- 
proach :  some  of  them  lived  in  a  state  of  p)*ecarious 
indigence,  and  others  literally  died  of  hunger. 

At  present,  the  few  poets  of  England  no  longer 
depend  on  the  great  for  subsistence ;  they  have  now 
no  other  patrons  but  the  public,  and  the  public,  col- 
lectively considered,  is  a  good  and  a  generous  mas- 
ter. It  is,  indeed,  too  frequently  mistaken  as"  to 
the  merits  of  every  candidate  for  favour ;  but,  to 
make  amends,  it  is  never  mistaken  long.  A  per- 
formance indeed  may  be  forced  for  a  time  into  re- 
putation, but  destitute  of  real  merit,  it  soon  sinks ; 
time,  the  touchstone  of  what  is  truly  valuable,  will 
soon  discover  the  fraud,  and  an  author  should  never 
arrogate  to  himself  any  share  of  success,  till  his 
works  have  been  read  at  least  ten'  years  with  satis- 
faction. ' 

A  man  of  letters  at  present,  whose  works  are 
valuable,  is  perfectly  sensible  of  their  value.  Every 
polite  member  of  the  community,  by  buying  what 
he  writes,  contributes  to  reward  him.  The  ridicule, 
therefore,  of  living  in  a  garret,  might  have  been  wit 
in  the  last  age,  butlcontinues  such  no  longer,  because 
no  longer  true.  A  writer  of  real  merit  now  may 
easily  be  rich,  if  his  heart  be  set  only  on  fortune ; 
and  for  those  who  have  no  merit,  it  is  but  fit  that 
such  should  remain  in  merited  obscurity.  He  may 
now  refuse  an  invitation  to  dinner,  without  fearing 
to  incur  his  patron's  displeasure,  or  to  starve  by  re- 
maining at  home.    He  may  now  venture  to  appear 


LETTER  LXXXV. 


Trom  the  Same. 


I  haVe  interested  myself  so  long  in  all  the  con- 
cerns of  this  people,  that  I  am  almost  become  an 
Englishman ;  I  now  begin  to  read  with  pleasure  of 
their  taking  towns  or  gaining  battles,  and  secretly 
wish  disappointment  to  all  the  enemies  of  Britain. 
Yet  still  my  regard  to  mankind  fills  me  with  con- 
cern for  their  contentions.  1  could  wish  to  see  the* 
disturbances  of  Europe  once  more  amicably  adjust- 
ed :  I  am  an  enemy  to  nothing  in  this  good  world' 
but  war ;  I  hate  fighting  between  rival  states :  I  hate 
it  between  mian  and  man ;  I  hate  fighting  even  be- 
tween women! 

I  already  informed  you,  that  while  Europe  was 
at  variance,  we  were  also  threatened  from  the  stage 
with  an  irreconcileable  opposition,  and  that  our 
singing  womSn  were  resolved  to  sing  at  each  other 
to  the  end  of  the  season.  O  my  friend,  those  fears 
were  just!  They  are  not  only  determined  to  sing  at 
each  other  to  the  end  of  the  season,  but  what  is 
worse,  to  sing  the  same  song;  and  what  is  still 
more  insupportable,  to  make  us  pay  for  hearing. 

If  they  be  for  war,  for  my  part,  I  should  advise 
them  to  have  a  public  congress,  and  there  fairly 
squall  at  each  other.  What  signifies  sounding  the 
trumpet  of  defiance  at  a  distance,  and  calling  in  the' 
town  to  fight  their  battles?  I  would  have  them  come 
boldly  into  one  of  the  most  open  and  frequented^ 
streets,  face  to  face,  and  there  try  their  skill  iri 
quavering. 

However  this  may  be,  resolved  I  am  that  they 
shall  not  touch  one  single  pifece  of  silve*  more  6f 
mine.  Though  I  have  ears  for  music,  thanks  be  to 
Heaven,  they  are  not  altogether  ass's  ears.  What'  I 
Polly  and  the  Pickpocket  to  night,  Polly  arid  the 
Pickpocket  to-morrow  night,  and  Polly  and  the  Pick- 
pocket again!  I  want  patience.  I'll  hear  no  more.  My 
soul  is  out  of  tune;  all  jarring  discord  and  confu- 
sion. Rest,  rest,  ye  dear  three  clinking  shillingi'? 
in  my  pocket's  bottom :  the  music  you  make  is  more 
harmonious  to  my  spirit  than  catgut,  rosiji,  or  all' 
the  nightingales  that  ever.chirruped  in  petticoats. 

But  what  raises  my  indignation  to  the  greatest 
degree  is,  that  this  piping  does  not  only  pester  rae 
on  the  stage,  but  is  my  punishment  in  private  con- 
versation. What  is  it  to  me,  whether  the  fine  pipe 
of  the  one,  or  the  great  mdfmer  of  the  other,  be 
preferable?  what  care  I  if  one  has  a  better  top,  or 
the  other  a  nobler  bottom  ?  how  am  I  concerned  if 
one  sings  from  the  stomach,  or  the  other  sings  with 


in  company  with  just  such  clothes  as  other  men  a  snap?  Yet  paltry  as  these  matters  are,  they  makd* 
generally  wear,  and  talk  even  to  princes  with  all  the  a  subject  of  debate  wherever  I  go;  and  this  musical 
conscious  superiority  of  wisdom.     Though  he  can  dispute,  especially  among  the  fair  sex,  almost  al- 
not  boast  of  fortune  here,  yet  he  can  bravely  assert  ways  ends  in  a  very  unmusical  altercation, 
the  dignity  of  independence.     Adieu  i     Sure  the  spirit  of  contention  is  mixed  with  the 

23 


354 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


very  constitution  of  the  people!  divisions  among 
the  inhabitants  of  other  countries  arise  only  from 
their  higher  concerns,  but  subjects  the  most  con- 
temptible are  made  an  affair  of  party  here;  the 
spirit  is  carried  even  into  their  amusements.  The 
very  ladies,  whose  duty  should  seem  to  allay  the ' 
impetuosity  of  the  opposite  sex,  become  themselves 
party  champions,  engage  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  I 
scold  at  each  other,  and  show  their  courage,  even 
at  the  expense  of  their  lovers  and  their  beauty. 

There  are  even  a  numerous  set  of  poets  who 
help  to  keep  up  the  contention,  and  write  for  the 
stage.  Mistake  me  not,  I  do  not  mean  pieces  to 
be  acted  upon  it,  but  panegyrical  verses  on  the  per- 
formers,— for  that  is  the  most  universal  method  of 
writing  for  the  stage  at  present.  It  is  the  business 
of  the  stage-poet,  therefore,  to  watch  the  appearance 
of  every  new  player  at  his  own  house,  and  so  come 
out  next  day  with  a  flaunting  copy  of  newspaper 
verses.  In  these,  nature  and  the  actor  may  be  set 
to  run  races,  the  player  always  coming  off  victori- 
ous; or  nature  may  mistake  him  for  herself;  or  old 
Shakspeare  may  put  on  his  winding-sheet,  and  pay 
him  a  visit;  or  the  tuneful  nine  may  strike  up  their 
harps  in  his  praise ;  or,  should  it  happen  to  be  an 
actress,  Venus,  the  beauteous  queen  of  love,  and 
the  naked  Graces,  are  ever  in  waiting :  the  lady 
must  be  herself  a  goddess  bred  and  born ;  she  must — 
But  you  shall  have  a  specimen  of  one  of  these 
poems,  which  may  convey  a  more  precise  idea. 

ON   SEEING   MRS.***  PERFORM    IN  THE    CHARACTER 

To  you,  bright  fair,  the  nine  address  their  lays, 
And  tu»e  my  feeble  voice  to  sing  thy  praise. 
The  heart-felt  power  of  every  charm  divine, 
Who  can  withstand  their  all-commanding  shine  7 
See  how  she  moves  along  with  every  grace, 
While  soul-brought  tears  steal  down  each  shining  face! 
She  speaks ;  'tis  rapture  all  and  nameless  bliss, 
Ye  gods!  what  transport  e'er  compared  to  this? 
As  when  in  Paphian  groves  the  queen  of  love, 
With  fond  complaint,  address'd  the  listening  Jtve, 
TVas  joy,  and  endless,  blisses,  all  around, 
And  rocks  forgot  their  hardness  at  the  sound. 
Then  first,  at  last  even  Jove  was  taken  in, 
And  felt  her  charms,  without  disguise  within. 

And  yet  think  not,  my  friend,  that  I  have  any 
particular  animosity  against  the  champions  who 
are  at  the  head  of  the  present  commotion ;  on  the 
contrary,  I  could  find  pleasure  in  their  music,  if 
served  up  at  proper  intervals ;  if  I  heard  it  only  on 
proper  occasions,  and  not  about  it  wherever  I  go. 
In  fact,  I  could  patronize  them  both ;  and,  as  an 
instance  of  my  condescension  in  this  particular, 
ihey  may  come  and  give  me  a  song  at  my  lodgings, 
on  any  evening  when  I  am  at  leisure,  provided 
they  keep  a  becoming  distance,  and  stand,  while 
tkey  continue  to  entertain  me,  with  decent  humili- 
ty, at  the  door. 

You  perceive  I  have  not  read  the  seventeen  books 


of  Chinese  ceremonies  to  no  purpose.  I  knoxv  the 
proper  share  of  respect  due  to  every  rank  in  so- 
ciety. Stage-players,  fire-eaters,  singing  women, 
dancing  dogs,  wild  beasts,  and  wire-walkers,  as 
their  efforts  are  exerted  for  our  amusement,  ought 
not  entirely  to  be  despised.  The  laws  of  every 
country  should  allow  them  to  play  their  tricks  at 
least  with  impunity.  They  should  not  be  branded 
with  the  ignominious  appellation  of  vagabonds;  at 
least  they  deserve  a  rank  in  society  equal  to  the 
mystery  of  barbers  or  undertakers,  and,  could  my 
influence  extend  so  far,  they  should  be  allowed  to 
earn  even  forty  or  fifty  pounds  a-year,  if  eminent  in 
their  profession. 

I  am  sensible,  however,  that  you  will  censure 
me  for  profusion  in  this  respect,  bred  up  as  you  are 
in  the  narrow  prejudices  of  eastern  frugality.  You 
will  undoubtedly  assert,  that  such  a  stipend  is  too 
great  for  so  useless  an  employment.  Yet  how 
will  your  surprise  increase,  when  told,  that  though 
the  law  holds  them  as  vagabonds,  many  of  them 
earn  more  than  a  thousand  a-year!  You  are 
amazed.  There  is  cause  for  amazement.  A  vaga- 
bond with  a  thousand  a-year  is  indeed  a  curiosity 
in  nature ;  a  wonder  far  surpassing  the  flying  fisl^ 
petrified  crab,  or  travelling  lobster.  However,  from 
my  great  love  to  the  profession,  I  would  willingly 
have  them  divested  of  part  of  their  contempt,  and 
part  of  their  finery ;  the  law  should  kindly  take 
them  under  the  wing  of  protection,  fix  them  into 
a  corporation,  like  that  of  the  barbers,  and  abridge 
their  ignominy  and  their  pensions.  As  to  their 
abilities  in  other  respects,  I  would  leave  that  en- 
tirely to  the  public,  who  are  certainly  in  this  case 
the  properest  judges, — whether  they  despise  them 
or  not. 

Yes,  my  Fum,  I  would  abridge  their  pensions. 
A  theatrical  warrior,  who  conducts  the  battles  of 
the  stage,  should  be  cooped  up  with  the  same  cau- 
tion as  a  bantam  cock  that  is  kept  for  fighting. 
When  one  of  those  animals  is  taken  from  its  na- 
tive dunghill,  we  retrench  it  both  in  the  quantity 
of  its  food,  and  the  number  of  its  seraglio :  players 
should  in  the  same  manner  be  fed,  not  fattened; 
they  should  be  permitted  to  get  their  bread,  but  not 
eat  the  people's  bread  into  the  bargain;  and,  in- 
stead of  being  permitted  to  keep  four  mistresses, 
in  conscience,'  they  should  be  contented  only  with 
two. 

Were  stage-players  thus  brought  into  bounds, 
perhaps  we  should  find  their  admirers  less  sanguine, 
and  consequently  less  ridiculous,  in  patronizing 
them.  We  should  be  no  longer  struck  with  the 
absurdity  of  seeing  the  same  people,  whose  valour 
makes  such  a  figure  abroad,  apostrophizing  in  the 
praise  of  a  bouncing  blockhead,  and  wrangling  in 
the  defence  of  a  copper-tailed  actress  at  home. 

I  shall  conclude  my  letter  with  the  sensible  ad- 
monition of  Me  the  philosopher.    "  You  love  bar- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


355 


itiony,"  says  he,  "  and  are  charmed  with  music.  I 
do  not  blame  you  for  hearing  a  fine  voice,  when 
you  are  in  your  closet,  with  a  lovely  parterre  under 
your  eye,  or  in  the  night-time,  while  perhaps  the 
moon  diffuses  her  silver  rays.  But  is  a  man  to  car- 
ry this  passion  so  far  as  to  let  a  company  of  come- 
dians, musicians,  and  singers,  grow  rich  upon  his 
exhausted  fortune?  If  so,  he  resembles  one  of  those 
dead  bodies,  whose  brains  the  embalmer  has  picked 
out  through  the  ears."     Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXVI. 

From  the  Same. 

Op  all  the  places  of  amusement  where  gentlemen 
and  ladies  are  entertained,  I  have  not  been  yet  to 
visit  Newmarket.  This,  I  am  told,  is  a  large  field, 
where,  upon  certain  occasions,  three  or  four  horses 
are  brought  together,  then  set  a-running,  and  that 
horse  which  runs  swiftest  wins  the  wager^ 

This  is  reckoned  a  very  polite  and  fashionable 
amusement  here,  much  more  followed  by  the  no- 
bility than  partridge  fighting  at  Java,  or  paper 
kites  in  Madagascar ;  several  of  the  great  here,  I 
am  told,  understand  as  much  of  farriery  as  their 
grooms ;  and  a  horse,  with  any  share  of  merit,  can 
never  want  a  patron  among  the  nobility. 

We  have  a  description  of  this  entertainment  al- 
most every  day  in  some  of  the  gazettes,  as  for  in- 
stance: "On  such  a  day,  the  Give  and  Take 
Plate  was  run  for  between  his  Grace's  Crab,  his 
Lordship's  Periwinkle,  and  'Squire  Smackem's 
Slamerkin.  All  rode  their  own  horses.  There 
was  the  greatest  concourse  of  nobility  that  has  been 
knovm  here  for  several  seasons.  The  odds  were  in 
favour  of  Cra^ in  the  beginning;  but  Slamerkin, 
after  the  first  heat,  seemed  to  have  the  match  hol- 
low ;  however,  it  was  soon  seen  that  Periwinkle 
improved  in  wind,  which  at  last  turned  out  ac- 
cordingly ;  Crab  was  run  to  a  stand-still,  Slamer- 
kin was  knocked  up,  and  Periwinkle  was  brought 
in  with  universal  applause."  Thus,  you  see,  Peri- 
winkle received  universal  applause,  and,  no  doubt, 
his  lordship  came  in  for  some  share  of  that  praise 
which  was  so  hberally  bestowed  upon  Periwinkle. 
Sun  of  China !  how  glorious  must  the  senator  ap- 
pear in  his  cap  and  leather  breeches,  his  whip 
crossed  in  his  mouth,  and  thus  coming  to  the  goal, 
amongst  the  shouts  of  grooms,  jockeys,  pimps,  sta- 
ble-bred dukes,  and  degraded  generals ! 

From  the  description  of  this  princely  amusement, 
now  transcribed,  and  from  the  great  veneration  I 
have  for  the  characters  of  its  principal  promoters,  1 
is  make  no  doubt  but  I  shall  look  upon  a  horse-race 
'  "with  becoming  reverence,  predisposed  as  I  am  by  a 
similar  amusement,  of  which  I  have  lately  been  a 
spectator;  for  just  now  I  happened  to  have  an  op- 
portunity of  being  present  at  a  cart-race. 


Whether  this  contention  between  three  carts  of 
different  parishes  was  promoted  by  a  subscription 
among  the  nobility,  or  whether  the  grand  jury,  in 
council  assembled,  had  gloriously  combined  to  en- 
courage plaustral  merit,  I  can  not  take  upon  me  to 
determine ;  but  certain  it  is,  the  whole  was  con- 
ducted with  the  irtmost  regularity  and  decorum, 
and  the  company,  which  made  a  brilliant  appear 
ance,  were  universally  of  opinion,  that  the  sport 
was  high,  the  running  fine,  and  the  riders  influ- 
enced by  no  bribe. 

It  was  run  on  the  road  from  London  to  a  village 
called  Brentford,  between  a  turnip-cart,  a  dust-cart, 
and  a!  dung-cart ;  each  of  the  owners  cbndescend*- 
ing  to  mount,  and  be  his  own  driver.  The  odds, 
at  starting,  were  Dust  against  Dung,  five  to  four; 
but  after  half  a  mile's  going,  the  knowing  ones 
found  themselves  all  on  the  wrong  side,  and  it  was' 
Turnip  against  the  field,  brass  to  silver. 

Soon,  however,  the  contest  became  more  doubt- 
ful ;  Turnip  indeed  kept  the  way,  but  it  was  per- 
ceived that  Dung  had  better  bottom.  The  road 
re-echoed  with  the  shouts  of  the  spectators — "  Dung 
against  Turnip!  Turnip  against  Dung!"  was  now 
the  universal  cry ;  neck  and  neck;  one  rode  lighter, 
but  the  other  had  more  judgment.  I  could  not  but 
particularly  observe  the  ardour  with  which  the  fair 
sex  espoused  the  cause  of  the  different  riders  on 
this  occasion ;  one  was  charmed  with  the  imwash- 
ed  beauties  of  Dung;  another  was  captivated  with 
the  patibulary  aspect  of  Turnip ;  while  in  the  mean 
time,  unfortunate  gloo'riiy  Dust,  who  came  whipping 
behind,  was  cheered  by  the  encouragement  of  some, 
and  pity  of  all. 

The  contention  now  continued  for  some  time, 
without  a  possibility  of  determining  to  whom  vic- 
tory designed  the  prize.  The  winning  post  ap- 
peared in  view,  and  he  who  drove  the  turnip-cart 
assured  himself  of  success;  and  successful  he  might 
have  been,  had  his  horse  been  as  ambitious  as  he;- 
but  upon  approaching  a  turn  from  the  road,  which 
led  homewards,  the  horse  fairly  stood  still,  and  re- 
fused to  move  a  foot  farther.  The  dung-cart  had- 
scarcely  time  to  enjoy  this  temporai-y  triumph,- 
when  it  was  pitched  headlong  into  a  ditch  by  the 
wayside,  and  the  rider  left  to  wallow  in  congenial 
mud.  Dust,  in  the  mean  time,  soon  came  up,  and 
not  behig  far  from  the  post,  came  m,  amidst  the 
shouts  and  acclamations  of  all  the  spectators,  and 
greatly  caressed  by  all  the  quality  of  Brentford. 
Fortune  was  kind  only  to  one,  who  ought  to  have 
been  favourable  to  all;  each  had  peculiar  n>erit,i 
each  laboured  hard  to  earn  the  prize,  and  each  rich- 
ly deserved  the  cart  he  drove. 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  description  may  not" 
have  anticipated  that  which  I  intended  giving  of 
NewmaTket,  I  am  told,  there  is  httle  else  to  be 
seen  even  there.  There  may  be  some  minute  dif- 
ferences in  the  dress  of  the  spectators,  but  none  at 


356 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


all  in  their  understandings ;  the  quality  of  Brent- 
ford are  as  remarkable  for  politeness  and  delicacy 
as  the  breeders  of  Newmarket.  The  quality  of 
Brentford  drive  their  own  carts,  and  the  honour- 
able fraternity  of  Newmarket  ride  their  own  horses; 
In  short,  the  matches  in  one  place  are  as  rational 
as  those  in  the  other ;  and  it  is  more  than  probable, 
that  turnips,  dust,  and  dung,  are  all  that  can  be 
found  to  furnish  our  description  in  either. 

Forgive  me,  my  friend,  but  a  person  like  me, 
bred  up  in  a  philosophic  seclusion,  is  apt  to  regard, 
perhaps  with  too  much  asperity,  those  occurrences 
which  sink  man  below  his  station  in  nature,  and 
diminish  the  intrinsic  value  of  humanity.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXVIL 

FromFum  Hoam,  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi, 

You  tell  me  the  people  of  Europe  are  wise;  but 
where  lies  their  wisdom?  You  say  they  are  valiant 
too;  yet  I  have  some  reasons  to  doubt  of  their 
valour.  They  are  engaged  in  war  among  each 
other,  yet  apply  to  the  Russians,  their  neighbours 
and  ours,  for  assistance.  Cultivating  such  an  al- 
liance, argues  at  once  imprudence  and  timidity. 
All  subsidies  paid  for  such  an  aid  in  strengthening 
the  Russians,  already  too  powerful,  and  weakening 
the  employers,  already  exhausted  by  intestine  com- 
motions. 

I  cannot  avoid  beholding  the  Russian  empire  as 
the  natural  enemy  of  the  more  western  parts  of 
Europe ;  as  an  enemy  already  possessed  of  great 
strength,  and,  from  the  nature  of  the  government, 
every  day  threatening  to  become  more  powerful. 
This  extensive  empire,  which,  both  in  Europe  and 
Asia,  occupies  almost  a  third  of  the  old  world,  was, 
about  two  centuries  ago,  divided  into  separate  king- 
doms and  dukedoms,  and,  from  such  a  division, 
consequently  feeble.  Since  the  time,  however,  of 
Johan  Basilides,  it  has  increased  in  strength  and 
extent;  and  those  untrodden  forests,  those  innumer- 
able savage  animals,  which  formerly  covered  the 
face  of  the  country,  are  now  removed,  and  colonies 
of  mankind  planted  in  their  room.  A  kingdom 
thus  enjoying  peace  internally,  possessed  of  an  un- 
bounded extent  of  dominion,  and  learning  the 
military  art  at  the  expense  of  others  abroad,  must 
every  day  grow  more  powerful ;  and  it  is  probable 
we  shall  hear  Russia  in  future  times,  as  formerly, 
called  the  Officina  Gentium. 

It  was  long  the  wish  of  Peter,  their  great  mon- 
arch, to  have  a  fort  in  some  of  the  western  parts  of 
Ekirope ;  many  of  his  schemes  and  treaties  were 
directed  to  this  end,  but,  happily  for  Europe,  he 
failed  in  them  all.  A  fort  in  the  power  of  this 
people  would  be  like  the  possession  of  a  flood- 
gate; and  whenever  ambition,  interest,  or  necessity 


prompted,  they  might  then  be  able  to  deluge  the 
whole  western  world  with  a  barbarous  inundation. 

Believe  me,  my  friend,  I  can  not  sufliciently  con- 
temn the  politicians  of  Europe,  who  thus  make 
this  powerful  people  arbitrators  in  their  quarrel. 
The  Russians  are  now  at  that  period  between  re- 
finement and  barbarity,  which  seems  most  adapted 
to  military  achievement ;  and  if  once  they  happen 
to  get  footing  in  the  western  parts  of  Europe,  it  is 
not  the  feeble  efforts  of  the  sons  of  effeminacy  and 
dissension  that  can  serve  to  remove  them.  The 
fertile  valley  and  soft  climate  will  ever  be  sufficient 
inducements  to  draw  whole  myriads  from  their 
native  deserts,  the  trackless  wild,  or  snowy  moun- 
tain. 

History,  experience,  reason,  nature,  expand  the 
book  of  wisdom  before  the  eyes  of  mankind,  but 
they  will  not  read.  We  have  seen  with  terror  a 
winged  phalanx  of  famished  locusts,  each  singly 
contemptible,  but  from  multitude  become  hideous, 
cover,  like  clouds,  the  face  of  day,  and  threaten  the 
whole  world  with  ruin.  We  have  seen  them 
settUng  on  the  fertile  plains  of  India  and  Egypt, 
destroying  in  an  instant  the  labours  and  the  hopes 
of  nations ;  sparing  neither  the  fruit  of  the  earth 
nor  the  verdure  of  the  fields,  and  changing  into  a 
frightful  desert  landscapes  of  once  luxuriant  beauty. 
We  have  seen  myriads  of  ants  issuing  together 
from  the  southern  desert,  like  a  torrent  whose 
source  was  inexhaustible,  succeeding  each  other 
without  end,  and  renewing  their  destroyed  forces 
with  unwearied  perseverance,  bringing  desolation 
wherever  they  came,  banishing  men  and  animals, 
and,  when  destitute  of  all  subsistence,  in  heaps  in- 
fecting the  wilderness  which  they  had  made! 
Like  these  have  been  the  migrations  of  men. 
When  as  yet  savage,  and  almost  resembling  their 
brute  partners  in  the  forest,  subject  like  them  only 
to  the  instincts  of  nature,  and  directed  by  hunger 
alone  in  the  choice  of  an  abode,  how  have  we  seen 
whole  armies  starting  wild  at  once  from  their  forests 
and  their  dens !  Goths,  Huns,  Vandals,  Saracens, 
Turks,  Tartars,  myriads  of  men,  animals  in  human 
form,  without  country,  without  name,  without  laws, 
overpowering  by  numbers  all  opposition,  ravaging 
cities,  overturning  empires,  and,  after  having  de- 
stroyed whole  nations,  and  spread  extensive  deso- 
lation, how  have  we  seen  them  sink  oppressed  by 
some  new  enemy,  more  barbarous  and  even  more 
unknown  than  they  f    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXVIIl 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  tli« 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

As  the  instruction  of  the  fair  sex  in  this  country 
is  entirely  committed  to  the  care  of  foreigners;  a« 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


357 


their  language-masters,  music-masters,  hair-friz- 
zers,  and  .governesses,  are  all  from  abroad,  I  had 
some  intentions  of  opening  a  female  academy  my- 
self, and  made  no  doubt,  as  I  was  quite  a  foreigner, 
of  meeting  a  favourable  reception. 

In  this,  I  intended  to  instruct  the  ladies  in  all  the 
conjugal  mysteries ;  wives  should  be  taught  the  art 
of  managing  husbands,  and  maids  the  skill  of 
properly  choosing  them ;  I  would  teach  a  wife  how 
far  she  might  venture  to  be  sick,  without  giving 
disgust ;  she  should  be  acquainted  with  the  great 
benefits  of  the  cholic  in  the  stomach,  and  all  the 
thorough-bred  insolence  of  fashion ;  maids  should 
learn  the  secret  of  nicely  distinguishing  every  com- 
petitor ;  they  should  be  able  to  know  the  difference 
between  a  pedant  and  a  scholar,  a  citizen  and  a 
prig,  a  squire  and  his  horse,  a  beau  and  his  monkey ; 
but  chiefly,  they  should  be  taught  the  art  of 
managing  their  smiles,  from  the  contemptuous 
simper  to  the  long  laborious  laugh. 

But  I  have  discontinued  the  project ;  for  what 
would  signify  teaching  ladies  the  manner  of  govern- 
ing or  choosing  husbands,  when  marriage  is  at 
present  so  much  out  of  fashion,  that  a  lady  is  very 
well  off  who  can  get  any  husband  at  all?  Celibacy 
now  prevails  in  every  rank  of  hfe :  the  streets  are 
crowded  with  old  bachelors,  and  the  houses  with 
ladies  who  have  refused  good  offers,  and  are  never 
likely  to  receive  any  for  the  future. 

The  only  advice,  therefore,  I  could  give  the  fair 
sex,  as  things  stand  at  present,  is  to  get  husbands 
as  fast  as  they  can.  There  is  certainly  nothing  in 
the  whole  creation,  not  even  Babylon  in  ruins, 
more  truly  deplorable  than  a  lady  in  the  virgin 
bloom  of  sixty-three,  or  a  battered  unmarried  beau, 
who  squibs  about  from  place  to  place,  showing  his 
pigtail  wig  and  his  ears.  The  one  appears  to  my 
imagination  in  the  form  of  a  double  night-cap,  or  a 
roll  of  pomatum,  the  other  in  the  shape  of  an 
electuary,  or  a  box  of  pills. 

I  would  once  more,  therefore,  advise  the  ladies 
to  get  husbands.  I  would  desire  them  not  to  dis- 
card an  old  lover  without  very  sufficient  reasons, 
nor  treat  the  new  with  ill-nature  till  they  know  him 
false ;  let  not  prudes  allege  the  falseness  of  the  sex, 
coquettes  the  pleasures  of  long  courtship,  or  parents 
the  necessary  preliminaries  of  penny  for  penny.  I 
have  reasons  that  would  silence  even  a  casuist  in 
this  particular.  In  the  first  place,  therefore,  1 
divide  the  subject  into  fifteen  heads,  and  then  sic 
argumentor. — But  not  to  give  you  and  myself 
the  spleen,  be  contented  at  present  with  an  Indian 
tale. 

In  a  winding  of  the  river  Amidar,  just  before  it 
falls  into  the  Caspian  Sea,  there  lies  an  island  un- 
frequented by  the  inhabitants  of  the  continent.  In 
this  seclusion,  blessed  with  all  that  wild  uncultiva- 
ted nature  could  bestow,  lived  a  princess  and  her 
+.W0  daughters.     She  had  been  wrecked  upon  the 


coast  while  her  children  as  yet  were  infants,  who, 
of  consequence,  though  grown  up,  were  entirely 
unacquainted  with  man.  Yet,  inexperienced  as 
the  young  ladies  were  in  the  opposite  sex,  both 
early  discovered  symptoms,  the  one  of  prudery,  the 
other  of  being  a  coquette.  The  eldest  was  ever 
learning  maxims  of  wisdom  and  discretion  from 
her  mamma,  while  the  youngest  employed  all  her 
hours  in  gazing  at  her  own  face  in  a  neighbouring 
fountain. 

Their  usual  amusement  in  this  solitude  was 
fishing :  their  mother  had  taught  them  all  the  se- 
crets of  the  art ;  she  showed  them  which  were  the 
most  likely  places  to  throw  out  the  line,  what  baits 
were  most  proper  for  the  various  seasons,  and  the 
best  manner  to  draw  up  the  finny  prey,  when  they 
had  hooked  it.  In  this  manner  they  spent  their 
time,  easy  and  innocent,  till  one  day,  the  princess 
being  indisposed,  desired  them  to  go  and  catch  her 
a  sturgeon  or  a  shark  for  supper,  which  she  fancied 
might  sit  easy  on  her  stomach.  The  daughters 
obeyed,  and  clapping  on  a  gold  fish,  the  usual  bait 
on  those  occasions,  went  and  sat  upon  one  of  the 
rocks,  letting  the  gilded  hook  glide  down  with  the 
stream. 

On  the  opposite  shore,  farther  down,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  river,  lived  a  diver  for  pearls,  a  youth 
who,  by  long  habit  in  his  trade,  was  almost  grown 
amphibious ;  so  that  he  could  remain  whole  hours 
at  the  bottom  of  the  water,  without  ever  fetching" 
breath.  He  happened  to  be  at  that  very  instant 
diving  when  the  ladies  were  fishing  with  the  gild- 
ed hook.  Seeing  therefore  the  bait,  which  to  him 
had  the  appearance  of  real  gold,  he  was  resolved  to 
seize  the  prize,  but  both  his  hands  being  already 
filled  with  pearl  oysters,  he  found  himself  obliged 
to  snap  at  it  with  his  mouth :  the  consequence  is 
easily  imagined ;  the  hook,  before  unperceived,  was 
instantly  fastened  in  his  jaw,  nor  could  he,  with 
all  his  efforts  or  his  floundering,  get  free. 

"  Sister,"  cries  the  youngest  princess,  "  I  have 
certainly  caught  a  monstrous  fish;  I  never  perceived 
any  thing  struggle  so  at  the  end  of  my  line  before ; 
come  and  help  me  to  draw  it  in."  They  both  now, 
therefore,  assisted  in  fishing  up  the  diver  on  shore ; 
but  nothing  could  equal  their  surprise  upon  seeing 
him.  "Bless  my  eyes,"  cries  the  prude,  "what 
have  we  got  here?  this  is  a  very  odd  fish  to  be 
sure ;  I  never  saw  any  thing  in  my  life  look  so 
queer:  what  eyes,  what  terrible  claws,  what  a 
monstrous  snout !  I  have  read  of  this  monster  some- 
where before,  it  certainly  must  be  a  Tanlang  that 
eats  women;  let  us  throw  it  back  into  the  sea  where 
we  found  it." 

The  diver,  in  the  mean  time,  stood  upon  the 
beach  at  the  end  of  the  Une,  with  the  hook  in  his 
mouth,  using  every  art  that  he  thought  could  best 
excite  pity,  and  particularly  looking  extremely 
tender,  which  is  usual  in   such  drcumstances. 


358 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


The  coquette,  therefore,  m  some  measure  influenc- 
ed by  the  innocence  of  his  looks,  ventured  to  con- 
tradict her  companion.  "Upon  my  word,  sister," 
says  she,  "I  see  nothing  in  the  animal  so  very  ter- 
rible as  you  are  pleased  to  apprehend;  I  think  it 
may  serve  well  enough  for  a  change.  Always 
sharks,  and  sturgeons,  and  lobsters,  and  crawfish, 
make  me  quite  sick.  I  fancy  a  slice  of  this,  nicely 
grilladed,  and  dressed  up  with  shrimp  sauce,  would 
be  very  pretty  eating.  1  fancy  mamma  would  like  a 
bit  with  pickles  above  all  things  in  the  world ;  and 
if  it  should  not  sit  easy  on  her  stomach,  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  discontinue  it  when  found  disagreeable, 
you  know."  "Horrid!"  cyies  the  prude,  "would 
the  girl  be  poisoned?  I  tell  you  it  is  a  Tanlang ; 
I  have  read  of  it  in  twenty  places.  It  is  every 
where  described  as  the  most  pernicious  animal  that 
ever  infested  the  ocean.  I  am  certain  it  is  the  most 
insidious  ravenous  creature  in  the  world  ■  and  is 
certain  destruction  if  taken  internally."  The 
youngest  sister  was  now  therefore  obliged  to  sub- 
mit :  both  assisted  in  drawing  the  hook  with  some 
violence  from  the  diver's  jaw ;  and  he,  finding  him- 
self at  liberty,  bent  his  breast  against  the  broad 
wave,  and  disappeared  in  an  instant. 

Just  at  this  juncture  the  mother  came  down  to 
the  beach,  to  know  the  cause  of  her  daughters' 
delay ;  they  told  her  every  circumstance,  describ- 
ing the  monster  they  had  caught.  The  old  lady 
was  one  of  the  most  discreet  women  in  the  world ; 
she  was  called  the  black-eyed  princess,  from  two 
black  eyes  she  had  received  in  her  youth,  being  a 
little  addicted  to  boxing  in  her  liquor.  "  Alas,  my 
children,"  cries  she,  "what  have  you  done?  the 
fish  you  caught  was  a  man-fish ;  one  of  the  most 
tame  domestic  animals  in  the  world.  We  could 
have  let  him  run  and  play  about  the  garden,  and 
he  would  have  been  twenty  times  more  entertain- 
ing than  our  squirrel  or  monkey." — "  If  that  be 
all,"  says  the  young  coquette,  "  we  will  fish  for 
him  again.  If  that  be  all,  I'll  hold  three  tooth- 
picks to  one  pound  of  snuff,  I  catch  him  when- 
ever I  please."  Accordingly  they  threw  in  their 
line  once  more,  but  with  all  their  gilding,  and 
paddling,  and  assiduity,  they  could  never  after  catch 
the  diver.  In  this  state  of  solitude  and  disappoint- 
ment, they  continued  for  many  years,  still  fishing, 
but  without  success;  till  at  last  the  Genius  of 
the  place,  in  pity  to  their  distresses,  changed  the 
prude  into  a  shrimp,  and  the  coquette  into  an 
oyster.    Adieu. 


LETTER  LXXXIX. 

From  the  Same. 

I  AM  amused,  my  dear  Fum,  with  the  labours  of 
some  of  the  learned  here.  One  shall  write  you  a 
whole   folio  on  the  dissection  of  a  caterpillar. 


Another  shall  swell  his  works  with  a  description 
of  the  plumage  on  the  wing  of  a  butterfly;  a  third 
shall  see  a  little  world  on  a  peach  leaf,  and  publish 
a  book  to  describe  what  his  readers  might  see  more 
clearly  in  two  minutes,  only  by  being  furnished 
with  eyes  and  a  microscope. 

I  have  frequently  compared  the  understandings 
of  such  men  to  their  own  glasses.  Their  field  of 
vision  is  too  contracted  to  take  in  the  whole  of  any 
but  minute  objects ;  they  view  all  nature  bit  by 
bit;  now  the  proboscis,  now  the  antennse,  now  the 
the  pinnae,  of — a  flea !  Now  the  polypus  comes 
to  breakfast  upon  a  worm ;  now  it  is  kept  up  to  see 
how  long  it  will  live  without  eating;  now  it  is 
turned  inside  outward,  and  now  it  sickens  and 
dies.  Thus  they  proceed,  laborious  in  trifles,  con 
stant  in  experiment,  without  one  single  abstrac 
tion,  by  which  alone  knowledge  may  be  pr(^rly 
said  to  increase ;  till  at  last  their  ideas,  ever  em- 
ployed upon  minute  things,  contract  to  the  size  of 
the  diminutive  object,  and  a  single  mite  shall  fill 
the  whole  mind's  capacity. 

Yet,  believe  me,  my  friend,  ridiculous  as  these 
men  are  to  the  world,  they  are  set  up  as  objects  of 
esteem  for  each  other.  They  have  particular 
places  appointed  for  their  meetings ;  in  which  one 
shows  his  cockle-shell,  and  is  praised  by  all  the 
society ;  another  produces  his  powder,  makes  some 
experiments  that  result  in  nothing,  and  comes  oflf 
with  admiration  and  applause:  a  third  comes  out 
with  the  important  discovery  of  some  new  process 
in  the  skeleton  of  a  mole,  and  is  set  down  as  the 
accurate  and  sensible ;  while  one,  still  more  fortu- 
nate than  the  rest,  by  pickling,  potting,  and  pre- 
serving monsters,  rises  into  unbounded  reputation. 

The  labours  of  such  men,  instead  of  being  cal- 
culated to  amuse  the  public,  are  laid  out  only  in 
diverting  each  other.  The  world  becomes  very 
little  the  better  or  the  wiser,  for  knowing  what  is 
the  peculiar  food  of  an  insect,  that  is  itself  the 
food  of  another,  which  in  its  turn  is  eaten  by  a 
third;  but  there  are  men  who  have  studied  them- 
selves into  a  habit  of  investigating  and  admiring 
such  minutiae.  To  these  such  subjects  are  pleasing, 
as  there  are  some  who  contentedly  spend  whole 
days  in  endeavouring  to  solve  enigmas,  or  disen- 
tangle the  puzzling  sticks  of  children. 

But  of  all  the  learned,  those  who  pretend  to  in- 
vestigate remote  antiquity  have  least  to  plead  in 
their  own  defence,  when  they  carry  this  passion  to 
a  faulty  excess.  They  are  generally  found  to  sup- 
ply by  conjecture  the  want  of  record,  and  then  bj 
perseverance  are  wrought  up  into  a  confidence  of 
the  truth  of  opinions,  which  even  to  themselves  af 
first  appeared  founded  only  in  imagination. 

The  Europeans  have  heard  much  of  the  kingdom 
of  China :  its  politeness,  arts,  commerce,  laws,  and 
morals,  are,  however,  but  very  imperfectly  knows 
among  them.     They  have  even  now  in  their  Indiaii 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


859 


warehouses  numberless  utensils,  plants,  minerals, 
and  machines,  of  the  use  of  which  they  are  entirely 
ignorant :  nor  can  any  among  them  even  make  a 
probable  guess  for  what  they  might  have  been  de- 
signed. Yet  though  this  people  be  so  ignorant  of 
the  present  real  state  of  China,  the  philosophers  1 
am  describing  have  entered  into  long,  learned,  la- 
borious disputes  about  what  China  was  two  thou- 
sand years  ago.  China  and  European  happiness 
are  but  little  connected  even  at  this  day ;  but  Eu- 
ropean happiness  and  China  two  thousand  years 
ago  have  certainly  no  connexion  at  all.  However, 
the  learned  have  written  on  and  pursued  the  sub- 
ject through  all  the  labyrinths  of  antiquity :  though 
the  early  dews  and  the  tainted  gale  be  passed  away, 
though  no  footsteps  remain  to  direct  the  doubtful 
chase,  yet  still  they  run  forward,  open  upon  the 
uncertain  scent,  and  though  in  fact  they  follow 
Viothing,  are  earnest  in  the  pursuit.  In  this  chase, 
however,  they  all  take  different  ways.  One,  for 
example,  confidently  assures  us,  that  China  was 
peopled  by  a  colony  from  Egypt.  Sesostris,  he 
observes,  led  his  army  as  far  as  the  Ganges ;  there- 
fore, if  he  went  so  far,  he  might  still  have  gone  as 
fer  as  China,  which  is  but  a  thousand  miles  from 
thence;  therefore  he  did  go  to  China;  therefore 
China  was  not  peopled  before  he  went  there; 
therefore  it  was  peopled  by  him.  Besides,  the 
Egyptians  have  pyramids;  the  Chinese  have  in 
like  manner  their  porcelain  tower :  the  Egyptians 
used  to  light  up  candles  upon  every  rejoicing ;  the 
Chinese  have  lanterns  upon  the  same  occasion  : 
the  Egyptians  had  their  great  river ;  so  have  the 
Chinese.  But  what  serves  to  put  the  matter  past 
a  doubt  is,  that  the  ancient  kings  of  China  and 
those  of  Egypt  were  called  by  the  same  names. 
The  Emperor  Ki  is  certainly  the  same  with  King 
Atoes ;  for  if  we  only  change  K  into  A^  and  i  into 
toes,  we  shall  have  the  name  Atoes;  and  with 
equal  ease  Menes  may  be  proved  to  be  the  same 
with  the  Emperor  Yu;  therefore  the  Chinese  are 
a  colony  from  Egypt. 

But  another  of  the  learned  is  entirely  different 
from  the  last;  and  he  will  have  the  Chinese  to  be 
a  colony  planted  by  Noah  just  after  the  deluge. 
First,  from  the  vast  similitude  there  is  between  the 
name  of  Fohi,  the  founder  of  the  Chinese  monar- 
chyj  and  that  of  Noah,  the  preserver  of  the  human4  beard 
face ;  Noah,  Fohi,  very  like  each  other  truly ;  they 
have  each  but  four  letters,  and  only  two  of  the  four 
happen  to  differ.  But  to  strengthen  the  argument, 
Fohi,  as  the  Chinese  chronicle  asserts,  had  no 
father.  Noah,  it  is  true,  had  a  father,  as  the  Eu- 
ropean Bible  tells  us ;  but  then,  as  this  father  was 
[probably  drowned  in  the  flood,  it  is  just  the  same 
^  as  if  he  had  no  father  at  all ;  therefore  Noah  and 
Fohi  are  the  same.  Just  after  the  flood  the  earth 
was  covered  with  mud;  if  it  was  covered  with 
mud,  it  must  have  been  incrustated  mud ;  if  it  was 


incru«tated,  it  was  clothed  with  verdure :  this  was  a 
fine  unembarrassed  road  for  Noah  to  fly  from  his 
wicked  children  ;  he  therefore  did  fly  from  them, 
and  took  a  journey  of  two  thousand  miles  for  his 
own  amusement:  therefore  Noah  and  Fohi  are 
the  same. 

Another  sect  of  literati,  for  they  all  pass  among 
the  vulgar  for  very  great  scholars,  assert,  that  the 
Chinese  came  neither  from  the  colony  of  Sesos- 
tris, nor  from  Noah,  but  are  descended  from  Ma- 
gog, Meshec,  and  Tubal,  and  therefore  neither  Se- 
sostris, nor  Noah,  nor  Fohi,  are  the  same. 

It  is  thus,  my  friend,  that  indolence  assumes  the 
airs  of  wisdom,  and  while  it  tosses  the  cup  and 
ball  with  infantine  folly,  desires  the  world  to  look 
on,  and  calls  the  stupid  pastime  philosophy  and 
learning.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XC. 


From  the  Same. 


"When  the  men  of  this  country  are  once  turned 
of  thirty,  they  regularly  retire  every  year  at  proper 
intervals  to  lie  in  of  the  spleen.  The  vulgar,  un- 
furnished with  the  luxurious  comforts  of  the  soft 
cushion,  down  bed,  and  easy  chair,  are  obliged, 
when  the  fit  is  on  them,  to  nurse  it  up  by  drink- 
ing, idleness,  and  ill-humour.  In  such  disposi- 
tions, unhappy  is  the  foreigner  who  happens  to 
cross  them ;  his  long  chin,  tarnished  coat,  or  pinch- 
ed hat,  are  sure  to  receive  no  quarter.  If  they 
meet  no  foreigner,  however,  to  fight  with,  they 
are  in  such  cases  generally  content  with  beating 
each  other. 

The  rich,  as  they  have  more  sensibility,  are  ope- 
rated upon  with  greater  violence  by  this  disorder. 
Different  from  the  poor,  instead  of  becoming  more 
insolent,  they  grow  totally  unfit  for  opposition.  A 
general  here,  who  would  have  faced  a  culverin 
when  well,  if  the  fit  be  on  him,  shall  hardly  find 
courage  to  snuff  a  candle.  An  admiral,  who  coUld 
have  opposed  a  broadside  without  shrinking,  shall 
sit  whole  days  in  his  chamber,  mobbed  up  in  dou- 
ble night-caps,  shuddering  at  the  intrusive  breeze, 
and  distinguishable  from  his  wife  only  by  his  black 
and  heavy  eyebrows. 

In  the  country,  this  disorder  mostly  attacks  the 
fair  sex ;  in  town,  it  is  most  unfavourable  to  the 
men.  A  lady,  who  has  pined  whole  years  amidst 
cooing  doves  and  complaining  nightingales,  in  rural 
retirement,  shall  resume  all  her  vivacity  in  one 
night  at  a  city  gaming-table  ;  her  husband,  who 
roared,  hunted,  and  got  drunk  at  home,  shall  grow 
splenetic  in  town  in  proportion  to  his  wife's  good- 
humour.  Upon  their  arrival  in  London  they  ex- 
change their  disorders.  In  consequence  of  her 
parties  and  excursions,  he  puts  on  the  furred  cap  and 


360 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


scarlet  stomacher,  and  perfectly  resembles  an  In- 
dian husband,  who,  when  his  wife  is  safely  de- 
livered, permits  her  to  transact  business  abroad, 
while  he  undergoes  all  the  form9,lity  of  keeping 
his  bed,  and  receiving  all  the  condolence  in  her 
place. 

But  those  who  reside  constantly  in  town,  owe 
this  disorder  mostly  to  the  influence  of  the  weather. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  what  a  variety  of  trans- 
mutations an  east  y/ind  shall  produce  ;  it  has  been 
known  to  change  a  lady  of  fashion  into  a  parlour 
couch ;  an  alderman  into  a  plate  of  custards  ;  and  a 
dispenser  of  justice  into  a  rat-trap.  Even  philoso- 
phers themselves  are  not  exempt  from  its  influence; 
it  has  often  converted  a  poet  into  a  coral  and  bells 
and  a  patriot  senator  into  a  dumb  waiter. 

Some  days  ago  I  went  to  visit  the  man  in  black, 
and  entered  his  house  with  that  cheerfulness  ^/hich 
the  certainty  of  a  favourable  reception  always  in- 
spires. Upon  opening  the  door  of  his  apartment, 
1  found  him  with  the  most  rueful  face  imaginable, 
in  a  morning-gown  and  flannel  night-cap,  earnest- 
ly employed  in  learning,to  blow  the  German  flute. 
Struck  with  the  absurdity  of  a  mg.n  in  the  decline 
of  life  thus  blowing  away  all  his  constitution  and 
spirits,  even  without  the  consolation  of  being  mu- 
sical, I  ventured  to  ask  what  could  induce  him  to 
attempt  learning  so  difficult  an  instrument  so  late 
in  life  ;  to  this  he  made  no  jeply,  but  groaning,  and 
still  holding  the  flute  to  his  lips,  continued  to  gaze 
at  me  for  some  moments  very  angrily,  and  then 
proceeded  to  practise  his  gamut  as  before.  After 
having  produced  a  variety  of  the  most  hideous 
tones  in  nature,  at  last  turning  to  me,  he  demand- 
ed, whether  I  did  njot  think  he  had  made  a  sur- 
prising progress  in  .two  day? 7  "You  ^ee,  con- 
tinues he,  "  I  have  got  the  ambusheer  already  ;  and 
as  for  fingering,  my  master  tells  me,  I  shall  have 
that  in  a  few  lessons  more.  I  was  so  much  astonish- 
ed with  this  instance  of  inverted  ambition,  that  I 
knew  not  what  to  reply,  but  soon  discerned  the 
cause  of  all  his  absurdities ;  my  friend  was  under  a 
metamorphosis  by  the  power  of  spleen,  and  flute 
blowing  was  unluckily  become  his  adventitious 
passion. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  banish  his  anxiety  imper- 
ceptibly, by  seeming  to  indulge  it,  I  began  to  des- 
cant on  those  gloomy  topics  by  which  philosophers 
often  get  rid  of  their  own  spleen,  by  communicating 
it;  the  wretchedness  of  a  man  in  this  life;  the  hap- 
piness of  some  wrought  out  of  the  miseries  of 
others ;  the  necessities  that  wretches  should  expire 
ynder  punishment,  that  rogues  might  enjoy  afflu- 
ence in  tranquillity ;  I  led  him  on  from  the  inhu- 
manity of  the  rich  to  the  ingratitude  of  the  beggar; 
from  the  insincerity  of  refinement  to  the  fierceness 
of  rusticity ;  and  at  last  had  the  good  fortune  to 


restore  him  to  his  usual  serenity  of  tenjper,  by  per 
mitting  him  to  expatiate  upon  all  the  modes  of  hu- 
man misery. 

"  Some  nights  ago,"  says  my  friend,  "  sitting 
alone  by  my  fire,  I  happened  to  look  into  an  account 
of  a  detection  of  a  set  of  men  called  the  thief- 
takers.  I  read  over  the  many  hideous  cruelties  of 
those  haters  of  mankind,  of  their  pretended  friend- 
ship to  wretches  they  meant  to  betray,  of  their 
sending  men  out  to  rob,  and  then  hanging  them. 
I  could  not  avoid  sometimes  interrupting  the  narra- 
tive, by  crying  out,  '  Yet  these  are  men !'  As  I 
went  on,  I  was  informed  that  they  had  lived  by  this 
l)ractice  several  years,  and  had  been  enriched  by 
the  price  of  blood ;  '  And  yet,'  cried  I,  '  I  have 
been  sent  into  this  world,  and  am  desired  to  call 
these  men  my  brothers  !'  I  read,  that  the  very  man 
who  led  the  condemned  wretch  to  the  gallows,  was 
he  who  falsely  swore  his  life  away ;  '  And  yet,* 
continued  I,  'that  perjurer  had  just  such  a  nos^ 
such  lips,  such  hands,  and  such  eyes  as  Newton.' 
I  at  last  came  to  the  account  of  the  wretch  that 
was  searched  after  robbing  one  of  the  thief-takers 
of  half-a-crown.  Those  of  the  confederacy  knew 
that  he  had  got  but  that  single  half-crown  in  the 
world ;  after  a  long  search,  therefore,  which  they 
knew  would  be  fruitless,  and  taking  from  him  the 
half-crown,  which  they  knew  was  all  he  had,  one 
of  the  gang  compassionately  cried  out,  'Alas!  poor 
creature,  let  him  keep  all  the  rest  he  has  got,  it 
will  do  him  service  in  Newgate,  where  we  are 
sending  him.'  This  was  an  instance  of  such  com- 
plicated guilt  and  hypocrisy,  that  I  threw  down  the 
book  in  an  agony  of  rage,  and  began  to  think  with 
malice  of  all  the  human  kind.  I  sat  silent  for  some 
minutes,  and  soon  perceiving  the  ticking  of  my 
watch  beginning  to  grow  noisy  and  troublesome, 
I  quickly  placed  it  out  of  hearing,  and  strove  to  re- 
sume my  serenity.  But  the  watchman  soon  gave 
me  a  second  alarm.  1  had  scarcely  recovered  from 
this,  when  my  peace  was  assaulted  by  the  wind 
at  my  window;  and  when  that  ceased  to  blow, 
I  listened  for  death-watches  in  the  wainscot.  I 
now  found  my  whole  system  discomposed.  I  strove 
to  find  a  resource  in  philosophy  and  reason  ;  but 
what  could  I  oppose,  or  where  direct  my  blow, 
when  I  could  see  no  enemy  to  combat  ?  I  saw  no 
misery  approaching,  nor  knew  any  I  had  to  fear, 
yet  still  I  was  miserable.  Morning  came,  I  sought 
for  tranquillity  in  dissipation,  sauntered  from  one 
place  of  public  resort  to  another,  but  found  myself 
disagreeable  to  my  acquaintance,  and  ridiculous  to 
others.  I  tried  at  different  times  dancing,  fencing, 
and  riding ;  I  solved  geometrical  problems,  shaped 
tobacco-stoppers,  wrote  verses,  and  cut  paper.  At 
last  I  placed  my  aflfections  on  music,  and  find,  that 
earnest  employment,  if  it  can  not  cure,  at  least  will 
palliate  every  anxiety."    Adieu. 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


361 


LETTER  XCI. 

From  the  Same. 

It  is  no  unpleasing  contemplation,  to  consider 
the  influence  which  soil  and  climate  have  upon  the 
disposition  of  the  inhabitants,  the  animals,  and  ve- 
getables, of  different  countries.  That  among  the 
brute  creation  is  much  more  visible  than  in  man, 
and  that  in  vegetables  more  than  either.  In  some 
places,  those  plants  which  are  entirely  poisonous 
at  home,  lose  their  deleterious  quality  by  being 
carried  abroad  ;  there  are  serpents  in  Macedonia  so 
harmless  as  to  be  used  as  playthings  for  children  ; 
and  we  are  told  that  in  some  parts  of  Fez,  there  are 
lions  so  very  timorous  as  to  be  scared  away,  though 
coming  in  herds,  by  the  cries  of  women. 

I  know  of  no  country  where  the  influence  of  cli- 
mate and  soil  is  more  visible  than  in  England  ;  the 
same  hidden  cause  which  gives  courage  to  their 
dogs  and  cocks,  gives  also  fierceness  to  their  men. 
But  chiefly  this  ferocity  appears  among  the  vulgar. 
The  polite  of  every  country  pretty  nearly  resem- 
ble each  other.  But,  as  in  simpling,  it  is  among 
the  uncultivated  productions  of  nature  we  are  to 
examine  the  characteristic  differences  of  climate 
and  soil,  so  in  an  estimate  of  the  genius  of  the 
people,  we  must  look  among  the  sons  of  unpolished 
rusticity.  The  vulgar  English,  therefore,  may  be 
easily  distinguished  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
by  superior  pride,  impatience,  and  a  peculiar  hardi- 
ness of  soul. 

Perhaps  no  qualities  in  the  world  are  more  sus- 
ceptible of  a  finer  polish  than  these ;  artificial  com- 
plaisance and  easy  deference  being  superinduced 
over  these  generally  form  a  great  character ;  some- 
thing at  once  elegant  and  majestic;  affable,  yet 
sincere.  Such,  in  general,  are  the  better  sort ;  but 
they  who  are  left  in  primitive  rudeness  are  the 
least  disposed  for  society  with  others,  or  comfort  in- 
ternally, of  any  people  under  the  sun. 

The  poor  indeed  of  every  country,  are  but  little 
prone  to  treat  each  other  with  tenderness ;  their 
own  miseries  are  too  apt  to  engross  all  their  pity; 
and  perhaps  too,  they  give  but  little  commiseration, 
as  they  find  but  little  from  others.  But  in  En- 
gland the  poor  treat  each  other  upon  every  occa- 
sion with  more  than  savage  animosity,  and  as  if 
they  were  in  a  state  of  open  war  by  nature.  In 
China,  if  two  porters  should  meet  in  a  narrow 
street,  they  would  lay  down  their  burdens,  make  a 
thousand  excuses  to  each  other  for  the  accidental 
interruption,  and  beg  pardon  on  their  knees ;  if  two 
men  of  the  same  occupation  should  meet  here,  they 
would  first  begin  to  scold,  and  at  last  to  beat  each 
other.  One  would  think  they  had  miseries  enough 
resultmg  from  penury  and  labour,  not  to  increase, 


them  by  ill-nature  among  themselves,  and  subjec- 
tion to  new  penalties;  but  such  considerations 
never  weigh  with  them. 

But  to  recompense  this  strange  absurdity,  they 
are  in  the  main  generous,  brave,  and  enterprising. 
They  feel  the  slightest  injuries  with  a  degree  of 
ungoverned  impatience,  but  resist  the  greatest  ca- 
lamities with  surprising  fortitude.  Those  miseries 
under  which  any  other  people  in  the  world  would 
sink,  they  have  often  showed  they  were  capable  of 
enduring;  if  accidentally  cast  upon  some  desolate 
coast,  their  perseverance  is  beyond  what  any  other 
nation  is  capable  of  sustaining ;  if  imprisoned  for 
crimes,  their  efforts  to  escape  are  greater  than 
among  others.  The  peculiar  strength  of  their 
prisons,  when  compared  to  those  elsewhere,  ar- 
gues their  hardiness ;  even  the  strongest  prisons  I 
have  ever  seen  in  other  countries  would  be  very  in- 
suflicient  to  confine  the  untameable  spirit  of  an  En- 
glishman. In  short,  what  man  dares  do  in  cir- 
cumstances of  danger,  an  Englishman  will.  His 
virtues  seem  to  sleep  in  the  calm,  and  are  called  out 
only  to  combat  the  kindred  storm. 

But  the  greatest  eulogy  of  this  people  is  the 
generosity  of  their  miscreants,  the  tenderness  in 
general,  of  their  robbers  and  highwaymen.  Per- 
haps no  people  can  produce  instances  of  the  same 
kind,  where  the  desperate  mix  pity  with  injustice ; 
still  showing  that  they  understand  a  distinction  in 
crimes,  and,  even  in  acts  of  violence,  having  still 
some  tincture  of  remaining  virtue.  In  every  other 
country,  robbery  and  murder  go  almost  always  to- 
gether; here  it  seldom  happens,  except  upon  ill- 
judged  resistance  or  pursuit.  The  banditti  of  other 
countries  are  unmerciful  to  a  supreme  degree ;  the 
highwayman  and  robber  here  are  generous,  at  least^ 
in  their  intercourse  among  each  other.  Takings 
therefore,  my  opinion  of  the  English  from  the  vir- 
tues and  vices  practised  among  the  vulgar,  they  at 
once  present  to  a  stranger  all  their  faults,  and  k^ep 
their  virtues  up  only  for  the  inquiring  eye  of  a  phi- 
losopher. 

Foreigners  are  generally  shocked  at  their  inso- 
lence upon  first  coming  among  them ;  they  find 
themselves  ridiculed  and  insulted  in  ev^ry  street; 
they  meet  with  none  of  those  trifling  civilities,  so 
frequent  elsewhere,  which  are  instances  of  mutual 
good-will,  without  previous  acquaintance;  they 
travel  through  the  country,  either  too  ignorant  or 
too  obstinate  to  cultivate  a  closer  acquaintance; 
meet  every  moment  something  to  excite  their  dis- 
gust, and  return  home  to  characterise  this  as  the 
region  of  spleen,  insolence,  and  ill-nature.  In  short, 
England  would  be  the  last  place  in  the  world  I 
would  travel  to  by  way  of  amusement,  but  the  first 
for  instruction.  I  would  choose  to  have  others  for 
my  acquaintance,  but  Englismen  for  my  friends. 


362 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


LETTER  XCII. 


From  the  Same. 


The  mind  is  ever  ingenious  in  making  its  own 
distress.  The  wandering  beggar  who  has  none  to 
protect,  to  feed,  or  to  shelter  him,  fancies  complete 
happiness  in  labour  and  a  full  meal ;  take  him  from 
rags  and  want,  feed,  clothe,  and  employ  him,  his 
wishes  now  rise  one  step  above  his  station ;  he 
could  be  happy  were  he  possessed  of  raiment,  food, 
and  ease.  Suppose  his  wishes  gratified  even  in 
these,  his  prospects  widen  as  he  ascends ;  he  finds 
himself  in  affluence  and  tranquillity  indeed,  but  in- 
dolence soon  breeds  anxiety,  and  he  desires  not  only 
to  be  freed  from  pain,  but  to  be  possessed  of  pleasure; 
pleasure  is  granted  him,  and  this  but  opens  his  soul 
to  ambition  ;  and  ambition  will  be  sure  to  taint  his 
future  happiness,  either  with  jealousy,  disappoint- 
jnent,  or  fatigue. 

But  of  all  the  arts  of  distress  found  out  by  man 
for  his  own  torment,  perhaps  that  of  philosophic 
misery  is  most  truly  ridiculous ;  a  passion  nowhere 
carried  to  so  extravagant  an  excess  as  in  the  coun- 
try where  I  now  reside.  It  is  not  enough  to  engage 
all  the  compassion  of  a  philosopher  here,  that  his 
own  globe  is  harrassed  with  wars,  pestilence,  or 
barbarity ;  he  shall  grieve  for  the  inhabitants  of  the 
moon,  if  the  situation  of  her  imaginary  mountains 
happens  to  alter ;  and  dread  the  extinction  of  the 
sun,  if  the  spots  on  his  surface  happens  to  increase. 
One  should  imagine,  that  philosophy  was  introduc- 
ed to  make  men  happy;  but  here  it  serves  to  make 
hundreds  miserable. 

My  landlady,  some  days  ago,  brought  the  diary 
of  a  philosopher  of  this  desponding  sort,  who  had 
lodged  in  the  apartment  before  me.  It  contains  the 
history  of  a  life,  which  seems  to  be  one  continued 
tissue  of  sorrow,  apprehension  and  distress.  A  sin- 
gle week  will  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  whole. 

Monday.  In  what  a  transient  decaying  situation 
are  we  placed ;  and  what  various  reasons  does  phi- 
losophy furnish  to  make  mankind  unhappy  !  A 
single  grain  of  mustard  shall  continue  to  produce 
its  similitude  through  numberless  successions; 
yet,  what  has  been  granted  to  this  little  seed,  has 
been  denied  to  our  planetary  system ;  the  mustard 
seed  is  still  unaltered,  but  the  system  is  growing 
old,  and  must  quickly  fall  to  decay.  How  terrible 
will  it  be,  when  the  motions  of  all  the  planets  have 
at  last  become  so  irregular  as  to  need  repairing ; 
when  the  moon  shall  fall  into  frightful  paroxysms 
of  alteration;  when  the  earth,  deviating  from  its  an- 
cient track,  and  with  every  other  planet  forgetting 
its  circular  revolutions,  shall  become  so  eccentric, 
that  unconfined  by  the  laws  of  system,  it  shall  fly 
off  into  boundless  space,  to  knock  against  some  dis- 
tant world,  or  fall  in  upon  the  sun,  either  extin- 
guishing his  light,  or  burned  up  by  his  flames  in  a 


moment!  Perhaps,  while  I  write,  this  dreadful 
change  has  begun.  Shield  me  from  universal 
Tuin!  Yet,  idiot  man  laughs,  sings,  and  rejoices,  in 
the  very  face  of  the  sun,  and  seems  no  way  touch- 
ed with  his  situation. 

Tuesday.  "Went  to  bed  in  great  distress,  awaked 
and  was  comforted,  by  considering  that  this  change 
was  to  happen  at  some  indefinite  time ;  and  there- 
fore, like  death,  the  thoughts  of  it  might  easily  be 
borne.  But  there  is  a  revolution,  a  fixed  deter- 
mined revolution,  which  must  certainly  come  to 
pass ;  yet  which,  by  good  fortune,  I  shall  never  feel, 
except  in  my  posterity.  The  obliquity  of  the  equa- 
tor with  the  ecliptic  is  now  twenty  minutes  less 
than  when  it  was  observed  two  thousand  years  ago 
by  Piteas.  If  this  be  the  case,  in  six  thousand  the 
obliquity  will  be  still  less  by  a  whole  degree.  This 
being  supposed,  it  is  evident  that  our  earth,  as 
Louville  has  clearly  proved,  has  a  motion,  by  which 
the  climates  must  necessarily  change  place,  and,  in 
the  space  of  about  one  million  of  years,  England 
shall  actually  travel  to  the  Antarctic  pole.  I  shud- 
!  der  at  the  change !  How  shall  our  unhappy  grand- 
children endure  the  hideous  climate!  A  million  of 
years  will  soon  be  accomplished ;  they  are  but  a 
moment  when  compared  to  eternity ;  then  shall  our 
I  charming  country,  as  I  may  say,  in  a  moment  of 
time,  resemble  the  hideous  wilderness  of  Nova 
Zembla! 

Wednesday.  To-night,  by  my  calculation,  the 
long  predicted  comet  is  to  make  its  first  appearance. 
Heavens !  what  terrors  are  impending  over  our  lit- 
tle dim  speck  of  earth!  Dreadful  visitation !  Are 
we  to  be  scorched  in  its  fires,  or  only  smothered  in 
the  vapour  of  its  taill  That  is  the  question! 
Thoughtless  mortals,  go  build  houses,  plant  or- 
chards, purchase  estates,  for  to-morrow  you  die. 
But  what  if  the  comet  should  not  come*?  That 
would  be  equally  fatal.  Comets  are  servants  which 
periodically  return  to  supply  the  sun  with  fuel.  If 
our  sun,  therefore,  should  be  disappointed  of  the 
expected  supply,  and  all  his  fuel  be  in  the  meantime 
burnt  out,  he  must  expire  like  an  exhausted  taper. 
What  a  miserable  situation  must  our  earth  be  in 
without  his  enlivening  rays!  Have  we  not  seen 
several  neighbouring  suns  entirely  disappear?  Has 
not  a  fixed  star,  near  the  tail  of  the  Ram,  lately 
been  quite  extinguished? 

Thursday.  The  comet  has  not  yet  appeared ;  1 
am  sorry  for  it :  first,  sorry  because  my  calculation 
is  false ;  secondly,  sorry  lest  the  sun  should  want 
fuel ;  thirdly,  sorry  lest  the  wits  should  laugh  at  our 
erroneous  predictions ;  and  fourthly,  sorry  because^ 
if  it  appears  to-night,  it  must  necessarily  come 
within  the  sphere  of  the  earth's  attraction;  and 
Heaven  help  the  unhappy  country  on  which  it  hap^ 
pens  to  fall! 

Friday.  Our  whole  society  have  been  out,  all 
eager  in  search  of  the  comet.    We  have  seen  not 


-     CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


363 


less  than  sixteen  comets  in  different  parts  of  the 
heavens.  However,  we  are  unanimously  resolved 
to  fix  upon  one  only  to  be  the  comet  expected. 
That  near  Virgo  wants  nothing  but  a  tail  to  fit  it 
out  completely  for  terrestrial  admiration. 

Saturday.  The  moon  is,  I  find,  at  her  old 
pranks.  Her  appulses,  librations,  and  other  irre- 
gularities, indeed  amaze  me.  My  daughter,  too,  is 
this  morning  gone  off  with  a  grenadier.  No  way 
surprising ;  I  was  never  able  to  give  her  a  relish  for 
wisdom.  She  ever  promised  to  be  a  mere  expletive 
in  the  creation.  But  the  moon,  the  moon  gives  me 
real  uneasiness ;  I  fondly  fancied  I  had  fixed  her. 
I  had  thought  her  constant,  and  constant  only  to 
me ;  but  every  night  discovers  her  infidelity,  and 
proves  me  a  desolate  and  abandoned  lover.  Adieu. 


k 


LETTER  XCIIL 

From  the  Same. 


It  is  surprising  what  an  influence  titles  shall 
have  upon  the  mind,  even  though  these  titles  be 
of  our  own  making.  Like  children,  we  dress  up 
the  puppets  in  finery,  and  then  ^and  in  astonish- 
ment at  the  plastic  wonder.  I  have  been  told  of  a 
rat-catcher  here,  who  strolled  for  a  long  time  about 
the  villages  near  town,  without  finding  any  em- 
ployment ;  at  last,  however,  he  thought  proper  to 
take  the  title  of  his  Majesty's  rat-catcher  in  ordi- 
nary, and  this  succeeded  beyond  his  expectations  : 
when  it  was  known  that  he  caught  rats  at  court, 
all  were  ready  to  give  him  countenance  and  em- 
ployment. 

But  of  all  the  people,  they  who  make  books  seem 
most  perfectly  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  titular 
dignity.  All  seem  convinced,  that  a  book  written 
by  vulgar  hands,  can  neither  instruct  nor  improve ; 
none  but  kings,  chams,  and  mandarines,  can  write 
with  any  probability  of  success.  If  the  titles  in- 
form me  right,  not  only  kings  and  courtiers,  but 
emperors  themselves,  in  this  country,  periodically 
supply  the  press. 

A  man  here  who  should  write,  and  honestly  con- 
fess that  he  wrote  for  bread,  might  as  well  send  his 
manuscript  to  fire  the  baker's  oven;  not  one  crea- 
ture will  read  him :  all  must  be  court-bred  poets,  or 
pretend  at  least  to  be  court-bred,  who  can  expect  to 
please.  Should  the  caitiff  fairly  avow  a  design  of 
emptying  our  pockets  and  filling  his  own,  every 
reader  would  instantly  forsake  him;  even  those 
who  write  for  bread  themselves  would  combine  to 
worry  him,  perfectly  sensible  that  his  attempts 
only  served  to  take  the  bread  out  of  their  mouths. 

And  yet  this  silly  prepossession  the  more  amazes 
me,  when  I  consider,  that  almost  all  the  excellent 
productions  in  wit  that  have  appeared  here,  were 
purely  the  offspring  of  necessity;  their  Drydens, 


Butlers,  Otways,  and  Farquhars,  were  all  writers 
for  bread.  Believe  me,  my  friend,  hunger  has  a 
most  amazing  faculty  of  sharpening  the  genius; 
and  he  who,  with  a  full  belly,  can  think  hke  a  hero, 
after  a  course  of  fasting,  shall  rise  to  the  sublimity 
of  a  demi-god. 

But  what  will  most  amaze  is,  that  this  very  set 
of  men,  who  are  now  so  much  depreciated  by  fools, 
are,  however,  the  very  best  writers  they  have 
among  them  at  present.  For  my  own  part,  were 
I  to  buy  a  hat,  I  would  not  have  it  from  a  stocking- 
maker,  but  a  hatter ;  were  I  to  buy  shoes,  I  should 
not  go  to  the  tailor's  for  that  purpose.  It  is  just  so 
with  regard  to  wit :  did  I,  for  my  life,  desire  to  be 
well  served,  I  would  apply  only  to  those  who  made 
it  their  trade,  and  lived  by  it.  You  smile  at  the 
oddity  of  my  opinion ;  but  be  assured,  my  friend, 
that  wit  is,  in  some  measure,  mechanical ;  and  that 
a  man,  long  habituated  to  catch  at  even  its  resem- 
blance, will  at  last  be  happy  enough  to  possess  the 
substance.  By  a  long  habit  of  writing  he  acquires 
a  justness  of  thinking,  and  a  mastery  of  manner, 
which  holiday  writers,  even  with  ten  times  his 
genius,  may  vainly  attempt  to  equal. 

How  then  are  they  deceived  who  expect  from 
title,  dignity,  and  exterior  circumstance,  an  excel- 
lence which  is  in  some  measure  acquired  by  habit, 
and  sharpened  by  necessity  ?  You  have  seen, 
like  me,  many  literary  reputations  promoted  by  the 
influence  of  fashion,  which  have  scarcely  survived 
the  possessor ;  you  have  seen  the  poor  hardly  earn 
the  little  reputation  they  acquired,  and  their  merit 
only  acknowledged  when  they  were  incapable  of 
enjoying  the  pleasures  of  popularity :  such,  howev- 
er, is  the  reputation  worth  possessing ;  that  which 
is  hardly  earned  is  hardly  lost.    Adieu. 


LETTER  XCIV. 

From  Hlngpo,  in  Moscow,  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  in  London. 

Where  will  my  disappointments  end  7  Musi 
1  still  be  doomed  to  accuse  the  severity  of  my  for- 
tune, and  show  my  constancy  in  distress,  rather 
than  moderation  in  prosperity?  I  had  at  least  hopes 
of  conveying  my  charming  companion  safe  from 
the  reach  of  every  enemy,  and  of  again  restoring 
her  to  her  native  soil.  But  those  hopes  are  now 
no  more. 

Upon  leaving  Terki,  we  took  the  nearest  road 
to  the  dominions  of  Russia.  We  passed  the  Ural 
mountains,  covered  with  eternal  snow,  and  tra- 
versed the  forest  of  Ufa,  where  the  prowling  bear 
and  shrieking  hyena  keep  an  undisputed  posses- 
sion. We  next  embarked  upon  the  rapid  river 
Bulija,  and  made  the  best  of  our  way  to  the  banks 
of  the  Wolga,  where  it  waters  the  fruitful  valleyg 
of  Casan. 


364 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


There  were  two  vessels  in  company  properly 
equipped  and  armed,  in  order  to  oppose  the  Wolga 
pirates,  who,  we  were  informed,  infested  this  river, 
Of  all  mankind  these  pirates  are  the  most  terrible. 
They  are  composed  of  the  criminals  and  outlawed 
peasants  of  Russia,  who  fly  to  the  forests  that  lie 
along  the  banks  of  Wolga  for  protection.  Here 
they  join  in  parties,  lead  a  savage  life,  and  have  no 
other  subsistence  but  plunder.  Being  deprived  of 
houses,  friends,  or  a  fixed  habitation,  they  become 
more  terrible  even  than  the  tiger,  and  as  insensible 
to  all  the  feelings  of  humanity.  They  neither  give 
quarter  to  those  they  conquer,  nor  receive  it  when 
overpowered  themselves.  The  severity  of  the  laws 
against  them  serves  to  increase  their  barbarity,  and 
seems  to  make  them  a  neutral  species  of  being,  be- 
tween the  wilderness  of  the  lion,  and  the  subtlety 
of  the  man.  When  taken  alive  their  punishment 
is  hideous.  A  floating  gibbet  is  erected,  which  is 
let  run  down  with  the  stream :  here,  upon  an  iron 
hook  stuck  under  their  ribs,  and  upon  which  the 
whole  weight  of  their  body  depends,  they  are  left 
to  expire  in  the  most  terrible  agonies,  some  being 
thus  found  to  linger  several  days  successively. 

We  were  but  three  days'  voyage  from  the  con- 
fluence of  this  river  into  the  Wolga,  when  we  per- 
ceived at  a  distance  behind  us  an  armed  bark  com- 
ing up,  with  the  assistance  of  sails  and  oars,  in 
order  to  attack  us.  The  dreadful  signal  of  death 
was  hung  upon  the  mast,  and  our  captain,  with 
his  glass,  could  easily  discern  them  to  be  pirates. 
It  is  impossible  to  express  our  consternation  on  this 
occasion ;  the  whole  crew  instantly  came  together 
to  consult  the  properest  means  of  safety.  It  was, 
therefore,  soon  determined  to  send  oflT  our  women 
and  valuable  commodities  in  one  of  our  vessels, 
^nd  that  the  men  should  stay  in  the  other,  and 
boldly  oppose  the  enemy.  This  resolution  was 
goon  put  into  execution,  and  I  now  reluctantly 
parted  from  the  beautiful  Zelis  for  the  first  time 
^ince  our  retreat  from  Persia.  The  vessel  in  which 
she  was  disappeared  to  my  longing  eyes,  in  pro- 
portion as  that  of  the  pirates  approached  us. 
*rhey  soon  came  up;  but  upon  examining  our 
strength,  and  perhaps  sensible  of  the  manner  in 
"Vvhich  we  had  sent  off  our  most  valuable  effects, 
tJiey  seemed  more  eager  to  pursue  the  vessel  we 
had  sent  away  than  attack  us.  In  this  manner 
they  continued  to  harrass  us  for  three  days,  still 
endeavouring  to  pass  us  without  fighting.  But,  on 
the  fourth  day,  finding  it  entirely  impossible,  and 
despairing  to  seize  the  expected  booty,  they  desisted 
from  their  endeavours,  and  left  us  to  pursue  our 
voyage  without  interruption. 

Our  joy  on  this  occasion  was  great ;  but  soon  a 
disappointment  more  terrible,  because  unexpected, 
succeeded.  The  bark  in  which  our  women  and 
treasure  were  sent  off  was  wrecked  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Wolga,  for  want  of  a  proper  number  of 


hands  to  manage  her,  and  the  whole  cfew  carried 
by  the  peasants  up  the  country.  Of  this,  however, 
we  were  not  sensible  till  our  arrival  at  Moscow; 
where,  expecting  to  meet  our  separated  bark,  we 
were  informed  of  its  misfortune,  and  our  loss. 
Need  I  paint  the  situation  of  my  mind  on  this  oc- 
casion 1  Need  1  describe  all  I  feel,  when  I  despair 
of  beholding  the  beautiful  Zelis  more  7  Fancy 
had  dressed  the  future  prospect  of  my  Ufe  in  the 
gayest  colouring;  but  one  unexpected  stroKe  of 
fortune  has  robbed  it  of  every  charm.  Her  dear  idea 
mixes  with  every  scene  of  pleasure,  and  witnout 
her  presence  to  enUven  it,  the  whole  becomes  te- 
dious, insipid,  insupportable.  I  will  confess — now 
that  she  is  lost,  I  will  confess  I  loved  her :  nor  is  it 
in  the  power  of  time,  or  of  reason,  to  erase  her 
image  from  my  heart.    Adieu. 


LETTER  XCV. 
From  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  at  Mosctw.' 

Your  misfortunes  are  mine ;  but,  as  every  pe- 
riod of  life  is  marked  with  its  own,  you  must  leam 
to  endure  them.  Disappointed  love  makes  the 
misery  of  youth;  disappointed  ambition,  that  of 
manhood  ;  and  successless  avarice,  that  of  age. 
These  three  attack  us  through  life ;  and  it  is  our 
duty  to  stand  upon  our  guard.  To  love,  we  ought 
to  oppose  dissipation,  and  endeavour  to  change  the 
object  of  the  affections ;  to  ambition,  the  happiness 
of  indolence  and  obscurity ;  and  to  avarice  the  fear 
of  soon  dying.  These  are  the  shields  with  which 
we  should  arm  ourselves;  and  thus  make  every 
scene  of  Ufe,  if  not  pleasing,  at  least  supportable. 

Men  complain  of  not  finding  a  place  of  repose. 
They  are  in  the  wrong  ;  they  have  it  for  seeking. 
What  they  should  indeed  complain  of  is,  that  the 
heart  is  an  enemy  to  that  very  repose  they  seek. 
To  themselves  alone  should  they  impute  their  dis- 
content. They  seek  within  the  short  span  of  life 
to  satisfy  a  thousand  desires :  each  of  which  alone 
is  insatiable.  One  month  passes,  and  another 
comes  on ;  the  year  ends,  and  then  begins ;  but 
man  is  still  unchanging  in  folly,  still  Windly  con- 
tinuing in  prejudice.  To  the  wise  man,  every  cli- 
mate, and  every  soil  is  pleasing  :  to  him  a  parterre 
of  flowers  is  the  famous  valley  of  gold  ;  to  him  a 
little  brook,  the  fountain  of  the  young  peach  trees  j 
to  such  a  man,  the  melody  of  birds  is  more  ravish- 
ing than  the  harmony  of  a  full  concert ;  and  the 
tincture  of  the  cloud  preferable  to  the  touch  of  the 
finest  pencil. 

The  life  of  man  is  a  journey ;  a  joumey.that  must 


*  Tliis  letter  is  araphsody  from  tlie  maxims  of  theptiiloao- 
pher  Me.  Vide  Lett,  curieuse  et  edifiante.  Vide  etiamlhi 
Ilalde,  Vol.  IL  p.  98. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


be  travelled,  however  bad  the  roads  or  the  accom- 
modation. If,  in  the  beginning,  it  is  found  dan- 
gerous, narrovv^,  and  ditficult,  it  must  either  grow 
better  in  the  end,  or  we  shall,  by  custom,  learn  to 
bear  its  inequality. 

But,  though  I  see  you  incapable  of  penetrating 
into  grand  principles,  attend  at  least  to  a  simile, 
adapted  to  every  apprehension.  I  am  mounted 
upon  a  wretched  ass,  I  see  another  man  before  me 
upon  a  sprightly  horse,  at  which  I  find  some  un- 
easiness. I  look  behind  me,  and  see  numbers  on 
foot,  stooping  under  heavy  burdens:  let  me  learn 
to  pity  their  estate,  and  thank  Heaven  for  my 
own. 

Shingfu,  when  under  misfortunes,  would,  in  the 
beginning,  weep  like  a  child ;  but  he  soon  recover- 
ed  his  former  tranquillity.  After  indulging  grief 
for  a  few  days,  he  would  become,  as  usual,  the 
most  merry  old  man  in  all  the  province  of  Shansi. 
About  the  time  that  his  wife  died,  his  possessions 
were  all  consumed  by  fire,  and  his  only  son  sold 
into  captivity ;  Shingfu  grieved  for  one  day,  and 
the  next  went  to  dance  at  a  mandarine's  door  for 
his  dinner.  The  company  were  surprised  to  see 
the  old  man  so  merry,  when  suffering  such  great 
losses;  and  the  mandarine  himself  coming  out, 
asked  him,  how  he,  who  had  grieved  so  much,  and 
given  way  to  the  calamity  the  day  before,  could 
now  be  so  cheerful?  *'  You  ask  me  one  question," 
cries  the  old  man,  "let  me  answer,  by  asking 
another:  Which  is  the  most  durable,  a  hard  thing, 
or  a  soft  thing;  that  which  resists,  or  that  which 
makes  no  resistance?" — "A  hard  thing,  to  be 
sure,"  replied  the  mandarine.  "There  you  are 
wrong,"  returned  Shingfu,  "  I  am  now  fourscore 
years  old;  and,  if  you  look  in  my  mouth,  you  will 
find  that  I  have  lost  all  my  teeth,  but  not  a  bit  of 
my  tongue."    Adieu. 


LETTER  XCVI. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

The  manner  of  grieving  for  our  departed  friends 
in  China  is  very  different  from  that  of  Europe. 
The  mourning  colour  of  Europe  is  black ;  that  of 
China  white.  When  a  parent  or  relation  dies 
here,  for  they  seldom  mourn  for  friends,  it  is  only 
clapping  on  a  suit  of  sables,  grimacing  it  for  a  few 
days,  and  all,  soon  forgotten,  goes  on  as  before; 
not  a  single  creature  missing  the  deceased,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  a  favourite  housekeeper,  or  a  favour- 
ite cat. 

On  the  contrary,  with  us  in  China  it  is  a  very 
serious  affair.  The  piety  with  which  I  have  seen 
you  behave,  on  one  of  these  occasions,  should  never 
be  forgotten.    I  remember  it  was  upon  the  death 


of  thy  grandmother's  maiden  sister.  The  co£Sh 
was  exposed  in  the  principal  hall,  in  public  view. 
Before  it  were  placed  the  figures  of  eunuchs, 
horses,  tortoises,  and  other  animals,  in  attitudes  of 
grief  and  respect.  The  more  distant  relations  of 
the  old  lady,  and  I  among  the  number,  came  to  pay 
our  compliments  of  condolence,  and  to  salute  the 
deceased,  after  the  manner  of  our  country.  We 
had  scarcely  presented  our  wax-candles  and  per- 
fumes, and  given  the  howl  of  departure,  when, 
crawling  on  his  belly  from  under  a  curtain,  out 
came  the  reverend  Fum  Hoam  himself,  in  all  the 
dismal  solemnity  of  distress.  Your  looks  were  set 
for  sorrow ;  your  clothing  consisted  of  a  hempen 
bag  tied  round  the  neck  with  a  string.  For  two 
long  months  did  this  mourning  continue.  By 
night,  you  lay  stretched  on  a  single  mat,  and  sat  on 
the  stool  of  discontent  by  day.  Pious  man !  who 
could  thus  set  an  example  of  sorrow  and  decorum 
to  our  country.  Pious  country !  where,  if  we  do 
not  grieve  at  the  departure  of  our  friends  for  their 
sakes,  at  least  we  are  taught  to  regret  them  for  our 
own. 

All  is  very  different  here ;  amazement  all !  What 
sort  of  a  people  am  I  got  amongst?  Fum,  thou  son 
of  Fo,  what  sort  of  people  am  I  got  amongst?  No 
crawling  round  the  coffin;  no  dressing  up  in 
hempen  bags ;  no  lying  on  mats,  or  sitting  on  stools! 
Gentlemen  here  shall  put  on  first  mourning  with 
as  sprightly  an  air  as  if  preparing  for  a  birth-night; 
and  widows  shall  actually  dress  for  another  husband 
in  their  weeds  for  the  former.  The  best  jest  of  all 
is,  that  our  merry  mourners  clap  bits  of  muslin  on 
their  sleeves,  and  these  are  called  weepers.  Weep- 
ing muslin !  alas,  alas !  very  sorrowful  truly !  These 
weepers,  then,  it  seems,  are  to  bear  the  whole' 
burden  of  the  distress. 

But  I  have  had  the  strongest  instance  of  this' 
contrast,  this  tragi-comical  behaviour  in  distress, 
upon  a  recent  occasion.  Their  king,  whose  de- 
parture, though  sudden,  was  not  unexpected,  died' 
after  a  reign  of  many  years.  His  age,  and  uncer- 
tain state  of  health,  served,  in  some  measure,  to 
diminish  the  sorrow  of  his  subjects ;  and  theit  ex- 
pectations from  his  successor  seemed  to  balance 
their  minds  between  uneasiness  and  satisfaction. 
But  how  ought  they  to  have  behaved  on  such  an 
occasion?  Surely,  they  ought  rather  to  have  en- 
deavoured to  testify  there  gratitude  to  their  de- 
ceased friend,  than  to  proclaim  their  hopes  of  the 
future !  Surely,  even  the  successor  must  suppose 
their  love  to  wear  the  face  of  adulation,  which  so 
quickly  changed  the  object!  However,  the  very 
same  day  on  which  the  old  king  died,  they  made 
rejoicings  for  the  new. 

For  my  part,  I  have  no  conception  of  this  new 
manner  of  mourning  and  rejoicing  in  a  breath;  of 
being  merry  and  sad ;  of  mixing  a  funeral  proces- 
sion with  a  jig  and  a  bonfire.    At  least,  it  would 


366 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


have  been  just,  that  they  who  flattered  the  king 
while  living,  for  virtues  which  he  had  not,  should 
lament  him  dead,  for  those  he  really  had. 

In  this  universal  cause  for  national  distress,  as  I 
had  no  interest  myself,  so  it  is  but  natural  to  sup- 


pose 


felt  no  real  affliction.     "In  all  the  losses  of 


our  friends,"  says  an  European  philosopher,  "  we 
first  consider  how  much  our  own  welfare  is  affected 
by  their  departure,  and  moderate  our  real  grief  just 
in  the  same  proportion."  Now,  as  I  had  neither 
received,  nor  expected  to  receive,  favours  from 
kings  or  their  flatterers ;  as  I  had  no  acquaintance 
in  particular  with  their  late  monarch ;  as  I  knew 
that  the  place  of  a  king  is  soon  supplied ;  and,  as 
the  Chinese  proverb  has  it,  that  though  the  world 
may  sometimes  want  cobblers  to  mend  their  shoes, 
there  is  no  danger  of  its  wanting  emperors  to  rule 
their  kingdoms :  from  such  considerations,  I  could 
bear  the  loss  of  a  king  with  the  most  philosophic 
resignation.  However,  I  thought  it  my  duty  at 
least  to  appear  sorrowful ;  to  put  on  a  melancholy 
aspect,  or  to  set  my  face  by  that  of  the  people. 

The  first  company  I  came  amongst  after  the 
news  became  general,  was  a  set  of  jolly  companions, 
who  were  drinking  prosperity  to  the  ensuing  reign. 
I  entered  the  room  with  looks  of  despair,  and  even 
expected  applause  for  the  superlative  misery  of  my 
countenance.  Instead  of  that,  I  was  universally 
condemned  by  the  company  for  a  grimacing  son  of 
a  whore,  and  desired  to  take  away  my  penitential 
phiz  to  some  other  quarter.  I  now  corrected  my 
former  mistake,  and,  with  the  most  sprightly  air 
imaginable,  entered  a  company,  where  they  were 
talking  over  the  ceremonies  of  the  approaching 
funeral.  Here  I  sat  for  some  time  with  an  air  of 
pert  vivacity;  when  one  of  the  chief  mourners,  im- 
mediately observing  my  good-humour,  desired  me, 
if  I  pleased,  to  go  and  grin  somewhere  else;  they 
wanted  no  disaffected  scoundrels  there.  Leaving 
this  company,  therefore,  I  was  resolved  to  assume 
a  look  perfectly  neutral ;  and  have  ever  since  been 
studying  the  fashionable  air;  something  between 
jest  and  earnest;  a  complete  virginity  of  face, 
uncontaminated  with  the  smallest  symptom  of 
meaning. 

But  though  grief  be  a  very  slight  aflfair  here,  the 
mourning,  my  friend,  is  a  very  important  concern. 
When  an  emperor  dies  in  China,  the  whole  ex- 
pense of  the  solemnities  is  defrayed  from  the  royal 
coffers.  When  the  great  die  here,  mandarines  are 
ready  enough  to  order  mourning ;  but  I  do  not  see 
they  are  so  ready  to  pay  for  it.  If  they  send  me 
down  from  court  the  gray  undress  frock,  or  the 
Mack  coat  without  pocket  holes,  I  am  willing 
enough  to  comply  with  their  commands,  and  wear 
both ;  but,  by  the  head  of  Confucius !  to  be  obliged 
to  wear  black,  and  buy  it  into  the  bargain,  is  more 
than  my  tranquillity  of  temper  can  bear.  What, 
order  me  to  wear  mourning,  before  they  know 


whether  I  can  buy  it  or  no !  Fum,  thou  son  of 
Fo,  what  sort  of  a  people  am  I  got  amongst?  where 
being  out  of  black  is  a  certain  symptom  of  poverty , 
where  those  who  have  miserable  faces  cannot  have 
mourning,  and  those  who  have  mourning  will  not 
wear  a  miserable  face !     Adieu. 


LETTER  XCVII. 


From  the  Same. 


It  is  usual  for  the  booksellers  here,  when  a  book 
has  given  universal  pleasure  upon  one  subject,  to 
bring  out  several  more  upon  the  same  plan ;  which 
are  sure  to  have  purchasers  and  readers,  from  that 
desire  which  all  men  have  to  view  a  pleasing  ob- 
ject on  every  side.  The  first  performance  serves 
rather  to  awaken  than  satisfy  attention;  and,  when 
that  is  once  moved,  the  slightest  effort  serves  tp 
contirme  its  progression :  the  merit  of  the  first  dif- 
fuses a  light  sufficient  to  illuminate  the  succeeding 
efforts,  and  no  other  subject  can  be  relished,  till 
that  is  exhausted.  A  stupid  work  coming  thus 
immediately  in  the  train  of  an  applauded  perform- 
ance, weans  the  mind  from  the  object  of  its  pleasure; 
and  resembles  the  sponge  thrust  into  the  mouth  of 
a  discharged  culverin,  in  order  to  adapt  it  for  a 
new  explosion. 

This  manner,  however,  of  drawing  off  a  subject, 
or  a  peculiar  mode  of  writing  to  the  dregs,  effectu- 
ally precludes  a  revival  of  that  sukject  or  manner 
for  some  time  for  the  future ;  the  sated  reader  turns 
from  it  with  a  kind  of  literary  nausea ;  and  though 
the  titles  of  books  are  the  part  of  them  most  read, 
yet  he  has  scarcely  perseverance  enough  to  wade 
through  the  title-page. 

Of  this  number,  I  own  myself  one:  I  am  now 
grown  callous  to  several  subjects,  and  different 
kinds  of  composition.  Whether  such  originally 
pleased  I  will  not  take  upon  me  to  determine;  but 
at  present  I  spurn  a  new  book,  merely  upon  seeing 
its  name  in  an  advertisement ;  nor  have  the  small- 
est curiosity  to  look  beyond  the  first  leaf,  even 
though,  in  the  second,  the  author  promises  his  own 
face  neatly  engraved  on  copper. 

I  am  become  a  perfect  epicure  in  reading;  plain 
beef  or  solid  mutton  will  never  do.  I  am  for  a  Chi- 
nese dish  of  bear's  claws  and  birds'  nests.  I  am 
for  sauce  strong  with  assafoetida,  or  fuming  with 
garlic.  For  this  reason  there  are  a  hundred  very 
wise,  learned,  virtuous,  well-intended  productions, 
that  have  no  charms  for  me.  Thus,  for  the  soul  ot 
me,  I  could  never  find  courage  nor  grace  enough  to 
wade  above  two  pages  deep  into  "  Thoughts  upon 
God  and  Nature;"  or  "Thoughts  upon  Provi- 
dence;" or  "  Thoughts  upon  Free  Grace;"  or  in- 
deed into  thoughts  upon  any  thing  at  all.  I  can 
no  longei'  meditate  with  meditations  for  every  day 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


367 


in  the  year.  Essays  upon  divers  subjects  can  not 
allure  me,  though  never  so  interesting;  and  as  for 
funeral  sermons,  or  even  thanksgiving  sermons,  I 
can  neither  weep  with  the  one,  nor  rejoice  with  the 
other. 

But  it  is  chiefly  in  gentle  poetry,  where  I  seldom 
look  farther  than  the  title.  The  truth  is,  1  take  up 
books  to  be  told  something  new;  but  here,  as  it  is 
now  managed,  the  reader  is  told  nothing.  He  opens 
the  book,  and  there  finds  very  good  words  truly, 
and  much  exactness  of  rhyme,  but  no  information. 
A  parcel  of  gaudy  images  pass  on  before  his  imagi- 
nation like  the  figures  in  a  dream;  but  curiosity, 
induction,  reason,  and  the  whole  train  of  affections, 
are  fast  asleep.  The  jucunda  et  idonea  titce ; 
those  sallies  which  mend  the  heart,  while  they 
amuse  the  fancy,  are  quite  forgotten:  so  that  a 
reader,  who  would  take  up  some  modern  applauded 
performances  of  this  kind,  must,  in  order  to  be  pleas- 
ed, first  leave  his  good  sense  behind  him,  take  for 
his  recompense  and  guide  bloated  and  compound 
epithet,  and  dwell  on  paintings,  just  indeed,  because 
laboured  with  minute  exactness. 

If  we  examine,  however,  our  internal  sensations, 
we  shall  find  ourselves  but  little  pleased  with  such 
laboured  vanities;  we  shall  find  that  our  applause 
rather  proceeds  from  a  kind  of  contagion  caught  up 
from  others,  and  which  we  contribute  to  diffuse,  than 
from  what  we  privately  feel.  There  are  some  sub- 
jects of  which  almost  all  the  worid  perceive  the  fu- 
tility; yet  all  contribute  in  imposing  them  upon  each 
other,  as  worthy  of  praise.  But  chiefly  this  imposition 
obtains  in  literature,  where  men  publicly  contemn 
what  they  relish  with  rapture  in  private,  and  ap- 
prove abroad  what  has  given  disgust  at  home.  The 
truth  is,  we  deliver  those  criticisms  in  public  which 
are  supposed  to  be  best  calculated  not  to  do  justice 
to  the  author,  but  to  impress  others  with  an  opin- 
ion of  our  superior  discernment. 

But  let  works  of  this  kind,  which  have  already 
come  off  with  such  applause,  enjoy  it  all.  It  is 
not  my  wish  to  diminish,  as  I  was  never  considera- 
ble enough  to  add  to  their  fame.  But,  for  the  fu- 
ture, I  fear  there  are  many  poems  of  which  I  shall 
find  spirits  to  read  but  the  title.  In  the  first  place, 
all  odes  upon  winter,  or  summer,  or  autumn ;  in 
^short,  all  odes,  epodes,  and  monodies  whatsoever, 
shall  hereafter  be  deemed  too  polite,  classical,  ob- 
scure, and  refined  to  be  read,  and  entirely  above  hu- 
man comprehension.  Pastorals  are  pretty  enough — 
for  those  that  like  them ;  but  to  me,  Thyrsis  is  one 
of  the  most  insipid  fellows  I  ever  conversed  with ; 
and  as  for  Corydon,  I  do  not  choose  his  company. 
Elegies  and  epistles  are  very  fine  to  those  to  whom 
they  are  addressed ;  and  as  for  epic  poems,  I  am 
geneiallv  able  to  discover  the  whole  plan  in  reading 
fihe  two  nrst  pages. 

Tragedies,  however^  as  they  are  now  made,  are 
^g9od  instructive  moral  sermons  enough;  and  it 


would  be  a  fault  not  to  be  pleased  with  good  things. 
There  I  learn  several  great  truths :  as,  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  see  into  the  ways  of  futurity;  that  pu 
nishment  always  attends  the  villain ;  that  love  is 
the  fond  soother  of  the  human  breast;  that  we 
should  not  resist  Heaven's  will^ — for  in  resisting 
Heaven's  will  Heaven's  will  is  resisted;  with  se- 
veral other  sentiments  equally  new,  delicate,  and 
striking.  Every  new  tragedy,  therefore,  I  shall  go 
to  see ;  for  reflections  of  this  nature  make  a  tolera- 
ble harmony,  when  mixed  up  with  a  proper  quan- 
tity of  drum,  trumpet,  thunder,  lightning,  or  the 
scene-shifter's  whistle.     Adieu. 


LETTER  XCVIII. 


From  the  Same. 


I  HAD  some  intentions  lately  of  going  to  visit 
Bedlam,  the  place  where  those  who  go  mad  are 
confined.  I  went  to  wait  upon  the  man  in  black, 
to  be  my  conductor,  but  I  found  him  preparing  to 
go  to  Westminster-hall,  where  the  English  hold 
their  courts  of  justice.  It  gave  me  some  surprise 
to  find  my  friend  engaged  in  a  law-suit,  but  more 
so  when  he  informed  me  that  it  had  been  depend- 
ing for  several  years,  "  How  is  it  possible,"  cried 
I,  "for  a  man  who  knows  the  world  to  go  to  lawl 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  courts  of  justice  in 
China,  they  resemble  rat-traps  every  one  of  them^ 
nothing  more  easy  than  to  get  in,  but  to  get  out 
again  is  attended  with  some  diflaculty,  and  more 
cunning  than  rats  are  generally  found  to  possess!'* 

"  Faith,"  replied  my  friend,  "  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  law,  but  that  I  was  assured  of  success  be- 
fore I  began  ;  things  were  presented  to  me  in  so 
alluring  a  light,  that  I  thought  by  barely  declaring^ 
myself  a  candidate  for  the  prize,  I  had  nothing  more 
to  do  than  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  the  victory.  Thus 
have  I  been  upon  the  eve  of  an  imaginary  triumph 
every  term  these  ten  years ;  have  travelled  forward 
with  victory  ever  in  my  view,  but  ever  out  of  reach  v 
however,  at  present,  I  fancy  we  have  hampered 
our  antagonist  in  such  a  manner,  that,  without 
some  unforeseen  demur,  we  shall  this  very  day  lay 
him  fairly  on  his  back." 

"  If  things  be  so  situated,"  said  I,  "  I  don't  care 
if  I  attend  you  to  the  courts,  and  partake  in  the 
pleasure  of  your  success.  But  prithee,"  continued 
I,  as  we  set  forward,  "  what  reasons  have  ydu  to 
think  an  affair  at  last  concluded,  which  has  given 
you  so  many  former  disappointments?" — "My 
lawyer  tells  me,"  returned  he,  "  that  I  have  Salkeld 
and  Ventris  strong  in  my  favour,  and  that  there 
are  no  less  than  fifteen  cases  in  point." — "  I  under- 
stand," said  I,  "those  are  two  of  your  judges  who 
have  already  declared  their  opinions." — "  Pardon 
me,"  replied  ray  friend,  "Salkeld  and  Ventris  are 


368 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


lawyers,  who  some  hundred  years  ago  gave  their 
opinions  on  cases  similar  to  mine ;  these  opinions 
which  make  for  me  my  lawyer  is  to  cite ;  and  those 
opinions  which  look  another  way  are  cited  by  the 
lawyer  employed  by  my  antagonist :  as  I  observed, 
I  have  Salkeld  and  Ventris  for  me,  he  has  Coke 
and  Hale  for  him ;  and  he  that  has  most  opinions 
is  most  likely  to  carry  his  cause." — "  But  where  is 
the  necessity,"  cried  I,  "of  prolonging  a  suit  by 
citing  the  opinions  and  reports  of  others,  since  the 
same  good  sense  which  determined  lawyers  in  for- 
mer ages  may  serve  to  guide  your  judges  at  this 
day  7  They  at  that  time  gave  their  opinions  only 
from  the  light  of  reason ;  your  judges  have  the 
same  light  at  present  to  direct  them  ;  let  me  even 
add,  a  greater,  as  in  former  ages  there  were  many 
prejudices  from  which  the  present  is  happily  free. 
If  arguing  from  authorities  be  exploded  from  every 
other  branch  of  learning,  why  should  it  be  par- 
ticularly adhered  to  in  this  1  I  plainly  foresee  how 
such  a  method  of  investigation  must  embarrass 
every  suit,  and  even  perplex  the  student ;  ceremo- 
nies will  be  multiplied,  formalities  must  increase, 
and  more  time  will  thus  be  spent  in  learning 
the  arts  of  litigation  than  in  the  discovery  of 
right" 

"I  see,"  cries  my  friend,  "that  you  are  for  a 
speedy  administration  of  justice ;  but  all  the  world 
will  grant,  that  the  more  time  that  is  taken  up  in 
considering  any  subject,  the  better  it  will  be  un- 
derstood. Besides,  it  is  the  boast  of  an  English- 
man, that  his  property  is  secure,  and  all  the  world 
will  grant  that  a  deliberate  administration  of  justice 
is  the  best  way  to  secure  his  property.  Why  have 
we  so  many  lawyers,  but  to  secure  our  property  ? 
^vhy  so  many  formalities,  but  to  secure  our  proper- 
ty ?  Not  less  than  one  hundred  thousand  families 
live  in  opulence,  elegance,  and  ease,  merely  by  se- 
turing  our  property.^' 

"  To  embarrass  justice,"  returned  I,  "by  a  mul- 
tiplicity of  laws,  or  to  hazard  it  by  a  confidence  in 
our  judges,  are,  I  grant,  the  opposite  rocks  on 
which  legislative  wisdom  has  ever  split :  in  one 
case,  the  client  resembles  that  emperor,  who  is  said 
to  have  been  suffocated  with  the  bed-clothes  which 
were  only  designed  to  keep  him  warm ;  in  the 
other,  to  that  town  which  let  the  enemy  take  pos- 
session of  its  walls,  in  order  to  show  the  world  how 
little  they  depended  upon  aught  but  courage  for 
safety .-^But,  bless  me!  what  numbers  do  I  see 
here — all  in  black ! — how  is  it  possible  that  half 
this  multitude  can  find  employment?" — "Nothing 
so  easily  conceived,"  returned  my  companion ; 
"  they  live  by  watching  each  other.  For  instance, 
the  catchpole  watches  the  man  in  debt,  the  attorney 
watches  the  catchpole,  the  counsellor  watches  the 
attorneyj  the  solicitor  the  counsellor,  and  all  find 
sufficient  employment," — "  1  conceive  you,"  inter- 
rupted Ij  "  they  watch  each  other,  but  it  is  the  client 


that  pays  them  all  for  watching ;  it  puts  me  in  mind 
of  a  Chinese  fable,  which  is  entitled  Five  Animals 
at  a  Meal. 

"  A  grasshopper,  filled  with  dew,  was  merrily 
singing  under  a  shade;  a  whangam,  that  eats 
grasshoppers,  had  marked  it  for  its  prey,  and  was 
just  stretching  forth  to  devour  it;  a  serpent,  that 
had  for  a  long  time  fed  only  on  whanganis,  was 
coiled  up  to  fasten  on  the  whangam  ;  a  yellow  bird 
was  just  upon  the  wing  to  dart  upon  the  serpent ; 
a  hawk  had  just  stooped  from  above  to  seize  the 
yellow  bird ;  all  were  intent  on  their  prey,  and  un- 
mindful of  their  danger ;  so  the  whangham  ate  the 
grasshopper,  the  serpent  ate  the  whangam,  the  yel- 
low bird  the  serpent,  and  the  hawk  the  yellow 
bird ;  when,  sousing  from  on  high,  a  vulture  gob- 
bled up  the  hawk,  grasshopper,  whangam,  and  all, 
in  a  moment." 

I  had  scarcely  finished  my  fable,  when  the  law- 
yer came  to  inform  my  friend,  that  his  cause  was 
put  oflf  till  another  term,  that  money  was  wanting 
to  retain,  and  that  all  the  world  was  of  opinion, 
that  the  very  next  hearing  would  bring  him  off 
victorious.  "  If  so,  then,"  cries  my  friend,  "  I  be- 
lieve it  will  be  my  wisest  way  to  continue  the  cause 
for  another  term;  and,  in  the  mean  time,  my  friend 
here  and  I  will  go  and  see  Bedlam."     Adieu. 


LETTER  XCIX. 


From  the  Same. 


I  LATELY  received  a  visit  from  the  little  beau, 
who,  I  found,  had  assumed  a  new  flow  of  spirits 
with  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  Our  discourse  hap- 
pened to  ttirn  upon  the  different  treatment  of  the 
fair  sex  here  and  in  Asia,  with  the  influence  of 
beauty  in  refining  our  manners,  and  improving  our 
conversation. 

I  soon  perceived  he  was  strongly  prejudiced  in 
favour  of  the  Asiatic  method  of  treating  the  sex, 
and  that  it  was  impossible  to  persuade  him  but 
that  a  man  was  happier  who  had  four  wives  at  hia 
command,'  than  he  who  had  only  one.  "  It  is  true," 
cries  he,  "your  men  of  fashion  in  the  East  are 
slaves,  and  under  some  terrors  of  having  their 
throats  squeezed  by  a  bow-string;  but  what  then? 
they  can  find  ample  consolation  in  a  seraglio :  they 
make,  indeed,  an  indifferent  figure  in  conversation 
abroad,  but  then  they  have  a  seraglio  to  console 
them  at  home.  I  am  told  they  have  no  balls, 
drums,  nor  operas,  but  then  they  have  got  a  se- 

lio ;  they  may  be  deprived  of  wine  and  French 
cookery,  but  they  have  a  seraglio:  a  seraglio — a 
seraglio,  my  dear  creature,  wipes  off  rfvery  incon- 
venience in  the  world ! 

"Besides,  I  am  told  your  Asiatic  beauties  are 
the  most  convenient  women  alive,  for  they  have  no 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


869 


souls ;  positively  there  i%  nothing  in  nature  I  should 
like  so  much  as  ladies  without  souls;  soul,  here,  is 
the  utter  ruin  of  half  the  sex.  A  girl  of  eighteen 
shall  have  soul  enough  to  spend  a  hundred  pounds 
m  the  turning  of  a  trump.  Her  mother  shall  have 
soul  enough  to  ride  a  sweepstake  match  at  a  horse- 
race ;  her  maiden  aunt  shall  have  soul  enough  to 
purchase  the  furniture  of  a  whole  toy -shop ;  and 
others  shall  have  soul  enough  to  behave  as  if  they 
had  no  souls  at  all." 

"With  respect  to  the  soul,"  interrupted  I,  "the 
Asiatics  are  much  kinder  to  the  fair  sex  than  you 
imagine:  instead  of  one  soul,  Fohi,  the  idol  of 
China,  gives  every  woman  three ;  the  Brahmins 
give  them  fifteen ;  and  even  Mahomet  himself 
nowhere  excludes  the  sex  from  Paradise.  Abulfeda 
reports,  that  an  old  woman  one  day  importuning  him 
to  know  what  she  ought  to  do  in  order  to  gain 
Paradise? — "My  good  lady,"  answered  the  pro- 
phet, "old  women  never  get  there." — "  What ! 
never  get  to  Paradise  !"  returned  the  matron  in  a 
fury.  "Never,"  says  he,  " for  they  always  grow 
young  by  the  way." 

"  No,  sir,"  c6ntinued  I,  "  the  men  of  Asia  be- 
have with  more  deference  to  the  sex  than  you  seem 
to  imagine.  As  you  of  Europe  say  grace  upon 
sitting  down  to  dinner,  so  it  is  the  custom  in  China 
to  say  grace  when  a  man  goes  to  bed  to  his  wife." 
— "And  may  I  die,"  returned  my  companion, 
"  but  it  is  a  very  pretty  ceremony !  for,  seriously, 
sir,  I  see  no  reason  why  a  man  should  not  be  as 
grateful  in  one  situation  as  in  the  other.  Upon 
honour,  I  always  find  myself  much  more  disposed 
to  gratitude  on  the  couch  of  a  fine  woman,  than 
upon  sitting  down  to  a  sirloin  of  beef." 

"  Another  ceremony,"  said  I,  resuming  the  con- 
versation, "  in  favour  of  the  sex,  amongst  us,  is 
the  bride's  being  allowed,  after  marriage,  her  three 
days  of  freedom.  During  this  interval,  a  thousand 
extravagancies  are  practised  by  either  sex.  The 
lady  is  placed  upon  the  nuptial  bed,  and  number- 
less monkey-tricks  are  played  round  to  divert  her. 
One  gentleman  smells  her  perfumed  handkerchief, 
another  attempts  to  untie  her  garters,  a  third  pulls 
off  her  shoe  to  play  hunt  the  slipper,  another  pre- 
tends to  be  an  ideot,  and  endeavours  to  raise  a 
laugh  by  grimacing ;  in  the  mean  time,  the  glass 
goes  briskly  about,  till  ladies,  gentlemen,  wife,  hus- 
band, and  all,  are  mixed  together  in  one  inunda- 
tion of  arrack  punch." 

"  Strike  me  dumb,  deaf,  and  blind,"  cried  my 
companion,  "but  that's  very  pretty!  there's  some 
sense  in  your  Chinese  ladies'  condescensions !  but, 
among  us,  you  shall  scarce  find  one  of  the  whole 
sex  that  shall  hold  her  good  humour  for  three  days 
together.  No  later  than  yesterday,  I  happened  to 
say  some  civil  things  to  a  citizen's  wife  of  my  ac- 
quaintance, not  because  I  loved  her,  but  because  I 
had  charity ;  and  what  do  you  think  was  the  ten- 
24 


der  creature's  reply?  Only  that  she  detested  my 
pig-tail  wig,  high-heeled  shoes,  and  sallow  com- 
plexion! That  is  all.  Nothing  more !— Yes,  by  the 
Heavens,  though  she  was  more  ugly  than  an  un- 
painted  actress,  I  found  her  more  insolent  than  a 
thorough-bred  woman  of  quality !" 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  wild  manner,  when 
his  invective  was  interrupted  by  the  man  in  blaclc, 
who  entered  the  apartment,  introducing  his  niece, 
a  young  lady  of  exquisite  beauty.  Her  very  ap- 
pearance was  sufficient  to  silence  the  severest  sati- 
rist of  the  sex :  easy  without  pride,  and  free  with- 
out impudence,  she  seemed  capable  of  supplying 
every  sense  with  pleasure ;  her  looks,  her  conver- 
sation, were  natural  and  unconstrained ;  she  had 
neither  been  taught  to  languish  nor  ogle,  to  laucrh 
without  a  jest,  or  sigh  without  sorrow.  I  found 
that  she  had  just  returned  from  abroad,  and  had 
been  conversant  in  the  manners  of  the  world. 
Curiosity  prompted  me  to  ask  several  questions, 
but  she  declined  them  all.  I  own  I  never  found 
myself  so  strongly  prejudiced  in  favour  of  appa- 
rent merit  before  \  and  could  willingly  have  pro- 
longed ouf  conversation,  but  the  company  after 
some  time  withdrew.  Just,  however,  before  the 
little  beau  took  his  leave,  he  called  me  aside,  and 
requested  I  would  change  him  a  twenty  pound  bill; 
which,  as  I  was  incapable  of  doing,  he  was  con- 
tented with  borrowing  half-a-crown.    Adieu. 


LETTER  C. 

Frcwn  Lien  Chi  Altangi  to  Hingpo,  by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

Few  virtues  have  been  more  praised  by  moral- 
ists than  generosity;  every  practical  treatise  of 
ethics  tends  to  increase  our  sensibility  of  the  dis- 
tresses of  others,  and  to  relax  the  grasp  of  fru- 
gality. Philosophers  that  are  poor,  praise  it  be- 
cause they  are  gainers  by  its  effects;  and  the 
opulent  Seneca  himself  has  written  a  treatise  on 
benefits,  though  he  was  known  to  give  nothing 
away. 

But  among  many  who  have  enforced  the  duty 
of  giving,  I  am  surprised  there  are  none  to  incul- 
cate the  ignominy  of  receiving;  to  show  that  by 
every  favour  we  accept,  we  in  some  measure  for- 
feit our  native  freedom ;  and  that  a  state  of  con- 
tinual dependance  on  the  generosity  of  others,  is  a 
life  of  gradual  debasement. 

Were  men  taught  to  despise  the  receiving  obli- 
gations with  the  same  force  of  reasoning  and  de- 
clamation that  they  are  instructed  to  confer  them, 
we  might  then  see  every  person  in  society  filling 
up  the  requisite  duties  of  his  station  with  cheerful 
industry,  neither  relaxed  by  hope,  nor  sullen  from 
disappointment. 

Every  favour  a  man  receives  in  some  measore 


370 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


sinks  him  below  his  dignity;  and  in  proportion  to 
the  value  of  the  benefit,  or  the  frequency  of  its  ac- 
ceptance, he  gives  up  so  much  of  his  natural  inde- 
pendence. He,  therefore,  who  thrives  upon  the 
unmerited  bounty  of  another,  if  he  has  any  sensi- 
bility, suffers  the  worst  of  servitude;  the  shackled 
slave  may  murmur  without  reproach,  but  the  hum- 
ble dependant  is  taxed  with  ingratitude  upon  every 
symptom  of  discontent;  the  one  may  rave  round 
the  walls  of  his  cell,  but  the  other  lingers  in  all  the 
silence  of  mental  confinement.  To  increase  his 
distress,  every  new  obligation  but  adds  to  the  former 
load  which  kept  the  vigorous  mind  from  rising; 
till,  at  last,  elastic  no  longer,  it  shapes  itself  to  con- 
straint, and  puts  on  habitual  servility. 

It  is  thus  with  a  feeling  mind;  but  there  are 
some  who,  born  without  any  share  of  sensibility, 
receive  favour  after  favour,  and  still  cringe  for 
more ;  who  accept  the  offer  of  generosity  with  as 
httle  reluctance  as  the  wages  of  merit,  and  even 
make  thanks  for  past  benefits  an  indirect  petition 
for  new ;  such,  1  grant,  can  suffer  no  debasement 
from  dependence,  since  they  were  originally  as  vile 
as  it  was  possible  to  be ;  dependence  degrades  only 
the  ingenuous,  but  leaves  the  sordid  mind  in  pris- 
tine meanness.  In  this  manner,  therefore, .  long 
continued  generosity  is  misplaced,  or  it  is  injurious; 
it  either  finds  a  man  worthless,  or  it  makes  him  s6;. 
and  true  it  is,  that  the  person  who  is  contented  to  be 
often  obliged,  ought  not  to  have  been  obliged  at  all. 

Yet,  while  I  describe  the  meanness  of  a  hfe  of 
continued  dependence,  I  would  not  be  thought  to 
include  those  natural  or  political  subordinations 
which  subsist  in  every  society;  for  in  such,  though 
dependence  is  exacted  from  the  inferior,  yet  the 
obligation  on  either  side  is  mutual.  The  son  must 
rely  upon  his  parent  for  support,  but  the  parent 
lies  under  the  same  obligations  to  give,  that  the 
other  has  to  expect;  the  subordinate  officer  must 
receive  the  commands  of  his  superior,  but  for  this 
obedience  the  former  has  a  right  to  demand  an  in- 
tercourse of  favour.  Such  is  not  the  dependence  I 
would  depreciate,  but  that  where  every  expected 
favour  must  be  the  result  of  mere  benevolence  in 
the  giver,  where  the  benefit  can  be  kept  without 
remorse^  or  transferred  without  injustice.  The 
character  of  a  legacy  hunter,  for  instance,  is  detesta- 
ble in  some  countries,  and  despicable  in  all ;  this 
universal  contempt  of  a  man  who  infringes  upon 
none  of  the  laws  of  society,  some  moralists  have 
arraigned  as  a  popular  and  unjust  prejudice;  never 
considering  the  necessary  degradations  a  wretch 
must  undergo,  who  previously  expects  to  grow  rich 
by  benefits,  without  having  either  natural  or  social 
claims  to  enforce  his  petitions. 

But  this  intercourse  of  benefaction  and  acknow- 
ledgment, is  often  injurious  even  to  the  giver  as 
well  as  the  receiver.  A  man  can  gain  but  little 
knowledge  of  himself,  or  of  the  world,  amidst  a  cir-i 


cle  of  those  whom  hope  or  gratitude  has  gathered 
round  him;  their  unceasing  humiliations  must  ne- 
cessarily increase  his  comparative  magnitude,  for  all 
men  measure  their  own  abilities  by  those  of  iheir 
company;  thus  being  taught  to  over-rate  his  merit, 
he  in  reality  lessens  it ;  increasing  in  confidence, 
but  not  in  power,  his  professions  end  in  empty 
boast,  his  undertakings  in  shameful  disappoint- 
ment. 

It  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  severest  misfortunes  of 
the  great,  that  they  are,  in  general,  obliged  to  live 
among  men  whose  real  value  is  lessened  by  depend- 
ence, and  whose  minds  are  enslaved  by  obligation. 
The  humble  companion  may  have  at  first  accepted 
patronage  with  generous  views ;  but  soon  he  feels 
the  mortifying  influence  of  conscious  inferiority, 
by  degrees  sinks  into  a  flatterer,  and  from  flattery 
at  last  degenerates  into  stupid  veneration.  To 
remedy  this,  the  great  often  dismiss  their  old  de- 
pendants, and  take  new.  Such  changes  are  falsely 
imputed  to  levity,  falsehood,  or  caprice,  in  the  pa- 
tron, since  they  may  be  more  justly  ascribed  to  the 
client's  gradual  deterioration. 

No,  my  son,  a  hfe  of  independence  is  generally  a 
life  of  virtue.  It  is  that  which  fits  the  soul  for  every 
generous  flight  of  humanity,  freedom,  and  friend* 
ship".  To  give  should  be  our  pleasure,  but  to  re- 
ceive, our  shame ;  serenity,  health,  and  afliuence, 
attend  the  desire  of  rising  by  labour ;  misery,  re- 
pentance, and  disrespect,  that  of  succeeding  by  ex- 
torted benevolence ;  the  man  who  can  thank  him- 
self alone  for  the  happiness  he  enjoys  is  truly 
blessed;  and  lovely,  far  more  lovely,  the  sturdy 
gloom  of  laborious  indigence,  than  the  fawning, 
simper  of  thriving  adulation.     Adieu. 


LETTER  CI. 

From  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  President  of 
tiie  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  Cliina. 

In  every  society  some  men  are  born  to  teach,  and 
others  to  receive  instruction ;  some  to  work,  and 
others  to  enjoy  in  idleness  the  fruits  of  their  indus- 
try, some  to  govern,  and  others  to  obey.  Every 
people,  how  free  soever,  must  be  contented  to  give 
up  part  of  their  liberty  and  judgment  to  those  who 
govern,  in  exchange  for  their  hopes  of  security ;  and 
the  motives  which  first  influenced  their  choice  in 
the  election  of  their  governors  should  ever  be  weigh- 
ed against  the  succeeding  apparent  inconsistencies 
of  their  conduct.  All  can  not  be  rulers,  and  men 
are  generally  best  governed  by  a  few.  In  making 
way  through  the  intricacies  of  business,  the  smallest 
obstacles  are  apt  to  retard  the  execution  of  what  is 
to  be  planned  by  a  multiplicity  of  counsels;  the 
judgment  of  one  alone  being  always  fittest  for 
winding  through  the  labyrinths  of  intrigue,  and  the 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


S7i 


obstructions  of  disappointment.  A  serpent  wliich, 
as  the  fable  observes,  is  furnished  with  one  head 
and  many  tails,  is  much  more  capable  of  subsistence 
and  expedition  than  another  which  is  furnished 
with  but  one  tail  and  many  heads. 

Obvious  as  those  truths  are,  the  people  of  this 
country  seem  insensible  of  their  force.  Not  satis- 
fied with  the  advantages  of  internal  peace  and  opu- 
lence, they  still  murmur  at  their  governors  and  in- 
terfere in  the  execution  of  their  designs,  as  if  they 
wanted  to  be  something  more  than  happy.  But  as 
the  Europeans  instruct  by  argument,  and  the 
Asiatics  mostly  by  narration,  were  I  to  address 
them,  I  should  convey  my  sentiments  in  the  follow- 
ing story. 

"Takupi  had  long  been  prime  minister  of  Ti- 
partala,  a  fertile  country  that  stretches  along  the 
western  confines  of  China,  During  his  adminis- 
tration, whatever  advantages  could  be  derived  from 
arts,  learning,  and  commerce,  were  seen  to  bless 
the  people ;  nor  were  the  necessary  precautions  of 
providing  for  the  security  of  the  state  forgotten.  It 
often  happens,  however,  that  when  m*n  are  pos- 
sessed of  all  they  want,  they  then  begin  to  find 
torment  from  imaginary  afflictions,  and  lessen  their 
present  enjoyments  by  foreboding  that  those  en- 
joyments are  to  have  an  end.  The  people  now, 
therefore,  endeavoured  to  find  out  grievances ;  and 
after  some  search,  actually  began  to  think  them- 
selves aggrieved.  A  petition  against  the  enormi- 
ties of  Takupi  was  carried  to  the  throne  in  due 
form ;  and  the  queen  who  governed  the  country, 
wilhng  to  satisfy  her  subjects,  appointed  a  day  in 
which  his  accusers  should  be  heard,  and  the  minis- 
ter should  stand  upon  his  defence. 

"The  day  being  arrived,  and  the  minister 
brought  before  the  tribunal,  a  carrier,  who  supplied 
the  city  with  fish,  appeared  among  the  number  of 
his  accusers.  He  exclaimed,  that  it  was  the  cus 
torn  time  immemorial  for  carriers  to  bring  their  fish 
upon  a  horse  in  a  hamper ;  which  being  placed  on 
one  side,  and  balanced  by  a  stone  on  the  other,  was 
thus  conveyed  with  ease  and  safety ;  but  that  the 
prisoner,  moved  either  by  a  spirit  of  innovation,  or 
perhaps  bribed  by  the  hamper-makers,  had  obliged 
all  carriers  to  use  the  stone  no  longer,  but  balance 
one  hamper  with  another ;  an  order  entirely  repug- 
nant to  the  customs  of  all  antiquity,  and  those  of 
the  kingdom  of  Tipartalain  particular. 

"  The  carrier  finished,  and  the  whole  court  shook 
their  heads  at  the  innovating  minister;  when  a 
second  witness  appeared.  He  was  inspector  of 
I  the  city  buildings,  and  accused  the  disgraced  fa- 
vourite of  having  given  orders  for  the  demolition  of 
an  ancient  ruin,  which  obstructed  the  passage 
through  one  of  the  principal  streets.  He  observed, 
that  such  buildings  were  noble  monuments  of  bar- 
barous antiquity ;  contributed  finely  to  show  how 
little  their  ancestors  understood  of  archictecture ; 


and  for  that  reason  such  monuments  shovJd  be 
held  sacred,  and  suflTered  gradually  to  decay. 

"  The  last  witness  now  appeared.  This  was  a 
widow,  who  had  laudably  attempted  to  burn  her- 
self upon  her  husband's  funeral  pile.  But  the  in- 
novating minister  had  prevented  the  execution  of 
her  design,  and  was  insensible  to  her  tears,  protes- 
tations, and  entreaties. 

"The  queen  could  have  pardormd  the  two  former 
offences;  but  this  last  was  considered  as  so  gross 
an  injury  to  the  sex,  and  so  directly  contrary  to  all 
the  customs  of  antiquity,  that  it  called  for  immedi- 
ate justice,  'What !'  cried  the  queen,  '  not  suffer 
a  woman  to  burn  herself  when  she  thinks  proper? 
The  sex  ar6  to  be  very  prettily  tutored,  no  doubt, 
if  they  must  be  restrained  from  entertaining  their 
female  friends  now  and  then  with  a  fried  v.'ife,  or 
roasted  acquaintance.  I  sentence  the  criminal  to 
be  banished  my  presence  for  ever,  for  his  injurious 
treatment  of  the  sex.' 

"  Takupi  had  been  hitherto  silent,'  and  spoke 
only  to  show  the  sincerity  of  his  resignation. 
'  Great  queen,'  cried  he,  "  I  acknowledge  my  crime ; 
and  since  1  am  to  be  banished,  I  beg  it  may  be  to 
some  ruined  tovs^n,  or  desolate  village,  in  the  coun- 
try I  have  governed.  I  shall  find  some  pleasure 
iff  improving  the  soil,  and  bringing  back  a  spirit  of 
industry  among  the  inhabitants.'  Hi^  request  ap- 
pearing reasonable,  it  was  immediately  complied 
with ;  and  a  courtier  had  orders  to  fix  upon  a  place 
of  banishment  answering  the  minister's  descrip- 
tion. After  some  months'  search,  however,  the 
inquiry  proved  fruitless ;  neither  a  desolate  village 
nor  a  ruined  town  was  found  in  the  whole  king- 
dom. 'Alas,'  said  Takupi  then  to  the  queen,  'how 
can  that  country  be  ill  governed  which  has  neither 
a  desolate  village  nor  a  ruined  town  in  it?'  The 
queen  perceived  the  justice  of  his  expostulation, 
and  the  minister"  was  received  into  more  than 
former  favour." 


LETTER  Cn. 


From  the  Same. 


The  ladies  here  are  by  no  means  such  ardent 
gamesters  as  the  women  of  Asia.  In  this  respect 
I  must  do  the  English  justice  ;  for  I  love  to  praise 
where  applause  is  justly  merited.  Nothing  is  more 
common  in  China  than  to  see  two  women  of  fashion 
continue  gaming  till  one  has  won  all  the  other's 
clothes,  and  stripped  her  quite  naked ;  the  winner 
thus  marching  off  in  a  double  suit  of  finery,  and 
the  loser  shrinking  behind  m  the  primitive  simplici- 
ty of  nature. 

No  doubt,  you  remember  when  Shang,  our 
maiden  aunt,  played  with  a  sharper.  First  her 
money  went ;  then  her  trinkets  were  produced 


372 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


her  clothes  followed  piece  by  piece  soon  after;  when 
she  had  thus  played  herself  quite  naked,  being  a 
woman  of  spirit,  and  willing  to  pursue  her  own, 
she  staked  her  teeth :  fortune  was  against  her  even 
here,  and  her  teeth  followed  her  clothes.  At  last 
she  played  for  her  left  eye ;  and,  oh,  hard  fate !  this 
too  she  lost :  however,  she  had  the  consolation  of 
biting  the  sharper,  for  he  never  perceived  that  it 
was  made  of  glass  till  it  became  his  own. 

How  happy,  my  friend,  are  the  English  ladies, 
■who  never  rise  to  such  an  inordinance  of  passion ! 
Though  the  sex  here  are  generally  fond  of  games 
of  chance,  and  are  taught  to  manage  games  of  skill 
from  their  infancy,  yet  they  never  pursue  ill-fortune 
with  such  amazing  intrepidity.  Indeed,  I  may  en- 
tirely acquit  them  of  ever  playing — I  mean  of  play- 
ing for  their  eyes  or  their  teeth. 

It  is  true,  they  often  stake  their  fortune,  their 
beauty,  health,  and  reputation,  at  a  gaming-table 
It  even  sometimes  happens,  that  they  play  their 
husbands  into  a  gaol;  yet  still  they  preserve  a  de- 
corum unknown  to  our  wives  and  daughters  in 
China.     I  have  been  present  at  a  rout  in  this 


le;tter  cm. 

From  Lien  Chi  AJtangi  to  *  ***,  Merchant  in  Amsterdam. 

I  HAVE  just  received  a  letter  from  my  son,  in 
which  he  informs  me  of  the  fruitlessness  of  his  en- 
deavours to  recover  the  lady  with  whom  he  fled 
from  Persia.  He  strives  to  cover,  under  the  ap- 
pearance of  fortitude,  a  heart  torn  with  anxiety 
and  disappointment.  I  have  offered  httle  consola- 
tion, since  that  but  two  frequently  feeds  the  sor- 
row which  it  pretends  to  deplore,  and  strengthens 
the  impression,  which  .nothing  but  the  external 
rubs  of  time  and  accident  can  thoroughly  efface. 

He  informs  me  of  his  intentions  of  quitting 
Moscow  the  first  opportunity,  and  travelling  by 
land  to  Amsterdam.  I  must,  therefore,  upon  his 
arrival,  entreat  the  continuance  of  your  friendship, 
and  beg  of  you  to  provide  him  with  proper  direc- 
tions for  finding  me  in  London.  You  can  scarce- 
ly be  sensible  of  the  joy  I  expect  upon  seeing 
him  once  more ;  the  ties  between  the  father  and 
the  son  among  us  of  China,  are  much  more  close- 


country,  where  a  woman  of  fashion,  after  losing :  ly  drawn  than  with  you  of  Europe. 


her  money,  has  sat  writhing  in  all  the  agonies  of 
bad  luck ;  and  yet,  after  all,  never  once  attempted 
to  strip  a  single  petticoat,  or  cover  the  board,  as 
her  last  stake,  with  her  head-clothes. 

However,  though  I  praise  their  moderation  at 
play,  I  must  not  conceal  their  assiduity.  In  China, 


The  remittances  sent  me  from  Argun  to  Moscow 
came  in  safety.  I  can  not  sufficiently  admire  that 
spirit  of  honesty  which  prevails  through  the  whole 
country  of  Siberia:  perhaps  the  savages  of  that 
desolate  region  are  the  only  untutored  people  of 
the  globe  that  cultivate  the  moral  virtues,   even 


our  women,  except  upon  some  great  days,  are  never  without  knowing  that  their  actions  merit  praise.  I 
permitted  to  finger  a  dice-box ;  but  here  every  day :  ^ave  been  told  surprising  things  of  their  goodness, 
seems  to  be  a  festival,  and  night  itself,  which  gives .  benevolence,  and  generosity ;  and  the  uninterrupt- 
others  rest,   only  serves  to  increase  the  female !  g^j  commerce  between  China  and  Russia  serves  as 


gamester's  industry.  I  have  been  told  of  an  old 
lady  in  the  country,  wh»,  being  given  over  by  the 
physicians,  played  with  the  curate  of  her  parish  to 
pass  the  time  away :  having  won  all  his  money, 
she  next  proposed  playing  for  her  funeral  charges ; 
hier  proposal  was  accepted ;  but  unfortunately  the 
lady  expired  just  as  she  had  taken  in  her  game. 

There  are  some  passions  which,  though  difierent- 
ly  pursued,  are  attended  with  equal  consequences 
in  every  country :  here  they  game  with  more  per- 
severance, there  with  greater  fury ;  here  they  strip 
their  famihes,  there  they  strip  themselves  naked. 
A  lady  in  China  who  indulges  a  passion  for  gaming, 
often  becomes  a  drunkard;  and  by  flourishing  a 
dice-box  in  one  hand,  she  generally  comes  to  brand- 
ish a  dram-cup  in  the  other.  Far  be  it  from  me 
to  say  there  are  any  who  drink  drams  in  England; 
but  it  is  natural  to  suppose,  that  when  a  lady  has 
lost  every  thing  else  but  her  honour,  she  will  be 
apt  to  toss  that  into  the  bargain;  and,  grown  in- 
sensible to  nicer  feelings,  behave  like  the  Spaniard, 
who,  when  all  his  money  was  gone,  endeavoured 
to  borrow  more,  by  offering  to  pawn  his  whiskers. 
Adieu. 


a  collateral  confirmation. 

"Let  us,"  says  the  Chinese  lawgiver,  "admire 
the  rude  virtues  of  the  ignorant,  but  rather  imitate 
the  delicate  morals  of  the  polite."  In  the  country 
where  I  reside,  though  honesty  and  benevolence 
be  not  so  congenial,  yet  art  supplies  the  place  of 
nature.  Though  here  every  vice  is  carried  to  ex- 
cess, yet  every  virtue  is  practised  also  with  unex- 
ampled superiority.  A  city  like  this  is  the  soil  for 
great  virtues  and  great  vices;  the  villain  can  soon 
improve  himself  in  the  deepest  mysteries  of  de- 
ceiving ;  and  the  practical  philosopher  can  every 
day  meet  new  incitements  to  mend  his  honest  in- 
tentions. There  are  no  pleasures,  sensual  or  sen- 
timental, which  this  city  does  not  produce ;  yet,  I 
know  not  how,  I  could  not  be  content  to  reside 
here  for  life.  There  is  something  so  seducing  in 
that  spot  in  which  we  first  had  existence,  that  no- 
thing but  it  can  please.  Whatever  vicissitudes 
we  experience  in  life,  however  we  toil,  or  whereso- 
ever we  wander,  our  fatigued  wishes  still  recur  to 
home  for  tranquillity :  we  long  to  die  in  that  spot 
wuich  jrare  us  birth,  and  in  that  pleasing  expecta- 
tion opiate  every  calamity. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


873 


You  now.  therefore,  perceive  that  I  have  some 
intentions  of  leaving  this  country ;  and  yet  my  de- 
signed departure  fills  me  with  reluctance  and  re- 
gret. Though  the  friendships  of  travellers  are 
generally  more  transient  than  vernal  snows,  still  I 
feel  an  uneasiness  at  breaking  the  connexions  I 
have  formed  since  my  arrival;  particularly  I  shall 
have  no  small  pain  in  leaving  my  usual  companion, 
guide,  and  instructor. 

I  shall  wait  for  the  arrival  of  my  son  before  I  set 
out.  He  shall  be  my  companion  in  every  intended 
journey  for  the  future ;  in  his  company  I  can  sup- 
port the  fatigues  of  the  way  with  redoubled  ardour, 
pleased  at  once  with  conveying  instruction  and  ex- 
acting obedience.    Adieu. 


LETTER  CIV. 

From  Lien  bhi  AJtangi  to  Fum  Hoam.  First  President  of  the 
Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

Our  scholars  in  China  have  a  most  profound 
venemtion  for  forms.  A  first-rate  beauty  never 
studied  the  decorums  of  dress  w^ith  more  assiduity; 
they  may  properly  enough  be  said  to  be  clothed  with 
"wisdom  from  head  to  foot ;  they  have  their  philo- 
sophical caps,  and  philosophical  whiskers;  their 
philosophical  slippers,  and  phUcfeophical  fans ;  there 
is  even  a  philosophical  staiij^d  for  measuring  the 
nails ;  and  yet,  with  all  tfiis  seeming  wisdom,  they 
are  often  found  to  be  mere  empty  pretenders. 

A  philosophical  beatiiWnot  so  frequent  in  En- 
rope;  yet  I  am  told  that  such  characters  are  found 
here.  I  mean  such  as  punctually  support  all  the 
decorums  of  learning,  without  being  really  very 
profound,  or  naturally  possessed  of  a  fine  under- 
standing who  labour  hard  to  obtain  the  titular 
honours  attending  literary  merit,  who  flatter  others 
in  order  to  be  flattered  in  turn,  and  only  study  to 
be  thought  students. 

A  character  of  this  kind  generally  receives  com- 
pany in  his  study,  in  all  the  pensive  formality  of 
slippers,  night-gown,  and  easy  chair.  The  table  is 
covered  with  a  large  book,  which  is  always  kept 
open,  and  never  read ;  his  solitary  hours  being  dedi- 
cated to  dozing,  mending  pens,  feeling  his  pulse, 
peeping  through  the  microscope,  and  sometimes 
reading  amusing  books,  which  he  condemns  in 
company.  His  library  is  preserved  with  the  most 
religious  neatness,  and  is  generally  a  repository  of 
scarce  books,  which  bear  a  high  price,  because  too 
dull  or  useless  to  become  common  by  the  ordinary 
methods  of  publication. 

Such  men  are  generally  candidates  for  admit- 
tance into  literary  clubs,  academies,  and  institu- 
i  tions,  where  they  regularly  meet  to  give  and  receive 
a  little  instruction,  and  a  great  deal  of  praise.  In 
conversation  they  never  betray  ignorance,  because 
they  never  seem  to  receive  information.    OiFer  a 


new  observation,  they  have  heard  it  before,  pinch 
them  in  argument,  and  they  reply  with  a  sneer. 

Yet,  how  trifling  soever  these  little  arts  may  ap- 
pear, they  answer  one  valuable  purpose,  of  gaining 
the  practisers  the  esteem  they  wish  for.  The 
bounds  of  a  man's  knowledge  are  easily  concealed, 
if  he  has  but  prudence ;  but  all  can  readily  see  and 
admire  a  gilt  library,  a  set  of  long  nails,  a  silver 
standish,  or  a  well-combed  whisker,  who  are  inca- 
pable of  distinguishing  a  dunce. 

'VV'hen  Father  Matthew,  the  first  European 
missionary,  entered  China,  the  court  was  informed, 
that  he  possessed  great  skill  in  astronomy;  he  was 
therefore  sent  for,  and  examined.  The  established 
astronomers  of  state  undertook  this  task,  and  made 
their  report  to  the  emperor  that  his  skill  was  but 
very  superficial,  and  no  way  comparable  to  their 
own.  The  missionary,  however,  appealed  from 
their  judgment  to  experience,  and  challenged  them 
to  calculate  an  eclipse  of  the  moon  that  was  to  hap- 
pen a  few  nights  following.  "  What !"  said  some, 
"  shall  a  barbarian  without  nails  pretend  to  vie 
with  men  in  astronomy,  who  have  made  it  the 
study  of  their  lives  ;  with  men  who  know  half  of 
the  knowable  characters  of  words,  who  wear  sci- 
entifical  caps  and  slippers,  and  who  have  gone 
through  every  literary  degree  with  applause?"  They 
accepted  the  challenge,  confident  of  success.  The 
eclipse  began :  the  Chinese  produced  a  most  splen- 
did apparatus,  and  were  fifteen  minutes  wrong; 
the  missionary,  with  a  single  instrument,  was  exact 
to  a  second.  This  was  convincing;  but  the  court 
astronomers  were  not  to  be  convinced ;  instead  of 
acknowledging  their  error,  they  assured  the  em- 
peror that  their  calculations  were  certainly  exact, 
but  that  the  stranger  without  nails  had  actually- 
bewitched  the  moon.  "  Well,  then,"  cries  the 
good  emperor  smiling  at  their  ignorance,  "you 
shall  still  continue  to  be  servants  of  the  moon ;  but 
I  constitute  this  man  her  controller." 

China  is  thus  replete  with  men,  whose  only  pre- 
tensions to  knowledge  arise  from  external  circum- 
stances ;  and,  in  Europe,  every  country  abounds 
with  them  in  proportion  to  its  ignorance.  Spain 
and  Flanders,  who  are  behind  the  rest  of  Europe 
in  learning  at  least  three  centuries,  have  twenty 
literary  titles  and  marks  of  distinction  unknown  in 
France  or  England.  They  have  their  Clarissimi 
and  Prceclarissimi,  their  Accuratissimi  and  Mi- 
nutissimi.  A  round  cap  entitles  one  student  to 
argue,  and  a  square  cap  permits  another  to  teach, 
while  a  cap  with  a  tassel  almost  sanctifies  the  head 
it  happens  to  cover.  But  where  true  knowledge 
is  cultivated,  these  formahties  begin  to  disappear. 
The  ermined  cowl,  the  solemn  beard,  and  sweep- 
'  ing  train,  are  laid  aside ;  philosophers  dress,  and 
talk,  and  think,  like  other  men;  an^  lamb-skin 
dressers,  and  cap-makers,  and  tail-carriers,  now 
deplore  a  literary  age. 


374 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


For  my  own  part,  my  friend,  I  have  seen  enough 
of  presuming  ignorance  never  to  venerate  wisdom 
but  where  it  actually  appears.  I  have  received 
literary  titles  and  distinctions  myself;  and,  by  the 
quantity  of  my  own  wisdom,  know  how  very  Uttle 
wisdom  they  can  confer.     Adieu. 


LETTER  CV. 


From  the  Same. 


The  time  for  the  young  king's  coronation  ap- 
proaches. The  great  and  the  little  world  look 
forward  with  impatience.  A  knight  from  the 
country,  who  has  brought  up  his  family  to  see  and 
be  seen  on  this  occasion,  has  taken  all  the  lower 
part  of  the  house  where  I  lodge.  His  wife  is  lay- 
ing in  a  large  quantity  of  silks,  which  the  mercer 
tells  her  are  to  be  fashionable  next  season ;  and 
miss,  her  daughter,  has  actually  had  her  ears  bored 
previous  to  the  ceremony.  In  all  this  bustle  of 
preparation  I  arn  considered  as  mere  luni.ber,  and 
ha,ve  been  shoved  up  two  stories  higher,  to  make 
room  for  others  my  landlady  seems  perfectly  con- 
vinced are  r^y  betters  ;  but  whom,  before  me,  she 
is  contented  with  only  calling  very  good  company. 

The  little  beau,  who  has  now  forced  himself  into 
my  intimacy,  was  yesterday  giving  me  a  most  mi- 
nute detail  of  the  intended  procession.  All  men 
are  eloquent  upon  their  favourite  topic  :  and  this 
seemed  peculiarly  ^dapted  to  the  size  and  turn  of 
his  understanding.  His  whole  mind  was  blazoned 
over  with  a  variety  of  glittering  images ;  coronets, 
escutcheons,  lace,  fringe,  tassals,  stones,  bugles, 
and  spun  glass.  "  Here,"  cried  he,  "  Garter  is  to 
walk ;  and  there  Rouge  Dragon  marches  with  the 
escutcheons  on  his  back.  Here  Clarei^cieux  moves 
forward ;  and  there  Blue  Mantle  disdains  to  be 
left  behind.  Here  the  alderman  march  two  and 
two  ;  and  there  the  undaunted  champion  of  Eng- 
land, no  way  terrified  at  the  very  numerous  ap- 
pearance of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  rides  forward  in 
complete  armour,  and  with  an  intrepid  air,  throws 
down  his  glove.  Ah  !"  continued  he,  "should any 
be  so  hardy  as  to  take  up  that  fatal  glove,  and  so 
accept  the  challenge,  we  should  see  line  sport ;  the 
champion  would  show  him  no  rnercy ;  he  would 
soon  teach  him  all  his  passes  with  a  witness.  How- 
ever, I  am  afraid  we  shall  have  none  willing  to  try 
it  with  him  upon  the  approaching  occasion,  for 
two  reasons ;  first,  because  bis  antagoriis.t  would 
stand  a  chance  of  being  killed  in  the  single  combat; 
and,  secondly,  because  if  he  escapes  the  champion's 
arm,  he  would  certainly  be  hanged  for  treason. 
No,  no ;  I  fancy  none  will  be  so  hardy  as  to  dis- 
pute it  with  a  champion  like  him  inured  to  arms  ; 
and  we  shall  probably  see  him  prancing  unmolest- 
ed away,  holding  his  bridle  thus  in  one  hand,  and 
brandishing  his  dram-cup  in  the  other." 


'  Some  men  have  a  manner  of  describing,  whicK 
only  wraps  the  subject  in  more  than  former  obscu 
rity ;  thus  I  was  unable,  with  all  my  companion's 
volubility,  to  form  a  distinct  idea  of  the  intended 
procession.  I  was  certain  that  the  inauguration  of 
a  king  should  be  conducted  with  solemnity  and 
religious  awe ;  and  I  could  not  be  persuaded;  that 
there  was  much  solemnity  in  this  description.  "  If 
this  be  true,"  cried  I  to  myself,  "  the  people  of 
Europe  surely  have  a  strange  manner  of  mixing 
solemn  and  fantastic  images  together ;  pictures  at 
once  replete  with  burlesque  and  the  sublime.  At 
a  time  when  the  king  enters  into  the  most  solemn 
compact  with  his  people,  nothing  surely  should  be 
admitted  to  diminish  from  the  real  majesty  of  the 
ceremony.  A  ludicrous  image,  brought  in  at  such 
a  time,  throws  an  air  of  ridicule  upon  the  whole. 
It  someway  resembles  a  picture  1  have  seen,  de- 
signed by  Albert  Durer,  where,  amidst  all  the  so- 
lemnity of  that  awful  scene,  a  deity  judging,  and  a 
trembhng  world  awaiting  the  decree,  he  has  intro- 
duced a  merry  mortal  trundUng  a  scolding  wife  to 
hell  in  a  wheel-barrow." 

My  companion,  who  mistook  my  silence,  during 
this  interval  of  reflection,  for  the  .rapture  of  as- 
tonishment, proceeded  to  describe  those  frivolous 
parts  of  the  s^iajir  that  *:iost  struck  his  imagina- 
tion ;  and  to  assure  me,  that  if  I  stayed  in  this 
country  some  months  longer,  I  should  see  fine 
things.  "For  my  oMj,j)art,"  continued  he,  "I 
know  already  of  lirteen  sSjQts  of  clothes,  that  would 
stand  on  one  end  with  gold  lace,  all  designed  to  be 
first  shown  there  ;  and  as '  for  diamonds,  rubies, 
emeralds,  and  pearls,  we  sh^l  see  them  as  thick  as 
brass  nails  in  a  sedan  chair.  And  then  we  are 
all  to  walk  so  majestically  thus ;  this  foot  always 
behind  the  foot  before,  'xne  ladies  are  to  fling 
nosegays ;  the  court  poets  to  scatter  verses  :  the 
spectators  are  to  be  all  in  full  dress  :  Mrs.  Tibbs 
in  a  new  sack,  ruflEles,  and  frenched  hair :  look 
where  you  will,  one  thing  finer  than  another ; 
Mrs.  Tibbs  courtesies  to  the  duchess ;  her  grace 
returns  the  compliment  with  a  bow.  '  Largess,' 
cries  the  herald.  '  Make  room,'  cries  the  gentle- 
man usher.  '  Knock  him  down,'  cries  the  guard, 
Ah!"  continued  he,  amazed  at  his  own  description, 
what  an  astonishing  scene  pi'  grandeur  can  art 
produce  from  the  smallest  circumstance,  when  it 
thus  actually  turns  to  wonder  one  man  putting  on 
another  man's  hat!" 

I  now  found  his  mind  was  entirely  set  upon  the 
fopperies  of  the  pageant,  and  quite  regardless  of  the 
real  meaning  of  such  costly  preparations.  "  Pa- 
geants," says  Bacon,  "are  pretty  things ;  but  we 
should  rather  study  to  make  them  elegant  than  ex- 
pensive." Processions,  cavalcades,  and  all  that 
fund  of  gay  frippery,  furnished  out  by  tailors,  bar- 
bers, and  tirewomen,  mechanically  influence  the 
miiid  into  veneration.    An  emperor  in  his  night- 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


375 


cap  would  not  meet  with  half  the  respect  of  an  em- 
peror with  a  glittering  crown.  Politics  resemble 
religion ;  attempting  to  divest  either  of  ceremony  is 
the  most  certain  method  of  bringing  either  into 
contempt.  The  weak  must  have  their  inducements 
to  admiration  as  well  as  the  wise ;  and  it  is  the  bu- 
siness of  a  sensible  government  to  impress  all  ranks 
with  a  sense  of  subordination,  whether  this  be  ef- 
fected b}'  a  diamond  buckle,  or  a  virtuous  edict,  a 
sumptuary  law,  or  a  glass  necklace. 

This  interval  of  reflection  only  gave  my  com- 
panion spirits  to  begin  his  description  afresh;  and, 
as  a  greater  inducement  to  raise  my  curiosity,  he 
informed  me  of  the  vast  sums  that  were  given  by 
the  spectators  for  places.  "That  the  ceremony 
must  be  fine,"  cries  he,  "  is  very  evident  from  the 
fine  price  that  is  paid  for  seeing  it.  Several  ladies 
have  assured  me,  they  would  willingly  part  with 
one  eye  rather  than  be  prevented  from  looking  on 
with  the  other.  Come,  come,"  continues  he,  "  I 
have  a  friend,  who,  for  my  sake,  will  supply  us 
with  places  at  the  most  reasonable  rates;  I'll  take 
care  you  shall  not  be  imposed  upon ;  and  he  will 
inform  you  of  the  use,  finery,  rapture,  splendour, 
and  enchantment  of  the  whole  ceremony,  better 
than  I." 

Follies  often  repeated  lose  theij^bsurdity,  and 
assume  the  appearance  of  reason^- .^is  arguments 
were  so  often  and  so  strongly  enforced,  that  I  had 
actually  some  thoughts  of  becoming  a  spectator. 
We  accordhigly  went  together  to  bespeak  a  place; 
but  guess  my  surprise,  wfien  the  man  demanded 
a  purse  of  gold  for  a  single  seat !  I  could  hardly 
believe  him  serious  upon  making  the  demand. — 
"  Prithee,  friend,"  cried  I,  "  after  I  have  paid  twen- 
ty pounds  for  sitting  here  an  hour  or  two,  can  I 
bring  apart  of  the  coronation  back? — "  No,  sir." — 
"  How  long  can  I  live  upon  it,  after  I  have  come 
away?" — "  Not  long,  sir." — "  Can  a  coronation 
clothe,  feed,  or  fatten  me?" — "Sir,"  replied  the 
man,  "  you  seem  to  be  under  a  mistake ;  all  that 
you  can  bring  away  is  the  pleasure,  of  having  it  to 
say,  that  you  saw  the  coronation." — "  Blast  me !" 
cries  Tibbs,  "  if  that  be  all,  there  is  no  need  of  pay- 
ing for  that,  since  I  am  resolved  to  have  that  plea- 
sure, whether  I  am  there  or  no!" 

I  am  conscious,  my  friend,  that  this  is  but  a  very 
confused  description  of  the  intended  ceremony. 
You  may  object,  that  I  neither  settle  rank,  pre- 
cedency, nor  place;  that  I  seem  ignorant  whether 
Gules  walks  before  or  behind  Garter ;  that  I  have 
neither  mentioned  the  dimensions  of  a  lord's  cap, 
nor  measured  the  length  of  a  lady's  tail.  1  know 
your  delight  is  in  minute  description ;  and  this  1 
am  unhappily  disqualified  from  furnishing;  yet, 
upon  the  whole,  I  fancy  it  will  be  no  way  compa- 
rable to  the  magnificence  of  our  late  emperor 
Whangti's  procession,  when  he  was  married  to 


the  moon,  at  which  Fum  Hoam  himself  presided 
in  person.    Adieu. 


LETTER  CVL 


From  the  Same. 


It  was  formerly  the  custom  here,  when  men  of 
distinction  died,  for  their  surviving  acquaintance  to 
throw  each  a  slight  present  into  the  grave.  Several 
things  of  little  value  were  made  use  of  for  that  pur- 
pose; perfumes,  relics,  spices,  bitter  herbs,  camo- 
mile, wormwood,  and  verses.  This  custom,  how- 
ever, is  almost  discontinued,  and  nothing  but  verses 
alone  are  now  lavished  on  such  occasions ;  an  ob- 
lation which  they  suppose  may  be  interred  with 
the  dead,  without  any  injury  to  the  living. 

Upon  the  death  of  the  great,  therefore,  the  poets 
and  undertakers  are  sure  of  employment.  While 
one  provides  the  long  cloak,  black  staff,  and  mourn- 
ing coach,  the  other  produces  the  pastoral  or  elegy, 
the  monody  or  apotheosis.  The  nobility  need  be 
under  no  apprehensions,  but  die  as  fast  as  they 
think  proper,  the  poet  and  undertaker  are  ready  to 
supply  them  ;  these  can  find  metaphorical  tears  and 
family  escutcheons  at  half  an  hour's  warning ;  and 
when  the  one  has  soberly  laid  the  body  in  the  grave, 
the  other  is  ready  to  fix  it  figuratively  among  the 
stars. 

There  are  several  ways  of  being  poetically  sor- 
rowful on  such  occasions.  The  bard  is  now  some 
pensive  youth  of  science,  who  sits  deploring  among 
the  tombs;  again,  he  is  Thyrsis  complaining  in  a 
circle  of  harmless  sheep.  Now  Britannia  sits  upon 
her  own  shore,  and  gives  a  loose  to  maternal  ten- 
derness ;  at  another  time,  Parnassus,  even  the 
mountain  Parnassus,  gives  way  to  sorrow,  and  is 
bathed  in  tears  of  distress. 

But  the  most  usual  manner  is  thus :  Damon 
meets  Menalcas,  who  has  got  a  most  gloomy  coun- 
tenance. The  shepherd  asks  his  friend,  whence 
that  look  of  distress?  to  which  the  other  replies, 
that  Pollio  is  no  more.  "  If  that  be  the  case  then," 
cries  Damon,  "  let  us  retire  to  yonder  bower  at  some 
distance  off,  where  the  cypress  and  the  jessamine 
add  fragrance  to  the  breeze ;  and  let  us  weep  alter- 
nately for  Pollio,  the  friend  of  shepherds,  and  the 
patron  of  every  muse." — "  Ah,"  returns  his  fellow 
shepherd,  "  what  think  you  rather  of  that  grotto 
by  the  fountain  side !  the  murmuring  stream  will 
help  to  assist  our  complaints,  and  a  nightingale  on 
a  neighbouring  tree  will  join  her  voice  to  the  con- 
cert !"  When  the  place  is  thus  settled,  they  begin: 
the  brook  stands  still  to  hear  their  lamentations ; 
the  cows  forget  to  gtaze ;  and  the  very  tigers  start 
from  the  forest  with  sympathetic  concern.  By  the 
tombs  of  our  ancestors !  my  dear  Fum,  I  am  quite 


376 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


unaffected  in  all  this  distress :  the  whole  is  Hquid 
laudanum  to  my  spirits ;  and  a  tiger  of  common 
sensibility  has  twenty  times  more  tenderness  than  I. 

But  though  I  could  never  weep  with  the  com- 
plaining shepherd,  yet  I  am  sometimes  induced  to 
pity  the  poet,  whose  trade  is  thus  to  make  demi- 
gods and  heroes  for  a  dinner.  There  is  not  in  na- 
ture a  more  dismal  figure  than  a  man  who  sits 
down  to  premeditated  flattery:  every  stanza  he 
writes  tacitly  reproaches  the  meanness  of  his  oc- 
cupation, till  at  last  his  stupidity  becomes  more 
stupid,  and  his  dulness  more  diminutive. 

I  am  amazed,  therefore,  that  none  have  yet  found 
out  the  secret  of  flattering  the  worthless,  and  yet 
of  preserving  a  safe  conscience.  I  have  often 
wished  for  some  method,  by  which  a  man  might  do 
himself  and  his  deceased  patron  justice,  without 
being  under  the  hateful  reproach  of  self-conviction. 
After  long  lucubration,  I  have  hit  upon  such  an 
expedient :  and  send  you  the  specin;ien  of  a  poem 
upon  the  decease  of  a  great  man,  in  which  the  flat- 
tery is  perfectly  fine,  and  yet  the  poet  perfectly  in- 
nocent. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  ****. 

Ye  muses,  pour  the  pitying  tear 

For  Pollio  snatch' d  away : 
O,  had  he  lived  another  year, — 

He  had  not  died  to-day. 

O,  were  he  born  to  bless  mankind 

In  virtuous  times  of  yore, 
Heroes  themselves  had  fallen  behind,— r 

JVfiene'er  he  went  before. 

How  sad  the  groves  and  plains  appear, 

And  sympathetic  sheep : 
Even  pitying  hills  would  dropPa  tear,— 

If  hills  could  learn  to  weep. 

His  bounty  in  exalted  strain 

Each  bard  may  well  display 
Since  none  implored  relief  in  vain,— 

That  went  relieved  away. 

And  hark !  I  hear  the  tuneful  throng 

His  obsequies  forbid : 
He  still  shall  live,  shall  live  as  long— 

As  ever  dead  man  did. 


LETTER  CVIL 

From  the  Same. 

It  is  the  most  usual  method  in  every  report,  first 
to  examine  its  probability,  and  then  act  as  the  con- 
juncture may  require.  The  English,  however, 
exert  a  different  spirit  in  such  circumstances ;  they 
first  act,  and,  when  too  late,  begin  to  examine. 


From  a  knowledge  of  this  disposition,  there  are  se* 
veral  here,  who  make  it  their  business  to  frame  new 
reports  at  every  convenient  interval,  all  tending  to 
denounce  ruin  both  on  their  contemporanes  and 
their  posterity.  T  his  den  unciation  is  eagerly  caught 
up  by  the  public :  away  they  fling  to  propagate  the 
distress ;  sell  out  at  one  place,  buy  in  at  another, 
grumble  at  their  governors,  shout  in  mobs,  and 
when  they  have  thus  for  some  time  behaved  Uke 
fools,  sit  down  coolly  to  argue  and  talk  wisdom,  to 
puzzle  each  other  with  syllogism,  and  prepare  for 
the  next  report  that  prevails,  which  is  always  at- 
tended with  the  same  success. 

Thus  are  they  ever  rising  above  one  report,  only 
to  sink  into  another.  They  resemble  a  dog  in  a 
well,  pawing  to  get  free.  When  he  has  raised  his 
upper  parts  above  water,  and  every  spectator  ima- 
gines him  disengaged,  his  lower  parts  drag  him 
down  again,  and  sink  him  to  the  nose ;  he  makes 
new  efforts  to  emerge,  and  every  effort  increasing 
his  weakness,  only  tends  to  sink  him  the  deeper. 

There  are  some  here  who,  1  am  told,  make  a 
tolerable  sitbsistence  by  the  creduhty  of  their  coun- 
trymen. As  they  find  the  people  fond  of  blood, 
wounds,  and  death,  they  contrive  political  ruina 
suited  to  every  month  in  the  year.  This  month 
the  people  are  to  be  eaten  up  by  the  French  in  flat- 
bottomed  boafcs  5  the  next,  by  the  soldiers  designed 
to  beat  the  French  back.  Now  the  people  are  go- 
ing to  jump  down  the  gulf  of  luxury;  and  now  no- 
thing but  a  herring  subscription  can  fish  them  up 
again.  Time  passes  6ti%  the  report  proves  false ; 
new  circumstances  produce  new  changes ;  but  the 
people  never  change,  they  are  persevering  in  folly. 

In  other  countries,  those  boding  politicians  would 
be  left  to  fret  over  their  own  schemes  alone,  and 
grow  splenetic  without  hopes  of  infecting  others: 
but  England  seems  to  be  the  very  region  where 
spleen  delights  to  dwell;  a  man  not  only  can  give 
an  unbounded  scope  to  the  disorder  in  himself,  but 
may,  if  he  pleases,  propagate  it  over  the  whole  kir»g- 
dom,  with  a  certainty  of  success.  He  has  only  to 
cry  out  that  the  government,  the  government  is  all 
wrong ;  that  their  schemes  are  leading  to  ruin;  that 
Britons  are  no  more ; — every  good  member  of  the 
commonwealth  thinks  it  his  duty,  in  such  a  case, 
to  deplore  the  universal  decadence  with  sympa- 
thetic sorrow,  and,  by  fancying  the  constitution  in 
a  decay,  absolutely  to  impair  its  vigour. 

This  people  would  laugh  at  my  simplicity, 
should  I  advise  them  to  be  less  sanguine  in  har- 
bouring gloomy  predictions,  and  examine  coolly 
before  they  attempted  to  complain.  I  have  just 
heard  a  story,  which,  though  transacted  in  a  pri- 
vate family,  serves  very  well  to  describe  the  beha- 
viour of  the  whole  nation,  in  cases  of  threatened 
calamity.  As  there  are  public,  so  there  are  private , 
incendiaries  here.  One  of  the  last,  either^or  the 
amusement  of  his  friends,  or  to  djyert  a  fit  of  the 


^. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


377 


spleen,  lately  sent  a  threatening  letter  to  a  worthy 
family  in  my  neighbourhood,  to  this  effect: — 

"Sir, — Knowing  you  to  be  very  rich,  and  find- 
ing myself  to  be  very  poor,  I  think  proper  to  inform 
you,  that  I  have  learned  the  secret  of  poisoning 
man,  woman,  and  child,  without  danger  of  detec- 
tion. Don't  be  uneasy,  sir,  you  may  take  your 
choice  of  being  poisoned  in  a  fortnight,  or  poisoned 
in  a  month,  or  poisoned  in  six  weeks :  you  shall 
have  full  time  to  settle  all  your  affairs.  Though  I 
am  poor,  I  love  to  do  things  like  a  gentleman. 
But,  sir,  you  must  die ;  I  have  determined  it  within 
my  own  breast  that  you  must  die.  Blood,  sir, 
blood  is  my  trade ;  so  I  could  wish  you  would  this 
day  six  weeks  take  leave  of  your  friends,  wife,  and 
family,  for  I  can  not  possibly  allow  you  longer  time. 
To  convince  you  more  certainly  of  the  power  of 
my  art,  by  which  you  may  know  I  speak  truth, 
take  this  letter;  when  you  have  read  it,  tear  off  the 
seal,  fold  it  up,  and  give  it  to  your  favourite  Dutch 
mastiff  that  sits  by  the  fire ;  he  will  swallow  it,  sir, 
like  a  buttered  toast :  in  three  hours  four  minutes 
after  he  has  eaten  it,  he  will  attempt  to  bite  off  his 
own  tongue,  and  half  an  hour  after  burst  asunder 
in  twenty  pieces.  Blood,  blood,  blood!  So  no 
more  at  present  from,  sir,  your  most  obedient, 
most  devoted  humble  servant  to  command,  till 
death." 

You  may  easily  imagine  the  consternation  into 
which  this  letter  threw  the  whole  good-natured 
family.  The  poor  man  to  whom  it  was  addressed 
was  the  more  surprised,  as  not  knowing  how  he 
could  merit  such  inveterate  malice.  All  the  friends 
of  the  family  were  convened ;  it  was  universally 
agreed  that  it  was  a  most  terrible  affair,  and  that 
the  government  should  be  solicited  to  offer  a  re- 
ward and  a  pardon :  a  fellow  of  this  kind  would  go 
on  poisoning  family  after  family ;  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  where  the  destruction  would  end. 
In  pursuance  of  these  determinations,  the  govern- 
ment was  applied  to ;  strict  search  was  made  after 
the  incendiary,  but  all  in  vain.  At  last,  therefore, 
they  recollected  that  the  experinient  was  not  yet 
tried  upon  the  dog ;  the  Dutch  mastiff  was  brought 
up,  and  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  friends  and  re- 
lations, the  seal  was  torn  off,  the  packet  folded  up 
with  care,  and  soon  they  found,  to  the  great  sur- 
prise of  all — that  the  dog  would  not  eat  the  letter. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  CVIIL 

From  the  Same. 

I  HAVE  frequently  been  amazed  at  the  ignorance 
>f  almost  all  the  European  travellers  who  have 
penetrated  any  considerable  way  eastward  into 
Asia.     They  have  been  influenced  either  by  mo- 


tives of  commerce  or  piety ;  and  their  accounts  are 
such  as  might  reasonably  be  expected  from  men  of 
very  narrow  or  very  prejudiced  education,  the  dic- 
tates of  superstition  or  the  result  of  ignorance.  Is 
it  not  surprising,  that  in  such  a  variety  of  adven- 
turers, not  one  single  philosopher  should  be  found? 
for  as  to  the  travels  of  Gemelli,  the  learned  are 
long  agreed  that  the  whole  is  but  an  imposture. 

There  is  scarcely  any  country,  how  rude  or  un- 
cultivated soever,  where  the  inhabitants  are  not 
possessed  of  some  peculiar  secrets  either  in  nature 
or  art,  which  might  be  transplanted  with  success. 
In  Siberian  Tartary,  for  instance,  the  natives  ex- 
tract a  strong  spirit  from  milk,  which  is  a  secret 
probably  unknown  to  the  chemists  of  Europe.  In 
the  most  savage  parts  of  India,  they  are  possessed 
of  the  secret  of  dyeing  vegetable  substances  scarlet; 
and  of  refining  lead  into  a  metal,  which,  for  hard- 
ness and  colour,  is  little  inferior  to  silver :  not  one 
of  which  secrets  but  would,  in  Europe,  make  a 
man's  fortune.  The  power  of  the  Asiatics  in  pro- 
ducing winds,  or  bringing  down  rain,  the  Europe- 
ans are  apt  to  treat  as  fabulous,  because  they  have 
no  instances  of  the  like  nature  among  themselves; 
but  they  would  have  treated  the  secrets  of  gun- 
powder, and  the  mariner's  compass,  in  the  same 
manner,  had  they  been  told  the  Chinese  used  such 
arts  before  the  invention  was  common  with  them- 
selves at  home. 

Of  all  the  English  philosophers,  I  most  reverence 
Bacon,  that  great  and  hardy  genius !  he  it  is  who 
allows  of  secrets  yet  unknown ;  who,  undaunted  by 
the  seeming  difficulties  that  oppose,  prompts  human 
curiosity  to  examine  every  part  of  nature,  and  even 
exhorts  man  to  try,  whether  he  can  not  subject  the 
tempest,  the  thunder,  and  even  earthquakes,  to 
human  control !  O,  did  a  man  of  his  daring  spirit, 
of  his  genius,  penetration,  and  learning,  travel  to 
those  countries  which  have  been  visited  only  by 
the  superstitious  and  the  mercenary,  what  might 
not  mankind  expect !  How  would  he  enlighten 
the  regions  to  which  he  travelled!  and  what  a 
variety  of  knowledge  and  useful  improvement 
would  he  not  bring  back  in  exchange ! 

There  is,  probably,  no  country  so  barbarous, 
that  would  not  disclose  all  it  knew,  if  it  received 
from  the  traveller  equivalent  information;  and  I 
am  apt  to  think,  that  a  person  who  was  ready  to 
give  more  knowledge  than  he  received,  would  be 
welcome  wherever  he  came.  All  his  careen  travel* 
ling  should  only  be  to  suit  his  intellectual  banquet 
to  the  people  with  whom  he  conversed ;  he  should 
not  attempt  to  teach  the  unlettered  Tartar  astrono- 
my, nor  yet  instruct  the  polite  Chinese  in  the  ruder 
arts  of  subsistence.  He  should  endeavour  to  im- 
prove the  barbarian  in  the  secrets  of  living  com 
fortably ;  and  the  inhabitant  of  a  more  refined 
country  in  the  speculative  pleasures  of  science. 
How  much  more  nobly  would  a  philosopher  thus 


878 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


employed  spend  his  time,  than  by  sitting  at  home, 
earnestly  intent  upon  adding  one  star  more  to  his 
catalogue,  or  one  monster  more  to  his  collection; 
or  still,  if  possible,  more  triflingly  sedulous  in  the 
incatenation  of  fleas,  or  the  sculpture  of  a  cherry- 
stone ! 

I  never  consider  this  subject  without  being  sur- 
prised, that  none  of  those  societies,  so  laudably  es- 
tablished in  England  for  the  promotion  of  arts  and 
learning,  have  ever  thought  of  sending  one  of  their 
members  into  the  most  eastern  parts  of  Asia,  to 
make  what  discoveries  he  was  able.  To  be  con- 
vinced of  the  utility  of  such  an  undertaking,  let 
them  but  read  the  relations  of  their  own  travellers. 
It  will  be  there  found,  that  they  are  as  often  de- 
ceived themselves,  as  they  attempt  to  deceive 
others.  The  merchant  tells  us,  perhaps,  the  price 
of  different  commodities,  the  methods  of  baling 
them  up,  and  the  properest  manner  for  a  European 
to  preserve  his  health  in  the  country.  The  mis- 
sionary, on  the  other  hand;  informs  us,  with  what 
pleasure  the  country  to  which  he  was  sent  em- 
braced Christianity,  and  the  numbers  he  convert- 
ed ;  what  methods  he  took  to  keep  Lent  in  a  region 
where  there  was  no  fish,  or  the  shifts  he  made  to 
celebrate  the  rites  of  his  religion,  in  places  where 
there  was  neither  bread  nor  wine !  Such  accounts, 
with  the  usual  appendage  of  marriages  and  funerals, 
inscriptions,  rivers,  and  mountains,  make  up  the 
whole  of  a  European  traveller's  diary  :  but  as  to 
all  the  secrets  of  which  the  inhabitants  are  pos- 
sessed, those  are  universally  attributed  to  magic; 
and  when  the  traveller  can  give  no  other  account 
of  the  wonders  he  sees  performed,  very  contentedly 
ascribes  them  to  the  power  of  the  devil. 

It  was  a  usual  observation  of  Boyle,  the  English 
chemist,  that  if  every  artist  would  but  discover 
what  new  observations  occurred  to  him  in  the  ex- 
ercise of  his  trade,  philosophy  would  thence  gain 
innumerable  improvements.  It  may  be  observed, 
with  still  greater  justice,  thr*  i '  the  useful  know- 
ledge of  every  country  howsoever  barbarous,  was 
gleaned  by  a  judicious  observer,  the  advantages 
would  be  inestimable.  Are  there  not  even  in 
Europe  many  useful  inventions  known  or  practised 
but  in  one  place?  The  instrument,  as  an  example, 
for  cutting  down  corn  in  Germany,  is  much  more 
handy  and  expeditious,  in  my  opinion,  than  the 
sickle  used  in  England.  The  cheap  and  expedi- 
tious manner  of  making  vinegar,  without  previous 
fermentation,  is  known  only  in  a  part  of  France. 
If  such  discoveries,  therefore,  remain  still  to  be 
known  at  home,  what  funds  of  knowledge  might 
not  be  collected  in  countries  yet  unexplored,  or 
only  passed  through  by  ignorant  travellers  in  hasty 
caravans? 

The  caution  with  which  foieigners  are  received 
in  Asia  may  be  alleged  as  an  objection  to  such  a 
design.     But  how  readily  have  several  European 


merchants  found  admission  into  regions  the  most 
suspecting,  under  the  character  of  Sanjapins,  or 
northern  pilgrims.  To  such,  not  even  China  it- 
self denies  access. 

To  send  out  a  traveller,  properly  qualified  for 
these  purposes,  might  be  an  object  of  national  con- 
cern ;  it  would  in  some  measure  repair  the  breaches 
made  by  ambition;  and  might  show  that  there 
were  still  some  who  boasted  a  greater  name  than 
that  of  patriots,  who  professed  themselves  lover« 
of  men.,  The  only  difficulty  would  remain,  in 
choosing  a  proper  person  for  so  arduous  an  enter- 
prise. He  should  be  a  man  of  a  philosophical 
turn ;  one  apt  to  deduce  consequences  of  general 
utility  from  particular  occurrences :  neither  swol- 
len with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice;  neither 
wedded  to  one  particular  system,  nor  instructed 
only  in  one  particular  science ;  neither  wholly  a 
botanist,  nor  quite  an  antiquarian  ;  his  mind  should 
be  tinctured  with  miscellaneous  knowledge,  and 
his  manners  humanized  by  an  intercourse  with 
men.  He  should  be  in  some  measure  an  enthu- 
siast in  the  design ;  fond  of  travelling,  from  a  ra- 
pid imagination  and  an  innate  love  of  change; 
furnished  with  a  body  capable  of  sustaining  every 
fatigue,  and  a  heart  not  easily  terrified  at  danger 
Adieu. 


LETTER  CIX. 


From  the  Same. 


One  of  the  principal  tasks  I  had  proposed  to 
myself,  on  my  arrival  here,  was  to  become  acquaint- 
ed with  the  names  and  characters  of  those  now 
living,  who,  as  scholars  or  wits,  had  acquired  the 
greatest  share  of  reputation.  In  order  to  succeed 
in  this  design,  I  fancied  the  surest  method  would 
be  to  begin  my  inquiry  among  the  ignorant,  judg- 
ing that  his  fame  would  be  greatest,  which  was 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  vulgar.  Thus  pre- 
disposed, 1  began  the  search,  but  only  went  in 
quest  of  disappointment  and  perplexity.  I  found 
every  district  had  a  pecuhar  famous  man  of  its 
own.  Here  the  story-telling  shoemalcer  had  en- 
grossed the  admiration  on  one  side  of  the  street, 
while  the  bellman,  who  excelleth  at  a  catch,  was 
in  quiet  possession  of  the  other.  At  one  end  of 
a  lane  the  sexton  was  regarded  as  the  greatest  man 
alive ;  but  1  had  not  travelled  half  its  length,  till  I 
found  an  enthusiastic  teacher  had  divided  his  repu- 
tation. My  landlady,  perceiving  my  design,  was 
kind  enough  to  offer  me  her  advice  in  this  aflikir. 
It  was  true,  she  observed,  that  she  was  no  judge, 
but  she  knew  what  pleased  herself,  and,  if  I  would 
rest  upon  her  judgment,  I  should  set  down  Tom 
Collins  as  the  most  ingenious  man  in  the  world ; 
for  Tom  was  able  to  take  off  all  mankind,  and 
imitate  besides  a  sow  and  pigs  to  perfection 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


379 


I  now  perceived,  that  taking  my  standard  of  re- 
jmtation  among  the  vulgar,  would  swell  my  cata- 
logue of  great  names  above  the  size  of  a  court 
calendar ;  I  therefore  discontinued  this  method  of 
pursuit,  and  resolved  to  prosecute  my  inquiry  in 
that  usual  residence  of  fame,  a  bookseller's  shop. 
In  consequence  of  this,  1  entreated  the  bookseller 
to  let  me  know  who  were  they  who  now  made  the 
greatest  figure,  either  in  morals,  wit,  or  learning. 
Without  giving  me  a  direct  answer,  he  pulled  a 
pamphlet  from  the  shelf.  The  Young  Aitornei/s 
Guide:  "  There,  sir,"  cries  he,  '-there  is  a  touch 
for  you ;  fifteen  hundred  of  these  moved  oflf  in  a 
day :  I  take  the  author  of  this  pamphlet,  either  for 
title,  preface,  plan,  body,  or  index,  to  be  the  com 
pletest  hand  in  England."  I  found  it  was  vain  to 
prosecute  my  inquiry,  where  my  informer  appear 
ed  so  incompetent  a  judge  of  merit ;  so  paying  for 
the  Young  Attorney's  Guide,  which  good  man- 
ners obliged  me  to  buy,  I  walked  off*. 

My  pursuit  after  famous  men  now  brought  me 
into  a  print-shop.  "  Here,"  thought  I,  "  the  paint- 
er only  reflects  the  public  voice.  As  every  man 
who  deserved  it  had  formerly  his  statue  placed  up 
in  the  Roman  forum,  so  here,  probably,  the  pictures 
of  none  but  such  as  merit  a  place  in  our  affections 
are  held  up  for  public  sale."  But  guess  my  sur- 
^prise,  when  I  came  to  examine  this  repository  of 
^oted  faces ;  all  distinctions  were  levelled  here,  as 
in  the  grave,  and  I  could  not  but  regard  it  as  the 
catacomb  of  real  merit !  The  brick-dust  man  took 
up  as  much  room  as  the  truncheoned  hero,  and  the 
judge  was  elbowed  by  the  thief-taker;  quacks, 
pimps,  and  buffoons  increased  the  group,  and  noted 
stallions  only  made  room  for  more  noted  whores. 
[  had  read  the  works  of  some  of  the  moderns,  pre- 
vious to  my  coming  to  England,  with  delight  and 
approbation,  but  I  found  their  faces  had  no  place 
here ;  the  walls  were  covered  with  the  names  of 
authors  I  had  never  known,  or  had  endeavoured  to 
forget ;  with  the  little  self-advertising  things  of  a 
fday,  who  had  forced  themselves  into  fashion,  but 
ot  into  fame.  I  could  read  at  the  bottom  of  some 
pictures  the  names  of  **,  and  **^,  and  ****,  all 
equally  candidates  for  the  vulgar  shout,  and  fore- 
"most  to  propagate  their  unblushing  faces  upon 
brass.  My  uneasiness,  therefore,  at  not  finding  my 
few  favourite  names  among  the  number,  was  now 
shanged  into  congratulation.  I  could  not  avoid  re- 
flecting on  the  fine  observation  of  Tacitus  on  a 
similar  occasion.  "  In  this  cavalcade  of  flattery," 
;ries  the  historian,  "  neither  the  pictures  of  Brutus, 
Oassius,  nor  Cato,  were  to  be  seen  ;  eo  clariores 
qui  imagines  eorum  non  deferebantur,  their  ab- 
[sence  being  the  strongest  proof  of  their  merit." 

*  It  is  in  vain,"  cried  I,  "  to  seek  for  true  great- 
^ness  among  these  monuments  of  the  unburied 
fdead ;  let  me  go  among  the  tombs  of  those  who  are 


confessedly  famous,  and  see  if  any  have  been  lately 
deposited  there,  who  deserve  the  attention  of  pos- 
terity, and  whose  names  may  be  transmitted  to  my 
distant  friend,  as  an  honour  to  the  present  age." 
Determined  in  my  pursuit,  I  paid  a  second  visit  to 
Westminster  Abbey.  There  I  found  several  new 
monuments  erected  to  the  memory  of  several  great 
men;  the  names  of  the  great  men  I  absolutely  for- 
get, but  I  well  remember  that  Roubillac  was  the 
statuary  who  carved  them.  I  could  not  help  smil- 
ing at  two  modern  epitaphs  in  particular,  one  of 
which  praised  the  deceased  for  being  ortu^  ex  an- 
tique stirpe ;  the  other  commended  the  dead  be- 
cause hanc  cedem  suis  sumptibus  recBdiJicavit. 
The  greatest  merit  of  one  consisted  in  his  being 
descended  from  an  illustrious  house;  the  chief 
distinction  of  the  other,  that  he  had  propped  up  an 
old  house  that  was  falling.  "  Alas !  alas !"  cried 
I,  "such  monuments  as  these  confer  honour,  not 
upon  the  great  men,  but  upon  little  Roubillac." 

Hitherto  disappointed  in  my  inquiry  after  the 
great  of  the  present  age,  I  was  resolved  to  mix  in 
company,  and  try  what  I  could  learn  among  critics 
in  coffee-houses  ;  and  here  it  was  that  I  heard  my 
favourite  names  talked  of  even  with  inverted  fame. 
A  gentleman  of  exalted  merit  as  a  writer  was 
branded  in  general  terms  as  a  bad  man ;  another, 
of  exquisite  delicacy  as  a  poet,  was  reproached  for 
wanting  good-nature ;  a  third  was  accused  of  free- 
thinking;  and  a  fourth  of  having  once  been  a 
player,  "Strange,"  cried  I,  "how  unjust  are 
mankind  in  the  distribution  of  fame  !  the  ignorant, 
among  whom  I  sought  at  first,  were  willing  to 
grant,  but  incapable  of  distinguishing  the  virtues 
of  those  who  deserved  it ;  among  those  I  now  con- 
verse with,  they  know  the  proper  objects  of  admi- 
ration, but  mix  envy  with  applause." 

Disappointed  so  often,  I  was  now  resolved  to  ex- 
amine those  characters  in  person,  of  whom  the 
world  talked  so  freely.  By  conversing  with  men 
of  real  merit.  1  began  to  find  out  those  characters 
which  really  deserved,  though  they  strove  to  avoid, 
applause.  I  found  the  vulgar  admiration  entirely 
misplaced,  and  malevolence  without  its  sting.  The 
truly  great,  possessed  of  numerous  small  faults  and 
shining  virtues,  preserve  a  sublime  in  morals  as  in 
writing.  They  who  have  attained  an  excellence 
in  either,  commit  numberless  transgressions,  ob- 
servable to  the  meanest  understanding.  The  ig- 
norant critic  and  dull  remarker  can  readily  spy 
blemishes  in  eloquence  or  morals,  whose  senti- 
ments are  not  sufficiently  elevated  to  observe  a 
beauty.  But  such  are  judges  neither  of  books 
nor  of  life;  they  can  diminish  no  solid  reputation 
by  their  censure,  nor  bestow  a  lasting  character  by 
their  applause.  In  short,  I  found,  by  my  search, 
that  such  only  can  confer  real  fame  upon  others 
who  have  merit  themselves  to  deserve  it.    Adieu. 


380 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


LETTER  ex. 


From  the  Same. 


There  are  numberless  employments  in  the 
courts  of  the  eastern  monarchs  utterly  unpractised 
and  unknown  in  Europe.  They  have  no  such 
officers,  for  instance,  as  the  emperor's  ear  tickler, 
or  tooth -picker ;  they  have  never  introduced  at  the 
courts  the  mandarine  appointed  to  bear  the  royal 
tobacco-box,  or  the  grave  director  of  the  imperial 
exercitations  in  the  seraglio.  Yet  I  am  surprised 
that  the  English  have  imitated  us  in  none  of  these 
particulars,  as  they  are  generally  pleased  with 
every  thing  that  comes  from  China,  and  excessively 
fond  of  creating  new  and  useless  employments. 
They  have  filled  their  houses  with  our  furniture, 
their  public  gardens  with  our  fireworks,  and  their 
very  ponds  with  our  fish.  Our  courtiers,  my  friend, 
are  the  fish  and  the  furniture  they  should  have  im- 
ported ;  our  courtiers  would  fill  up  the  necessary 
ceremonies  of  a  court  better  than  those  of  Europe; 
would  be  contented  with  receiving  large  salaries 
for  doing  little ;  whereas  some  of  this  country  are 
at  present  discontented,  though  they  receive  large 
salaries  for  doing  nothing. 

I  lately,  therefore,  had  thoughts  of  publishing  a 
proposal  here,  for  the  admission  of  some  new  east- 
ern offices  and  titles  into  their  Court  Register. 
As  I  consider  myself  in  the  light  of  a  cosmopo- 
lite, I  find  as  much  satisfaction  in  scheming  for  the 
countries  in  which  I  happen  to  reside  as  for  that 
in  which  1  was  born. 

The  finest  apartments  in  the  palace  of  Pegu  are 
frequently  infested  with  rats.  These  the  religion 
jof  the  country  strictly  forbids  the  people  to  kill. 
In  such  circumstances,  therefore,  they  are  obliged 
to  have  recourse  to  some  great  man  of  the  court, 
who  is  willing  to  free  the  royal  apartments,  even 
at  the  hazard  of  his  .  salvation.  After  a  weak 
monarch's  reign,  the  quantity  of  court  vermin  in 
every  corner  of  the  palace  is  surprising;  but  a 
prudent  king,  and  a  vigilant  officer,  soon  drive 
them  from  their  sanctuaries  behind  the  mats  and 
tapestry,  and  eflfectually  free  the  court.  Such  an 
officer  in  England  would,  in  my  opinion,  be  ser- 
viceable at  this  juncture ;  for  if,  as  I  am  told,  the 
palace  be  old,  much  vermin  must  undoubtedly  have 
taken  refuge  behind  the  wainscot  and  hangings. 
A  minister  should  therefore  be  invested  with  the 
title  and  dignities  of  court  vermin-killer ;  he  should 
have  full  power  either  to  banish,  take,  poison,  or 
destroy  them,  with  enchantments,  traps,  ferrets,  or 
ratsbane.  He  might  be  permitted  to  brandish  his 
besom  without  remorse,  and  brush  down  every 
part  of  the  furniture,  without  sparing  a  single  cob- 
web, however  sacred  by  long  prescription.  I  com- 
municated this  proposal  some  days  ago  in  a  com- 
pany of  the  first  distinction,  and  enjoying  the  most 


honourable  offices  of  the  state.  Among  the  num- 
ber were  the  inspector  of  Great  Britain,  Mr.  Hen- 
ri(jues  the  director  of  the  ministry,  Ben.  Victor 
the  treasurer,  John  Lockman  the  secretary,  and 
the  conductor  of  the  Imperial  Magazine.  They 
all  acquiesced  in  the  utility  of  my  proposal,  but 
were  apprehensive  it  might  meet  with  some  ob- 
struction from  court  upholsterers  and  chamber- 
maids, who  would  object  to  it  from  the  demolition 
of  the  furniture,  and  the  dangerous  use  of  ferrets 
and  ratsbane. 

My  next  proposal  is  rather  more  general  than 
the  former,  and  might  probably  meet  with  less  op- 
position. Though  no  people  in  the  world  flatter 
each  other  more  than  the  English,  1  know  none 
who  understand  the  art  less,  and  flatter  with  such 
little  refinement.  Their  panegyric,  like  a  Tartar 
feast,  is  indeed  served  up  with  profusion,  but  their 
cookery  is  insupportable.  A  client  here  shall  dress 
up  a  fricassee  for  his  patron,  that  shall  offend  an 
ordinary  nose  before  it  enters  the  room.  A  town 
shall  send  up  an  address  to  a  great  minister,  which 
shall  prove  at  once  a  satire  on  the  minister  and 
themselves.  If  the  favourite  of  the  day  sits,  or 
stands,  or  sleeps,  there  are  poets  to  put  it  into  verse, 
and  priests  to  preach  it  in  the  pulpit.  In  order, 
therefore,  to  free  both  those  who  praise,  and  those 
who  are  praised,  from  a  duty  probably  disagreeable 
to  both,  I  would  constitute  professed  flatterers  here, 
as  in  several  courts  of  India.  These  are  appoint- 
ed in  the  courts  of  their  princes,  to  instruct  the 
people  where  to  exclaim  with  admiration,  and 
where  to  lay  an  emphasis  of  praise.  But  an  offi- 
cer of  this  kind  is  always  in  waiting  when  the  em- 
peror converses  in  a  familiar  manner  among  his 
rajahs  and  other  nobility.  At  every  sentence,  when 
the  monarch  pauses,  and  smiles  at  what  he  has 
been  saying,  the  Karamatman,  as  this  officer  is 
called,  is  to  take  it  for  granted  that  his  majesty  has 
said  a  good  thing.  Upon  which  he  cries  out — 
"Karamat!  Karamat! — a  miracle!  a  miracle!" 
and  throws  up  his  hands  and  his  eyes  in  ecstasy. 
This  is  echoed  by  the  courtiers  around,  while  the 
emperor  sits  all  this  time  in  sullen  satisfaction,  en- 
joying the  triumph  of  his  joke,  or  studying  a  new 
repartee. 

I  would  have  such  an  officer  placed  at  every 
great  man's  table  in  England.  By  frequent  prac- 
tice he  might  soon  become  a  perfect  master  of  the 
art,  and  in  time  would  turn  out  pleasing  to  his 
i  patron,  no  way  troublesome  to  himself,  and  might 
prevent  the  nauseous  attempts  of  many  more  ig- 
!  ncrant  pretenders.  The  clergy  here,  I  am  con- 
'  vinced,  would  relish  this  proposal.  It  would  pro- 
j  vide  places  for  several  of  them.  And  indeed,  by 
I  some  of  their  late  productions,  many  appear  to 
have  qualified  themselves  as  candidates  for  this 
'  office  already. 

But  my  last  proposal  I  take  to  be  of  the  utmost 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


381 


importance.  Our  neighbour  the  empress  of  Russia, 
has,  you  may  remember,  instituted  an  order  of  fe- 
male knighthood:  the  empress  of  Germany  has 
also  instituted  another :  the  Chinese  have  had  such 
an  order  time  immemorial.  I  am  amazed  the  En- 
glish have  never  come  into  such  an  institution. 
When  I  consider  what  kind  of  men  are  made 
knights  here,  it  appears  strange  that  they  have 
never  conferred  this  honour  upon  vfomen.  They 
make  cheesemongers  and  pastry  cooks  knights ; 
then,  why  not  their  wives?  They  have  called  up 
tallow-chandlers  to  maintain  the  hardy  profession 
of  chivalry  and  arms :  then,  why  not  their  wives  1 
Haberdashers  are  sworn,  as  I  suppose  all  knights 
must  be  sworn,  never  tojly  in  time  of  mellay  or 
battle,  to  maintain  and  uphold  the  noble  estate  of 
chivalry  with  horse,  harnishe  and  other  knightlye 
habiliments.  Haberdashers,  I  say,  are  sworn  to  all 
this;  then,  why  not  their  wives?  Certain  I  am, 
their  wives  understand  fighting  and  feats  of  mellay 
and  battle  better  than  they ;  and  as  for  knightlye 
horse  and  harnishe,  it  is  probable  both  know  no- 
thing more  than  the  harness  of  a  one-horse  chaise. 
No,  no,  my  friend,  instead  of  conferring  any  order 
upon  the  husbands,  I  would  knight  their  wives. 
However,  the  state  should  not  be  troubled  with  a 
new  institution  upon  this  occasion.  Some  ancient 
exploded  order  might  be  revived,  which  would  fur- 
nish both  a  motto  and  a  name, — the  ladies  might 
be  permitted  to  choose  for  themselves.  There  are, 
for  instance,  the  obsolete  orders  of  the  Dragon  in 
Germany,  of  the  Rue  in  Scotland,  and  the  Porcu- 
pine in  France;  all  well-sounding  names,  and  very 
applicable  to  my  intended  female  institution.  Adieu. 


LETTER  CXI. 


From  the  Same, 


Religious  sects  in  England  are  far  more  nu- 
S^merous  than  in  China.  Every  man,  who  has  in- 
terest enough  to  hire  a  conventicle  here,  may  set 
up  for  himself,  and  sell  off  a  new  religion.  The 
sellers  of  the  newest  pattern  give  extreme  good 
bargains ;  and  let  their  disciples  have  a  great  deal 
of  confidence  for  very  little  money. 

Their  shops  are  much  frequented,  and  their  cus- 
tomers every  day  increasing ;  for  people  are  natu- 
rally fond  of  going  to  Paradise  at  as  small  expense 
as  possible. 

Yet,  you  must  not  conceive  this  modern  sect  as 
differing  in  opinion  from  those  of  the  established 
religion ;  difference  of  opinion  indeed  formerly  di- 
vided their  sectaries,  and  sometimes  drew  their  ar- 
mies to  the  field.  White  gowns  and  black  man- 
'  tliBs,  flapped  hats  and  cross  pocket-holes,  were  once 
the  obvious  causes  of  quarrel;  men  then  had  some 
reason  for  fighting ;  they  knew  what  they  fought 
about;  but  at  present,  they  are  arrived  at  such  re- 


finement in  religion-making,  that  they  have  actually 
formed  a  new  sect  without  a  new  opinion ;  they 
quarrel  for  opinions  they  both  equally  defend ;  they 
hate  each  other,  and  that  is  all  the  difference  be- 
tween them. 

But  though  their  principles  are  the  same,  their 
practice  is  somewhat  different.  Those  of  the  es- 
tablished religion  laugh  when  they  are  pleased,  and 
their  groans  are  seldom  extorted  but  by  pain  or 
danger.  The  new  sect  on  the  contrary  weep  for 
their  amusement,  and  use  httle  music,  except  a 
chorus  of  sighs  and  groans,  or  tunes  that  are  made 
to  imitate  groaning.  Laughter  is  their  aversion; 
lovers  court  each  other  from  the  Lamentations;  the 
bridegroom  approaches  the  nuptial  couch  in  sorrow- 
ful solemnity,  and  the  bride  looks  more  dismal  than 
an  undertaker's  shop.  Dancing  round  the  room 
is  with  them  running  in  a  direct  line  to  the  devil ; 
and  as  for  gaming,  though  but  in  jest,  they  would 
sooner  play  with  a  rattlesnake's  tail  than  finger  a 
dice-box. 

By  this  time  you  perceive,  that  I  am  describing  a 
sect  of  enthusiasts,  and  you  have  already  compared 
them  with  the  Faquirs,  Brahmins,  and  Talapoins 
of  the  East.  Among  these,  you  know,  are  genera- 
tions that  have  never  been  known  to  smile,  and 
voluntary  affliction  makes  up  all  the  merit  they 
can  boast  of.  Enthusiasms  in  every  country  pro- 
duce the  same  effects;  stick  the  Faquir  with  pins, 
or  confine  the  Brahmin  to  a  vermin  hospital, 
spread  the  Talapoin  on  the  ground,  or  load  the 
sectary's  brow  with  contrition  :  those  worshippers 
who  discard  the  light  of  reason  are  ever  gloomy ;. 
their  fears  increase  in  proportion  to  their  igno- 
rance, as  men  are  continually  under  apprehensions- 
who  walk  in  darkness. 

Yet  there  is  still  a  stronger  reason  for  the  enthu- 
siast's being  an  enemy  to  laughter ;  namely,  his  be-- 
ing  himself  so  proper  an  object  of  ridicule.  It  is  re- 
markable, that  the  propagators  of  false  doctrines 
have  ever  been  averse  to  mirth,  and  always  begin 
by  recommending  gravity,  when  they  intended  to 
disseminate  imposture.  Fohi,  the  idol  of  China,  is 
represented  as  having  never  laughed;  Zoroaster, 
the  leader  of  the  Brahmins,  is  said  to  have  laughed 
but  twice — upon  his  coming  into  this  world,  and' 
upon  his  leaving  it ;  and  Mahomet  himself,  though 
a  lover  of  pleasure,  was  a  professed  opposer  of  gaie- 
ty. Upon  a  certain  occasion,  telling  his  followers 
that  they  would  all  appear  naked  at  the  resurrec- 
tion, his  favourite  wife  represented  such  an  assem- 
bly as  immodest  and  unbecoming.  "  FooUsh  wo- 
man!" cried  the  grave  prophet,  "  though  the  whole 
assembly  be  naked,  on  that  day  they  shall  have  for- 
gotten to  laugh."  Men  like  him  opposed  ridicule, 
because  they  knew  it  to  be  a  most  formidable  an- 
tagonist, and  preached  up  gravity,  to  conceal  their 
own  want  of  importance. 

Ridicule  has  ever  been  the  most  powerful  enemy 


382 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


of  enthusiasm,  and  properly  the  only  antagonist 
that  can  be  opposed  to  it  with  success.  Persecu- 
tion only  serves  to  propagate  new  religions;  they 
acquire  fresh  vigour  beneath  the  executioner  and 
the  axe ;  and  like  some  vivacious  insects,  multiply 
by  dissection.  It  is  also  impossible  to  combat  en 
thusiasm  by  reason,  for  though  it  makes  a  show 
of  resistance,  it  soon  eludes  the  pressure,  refers  you 
to  distinctions  not  to  be  understood,  and  feelings 
which  it  can  not  explain.  A  man  who  would  en 
deavour  to  fix  an  enthusiast  by  argument,  might 
as  well  attempt  to  spread  quicksilver  with  his 
fingers.  The  only  way  to  conquer  a  visionary  is 
to  despise  him;  the  stake,  the  fagot,  and  the  dis- 
puting doctor,  in  some  measure  ennoble  the  opinions 
they  are  brought  to  oppose :  they  are  harmless 
against  innovating  pride ;  contempt  alone  is  truly 
dreadful.  Hunters  generally  know  the  most  vul- 
nerable part  of  the  beasts  they  pursue,  by  the  care 
which  every  animal  takes  to  defend  the  side  which 
's  weakest :  on  what  side  the  enthusiast  is  most 
vulnerable  may  be  known  by  the  care  which  he 
takes  in  the  beginning  to  work  his  disciples  into 
gravity,  and  guard  them  against  the  power  of  ridi- 
cule. 

When  Philip  the  Second  was  king  of  Spain, 
there  was  a  contest  in  Salamanca  between  two  or- 
ders of  friars  for  superiority.  The  legend  of  one 
side  contained  more  extraordinary  miracles,  but  the 
legend  of  the  other  was  reckoned  most  authentic. 
They  reviled  each  other,  as  is  usual  in  disputes  of 
divinity,  the  people  were  divided  into  factions,  and 
a  civil  war  appeared  unavoidable.  In  order  to  pre- 
vent such  an  imminent  calamity,  the  combatants 
were  prevailed  upon  to  submit  their  legends  to  the 
fiery  trial,  and  that  which  came  forth  untouched  by 
the  fire  was  to  have  ihe  victory,  and  to  be  honour- 
ed with  a  double  share  of  reverence.  Whenever 
the  people  flock  to  see  a  miracle,  it  is  a  hundred  to 
one  but  that  they  see  a  miracle ;  incrediblej  there- 
fore, were  the  numbers  that  were  gathered  round 
upon  this  occasion.  The  friars  on  each  side  ap- 
proached, and  confidently  threw  their  respective 
legends  into  the  flames,  when  lo !  to  the  utter  dis- 
appointment of  all  the  assembly,  instead  of  a 
miracle,  both  legends  were  consumed.  Nothing 
but  thus  turning  both  parties  into  contempt  could 
have  prevented  the  eflfusion  of  blood.  The  people 
now  laughed  at  their  former  folly,  and  wondered 
why  they  fell  out.     Adieu 


LETTER  CXIL 

From  th6  Same. 

The  English  are  at  present  employed  in  cele- 
brating a  feast  which  becomes  general  every  seventh 
year;  the  parliament  of  the  nation  being  then  dis- 


solved, and  another  appointed  to  be  chosen.  This 
solemnity  falls  infinitely  short  of  our  feast  of  the 
Lanterns,  in  magnificence  and  splendour;  it  is  also 
surpassed  by  others  of  the  East  in  unanimity  and 
pure  devotion;  but  no  festival  in  the  world  can 
compare  with  it  for  eating.  Their  eating,  indeed, 
amazes  me ;  had  I  five  hundred  heads,  and  were 
each  head  furnished  with  brains,  yet  would  they 
all  be  insufficient  to  compute  the  number  of  cow% 
pigs,  geescj  and  turkeys,  which  upon  this  occasion 
die  for  the  good  of  their  country! 

To  say  the  truth,  eating  seems  to  make  a  grand 
ingredient  in  all  English  parties  of  zeal,  business, 
or  amusement.  When  a  church  is  to  be  built,  or 
an  hospital  endowed,  the  directors  assemble,  and 
instead  of  consulting  upon  it,  they  eat  upon  it,  by 
which  means  the  business  goes  forward  with  suc- 
cess. When  the  poor  are  to  be  relieved,  the  offi- 
cers appointed  to  dole  out  public  charity  assemble 
and  eat  upon  it.  Nor  has  it  ever  been  known  that 
they  filled  the  bellies  of  the  poor  till  they  had  pre- 
viously satisfied  their  own.  But  in  the  election  of 
magistrates,  the  people  seem  to  exceed  all  bounds ; 
the  merits  of  a  candidate  are  often  measured  by  the 
number  of  his  treats ;  his  constitutents  assemble, 
eat  upon  him,  and  lend  their  applause,  not  to  his  in- 
tegrity or  sense,  but  to  the  quantities  of  his  beef 
and  brandy. 

And  yet  I  could  forgive  this  people  their  plenti 
ful  meals  on  this  occasion,  as  it  is  extremely  natural 
for  every  man  to  eat  a  great  deal  when  he  gets  it 
for  nothing;  but  what  amazes  me  is,  that  all  this 
good  living  no  way  contributes  to  improve  their 
good-humour.  On  the  contrary,  they  seem  to  lose 
their  temper  as  they  lose  their  appetites ;  every 
morsel  they  swallow,  and  every  glass  they  pour 
down,  serves  to  increase  their  animosity.  Many 
an  honest  man,  before  as  harmless  as  a  tame  rab- 
bit, when  loaded  with  a  single  election  dinner,  has 
become  more  dangerous  than  a  charged  culverin. 
Upon  one  of  these  occasions,  I  have  actually  seen 
a  bloody-minded  man-milliner  sally  forth  at  the 
head  of  a  mob,  determined  to  face  a  desperate  pas- 
try-cook, who  was  general  of  the  opposite  party. 

But  you  must  not  suppose  they  are  without  a 
pretext  for  thus  beating  each  other.  On  the  con- 
trary, no  man  here  is  so  uncivilized  as  to  beat  his 
neighbour  without  producing  very  sufficient  rea- 
sons. One  candidate,  for  instance,  treats  with 
gin,  a  spirit  of  their  own  manufacture ;  another  al- 
ways drinks  brandy,  imported  from  abroad.  Brandy 
is  a  wholesome  liquor;  gin  a  hquor  wholly  their 
own.  This  then  furnishes  an  obvious  cause  of 
quarrel,  whether  it  be  most  reasonable  to  get  drunk 
with  gin,  or  get  drunk  with  brandy?  The  mob 
meet  upon  the  debate ;  fight  themselves  sober ;  and 
then  draw  off  to  get  drunk  again,  and  charge  for 
another  encounter.  So  that  the  Enghsh  may  now 
properly  be  said  to  be  engaged  in  war;  since,  while 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


383 


they  are  subduing  their  enemies  abroad,  they  are 
brealiing  each  other's  heads  at  home. 

1  lately  made  an  excursion  to  a  neighbouring 
town,  in  order  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  ceremonies 
practised  upon  this  occasion.  I  left  London  in 
company  with  three  fiddlers,  nine  dozen  of  hams, 
and  a  corporation  poet,  which  were  designed  as 
reinforcements  to  the  gin-drinking  party.  We 
entered  the  town  with  a  very  good  face ;  the  fiddlers, 
no  way  intimidated  by  the  enemy,  kept  handling 
their  arms  up  the  principal  street.  By  this  prudent 
manoeuvre  they  took  peaceable  possession  of  their 
head-quarters,  amidst  the  shouts  of  multitudes, 
who  seemed  perfectly  rejoiced  at  hearing  their  mu- 
sic, but  above  all  at  seeing  their  bacon. 

I  must  own,  I  could  not  avoid  being  pleased  to 
see  all  ranks  of  people  on  this  occasion  levelled  in- 
to an  equality,  and  the  poor,  in  some  measure,  en- 
joy the  primitive  privileges  of  nature.  If  there  was 
any  distinction  shown,  the  lowest  of  the  people 
seemed  to  receive  it  from  the  rich.  I  could  per- 
ceive a  cobbler  with  a  levee  at  his  door,  and  a  haber- 
dasher giving  audience  from  behind  his  counter. 
But  my  reflections  were  soon  interrupted  by  a 
mob,  who  demanded  whether  I  was  for  the  distil- 
lery or  the  brewery?  As  these  were  terms  with 
which  I  was  totally  unacquainted,  I  chose  at  first 
to  be  silent ,  however,  I  know  not  what  might  have 
been  the  consequence  of  my  reserve,  had  not  the 
attention  of  the  mob  been  called  off  to  a  skirmish 
between  a  brandy-drinker's  cow  and  a  gin-drink- 
er's mastiff,  which  turned  out,  greatly  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  mob,  in  favour  of  the  mastiff. 

This  spectacle,  which  afforded  high  entertain- 
ment, was  at  last  ended  by  the  appearance  of  one 
of  the  candidates,  who  came  to  harangue  the  mob: 
he  made  a  very  pathetic  speech  upon  the  late  ex- 
cessive importation  of  foreign  drams,  and  the  down- 
Fal  of  the  distillery ;  I  could  see  some  of  the  audi- 
ence shed  tears.  He  was  accompanied  in  his  pro- 
fession by  Mrs.  Deputy  and  Mrs.  Mayoress. 
I  Mrs.  Deputy  was  not  in  the  least  in  liquor ;  and 
IS  for  Mrs.  Mayoress,  one  of  the  spectators  assured 
ne  in  my  ear,  that — she  was  a  very  fine  woman 
jefore  she  had  the  small-pox. 

Mixing  with  the  crowd,  I  was  now  conducted 
o  the  hall  where  the  magistrates  are  chosen :  but 
vhat  tongue  can  describe  this  scene  of  confusion ! 
he  whole  crowd  seemed  equally  inspired  with 
tnger,  jealousy,  politics,  patriotism,  and  punch.  I 
emarked  one  figure  that  was  carried  up  by  two 
Qen  upon  this  occasion.  I  at  first  began  to  pity 
lis  infirmities  as  natural,  but  soon  found  the  fellow 
o drunk  that  he  could  not  stand;  another  made 
lis  appearance  to  give  his  vote,  but  though  he 
ould  stand,  he  actually  lost  the  use  of  his  tongue, 
remained  silent ;  a  third  who,  though  exces- 
sively drunk,  could  both  stand  and  speak,  being 
ifdEed  the  candidate's  name  for  whom  he  voted, 


could  be  prevailed  upon  to  make  no  other  answer 
but  "tobacco  and  brandy."  In  short,  an  election- 
hall  seems  to  be  a  theatre,  where  every  passion  is 
seen  without  disguise;  a  school,  where  fools  may 
readily  become  worse,  and  where  philosophers  may 
gather  wisdom.     Adieu. 


LETTER  CXIIL 


From  the  Same. 


The  disputes  among  the  learned  here  are  nov^r 
carried  on  in  a  much  more  compendious  manner 
than  formerly.  There  was  a  time  when  folio 
was  brought  to  oppose  folio,  and  a  champion  wa» 
often  listed  for  life  under  the  banners  of  a  singlo 
sorites.  At  present,  the  controversy  is  decided  in 
a  summary  way ;  an  epigram  or  an  acrostic  finish 
es  the  debate,  and  the  combatant,  like  the  incur- 
sive  Tartar,  advances  and  retires  with  a  single 
blow. 

An  important  literary  debate  at  present  en 
grosses  the  attention  of  the  town.  It  is  carried  on 
with  sharpness,  and  a  proper  share  of  this  epigram- 
matical  fury.  An  author,  it  seems,  has  taken  an 
aversion  to  the  faces  of  several  players,  and  has 
written  verses  to  prove  his  dislike ;  the  players  fall 
upon  the  author,  and  assure  the  town  he  must  be 
dull,  and  their  faces  must  be  good,  because  he  wants 
a  dinner :  a  critic  comes  to  the  poet's  assistance, 
asserting  that  the  verses  were  perfectly  original, 
and  so  smart,  that  he  could  never  have  written 
them  without  the  assistance  of  friends;  the  friends, 
upon  this,  arraign  the  critic,  and  plainly  prove  the 
verses  to  be  all  the  author's  own.  So  at  k  they 
are,  all  four  together  by  the  ears;  the  friends  at 
the  critic,  the  critic  at  the  players,  the  players  a 
the  author,  and  the  author  at  the  players  again. 
It  is  impossible  to  determine  how  this  many-sided 
contest  will  nd,  or  which  party  to  adhere  to.  The 
town,  without  i'Ung  with  any,  views  the  combat 
in  suspense  U-  the  fabled  hero  of  antiquity,  who 
beheld  *!•  ■  .rth-born  brothers  give  and  receive 
mutu  iids,  and  fall  by  indiscriminate  destruc- 

tion. 

Ti.l  iS,  in  some  measure,  the  state  of  the  pre- 
sent dispute;  but  the  combatants  here  differ  in  one 
respect  from  the  champions  of  the  fable.  Every 
new  wound  only  gives  vigour  for  another  blow; 
though  they  appear  to  strike,  they  are  in  fact  mu- 
tually swelling  themselves  into  consideration,  and 
thus  advertising  each  other  into  fame.  "  To-day," 
says  one,  "my  name  shall  be  in  the  Gazette,  the 
next  day  my  rival's;  people  will  naturally  inquire 
about  us ;  thus  we  shall  at  least  make  a  noise  in  the 
streets,  though  we  have  get  nothing  to  sell."  I 
have  read  of  a  dispute  of  a  similar  nature,  which 
was  managed  here  about  twenty  years  ago.  Hilde- 


384 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


brand  Jacob,  as  I  think  he  was  called,  and  Charles 
Johnson,  were  poets,  both  at  that  time  possessed 
of  great  reputation ;  for  Johnson  had  written  eleven 
plays,  acted  with  great  success ;  and  Jacob,  though 
he  had  written  but  five,  had  five  times  thanked  the 
town  for  their  unmerited  applause.  They  soon 
became  mutually  enamoured  of  each  other's  talents ; 
they  wrote,  they  felt,  they  challenged  the  town  for 
each  other,  Johnson  assured  the  public,  that  no 
poet  alive  had  the  easy  simplicity  of  Jacob,  and  Ja- 
cob exhibited  Johnson  as  a  masterpiece  in  the  pa- 
thetic. Their  mutual  praise  was  not  without  ef- 
fect ;  the  town  saw  their  plays,  were  in  raptures, 
read,  and,  without  censuring  them,  forgot  them. 
So  formidable  a  union,  however,  was  soon  opposed 
by  Tibbald.  Tibbald  asserted  that  the  tragedies 
of  the  one  had  faults,  and  the  comedies  of  the  other 
substituted  wit  for  vivacity :  the  combined  champions 
flew  at  him  like  tigers,  arraigned  the  censurer's 
judgment,  and  impeached  his  sincerity.  It  was  a 
long  time  a  dispute  among  the  learned,  which  was 
in  fact  the  greatest  man,  Jacob,  Johnson,  or  Tib- 
bald ;  they  had  all  written  for  the  stage  with  great 
success,  their  names  were  seen  in  almost  every  pa- 
per, and  their  works  in  every  coffee-house.  How 
ever,  in  the  hottest  of  the  dispute,  a  fourth  com- 
batant made  his  appearance,  and  swept  away  the 
three  combatants,  tragedy,  comedy,  and  all,  into 
undistinguished  ruin. 

From  this  time  they  seemed  consigned  into  the 
hands  of  criticism ;  scarcely  a  day  passed  in  which 
they  were  not  arraigned  as  detested  writers.  The 
critics,  those  enemies  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  were 
their  enemies.  So  Jacob  and  Johnson,  instead  of 
mending  by  criticism^  called  it  envy;  and,  because 
Dryden  and  Pope  were  censured,  they  compared 
themselves  to  Dryden  and  Pope. 

But  to  return.  The  weapon  chiefly  used  in  the 
present  controversy  is  epigram;  and  certainly  never 
was  a  keener  made  use  of  They  have  discovered 
surprising  sharpness  on  both  sides.  The  first  that 
came  out  upon  this  occasion  was  a  new  kind  of  com- 
position in  this  way,  and  might  more  properly  be 
called  an  epigrammatic  thesis  than  an  epigram. 
It  consists,  first,  of  an  argument  in  prose ;  next 
follows  a  motto  from  Roscommon ;  then  comes  the 
epigram ;  and,  lastly,  notes  serving  to  explain  the 
epigram.  But  you  shall  have  it  with  all  its  deco- 
rations. 

AN  EPIGRAM, 

Addressed  to  the  Gentlemen  reflected  on  in  the 
RosciAD,  a  Poem,  by  the  Author. 

Worried  with  debts,  and  past  all  hopes  of  bail, 
His  pen  he  prostitutes,  t'  avoid  a  gSiOl.—Roscom. 

"  Let  not  the  hungry  Bavius'  angry  stroke 
Awake  resentment,  or  your  rage  provoke; 


But,  pitying  his  distress,  let  virtue*  shine. 
And  giving  each  yourbounty,t  let  him  dine; 
For,  thus  retain'd,  as  learned  counsel  can, 
Each  case,  however  bad,  he'll  new  japan 
And,  by  a  quick  transition,  plainly  show 
'Twas  no  defect  of  your's,  but  -pocket  low, 
That  caused  his  putrid  kennel  to  o'erflow." 

The  last  lines  are  certainly  executed  in  a  very 
masterly  manner.  It  is  of  that  species  of  argu- 
mentation called  the  perplexing.  It  effectually 
flings  the  antagonist  into  a  mist ;  there  is  no  an- 
swering it :  the  laugh  is  raised  against  him,  while 
he  is  endeavouring  to  find  out  the  jest.  At  once 
he  shows,  that  the  author  has  a  kennel,  and  that 
his  kennel  is  putrid,  and  that  his  putrid  keimel 
overflows.  But  why  does  it  overflow?  It  over- 
flows, because  the  author  happens  to  have  low 
pockets ! 

There  was  also  another  new  attempt  in  this 
way}  a  prosaic  epigram  which  came  out  upon  this 
occasion.  This  is  so  full  of  matter,  that  a  critic 
might  split  It  into  fifteen  epigrams,  each  properly 
fitted  with  its  sting.     You  shall  see  it. 

To  G.  a  and  R.  L. 

"  Twas  you,  or  I,  or  he,  or  all  together, 

'Twas  one,  both,  three  of  them,  they  know  not 

whether. 
This  I  believe,  between  us  great  or  small. 
You,  I,  he,  wrote  it  not — 'twas  Churchill's  all." 

There,  there's  a  perplex !  I  could  have  wished, 
to  make  it  quite  perfect,  the  author,  as  in  the  case 
before,  had  added  notes.  Almost  every  word  ad- 
mits a  scolium,  and  a  long  one  too.  I,  YOU,  HE ! 
Suppose  a  stranger  should  ask,  "and  who  are 
you?  "  Here  are  three  obscure  persons  spoken  o^ 
that  may  in  a  short  time  be  utterly  forgotten.  Their 
names  should  have  consequently  been  mentioned 
in  notes  at  the  bottom.  But  when  the  reader  comes 
to  the  words  great  and  small,  the  maze  is  inextri- 
cable. Here  the  stranger  may  dive  for  a  mystery, 
without  ever  reaching  the  bottom.  Let  him  know 
then,  that  small  is  a  word  purely  introduced  to 
make  good  rhyme,  and  great  was  a  very  proper 
word  to  keep  small  company. 

Yet,  by  being  thus  a  spectator  of  others'  dangers, 
I  must  own  I  begin  to  tremble  in  this  Uterary  con- 
test for  my  own.  I  begin  to  fear  that  my  challenge 
to  Doctor  Rock  was  unadvised,  and  has  procured 
me  more  antagonists  than  I  had  at  first  expected 
I  have  received  private  letters  from  several  of  the 
literati  here,  that  fill  my  soul  with  apprehension. 
I  may  safely  aver,  that  /  never  gave  any  creature 
in  this  good  city  offence,  except  only  my  rival 


'  Charity. 

t  Settled  at  one  shilling,  the  price  of  the  poem 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


Doctor  Rock ;  yet  by  the  letters  I  every  day  re 
ceive.  and  by  some  I  have  seen  printed,  I  am  ar 
raigned  at  one  time  as  being  a  dull  fellow,  at 
another  as  being  pert ;  I  am  here  petulant,  there  I 
am  heavy.  By  the  head  of  my  ancestors,  they  treat 
me  with  more  inhumanity  than  a  flying  fish.  If  I 
dive  and  run  my  nose  to  the  bottom,  there  a  de- 
vouring shark  is  ready  to  swallow  me  up ;  if  I  skim 
the  surface,  a  pack  of  dolphins  are  at  my  tail  to 
snap  me;  but  when  I  take  wing,  and  attempt  to 
escape  them  by  flight,  I  become  a  prey  to  every 
ravenous  bird  that  winnows  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  CXIV. 

From  the  Same. 

The  formalities,  delays,  and  disappointments, 
that  precede  a  treaty  of  marriage  here,  are  usually 
as  numerous  as  those  previous  to  a  treaty  of  peace. 
The  laws  of  this  country  are  finely  calculated  to 
promote  all  commerce,  but  the  commerce  between 
the  sexes.  Their  encouragements  for  propagating 
hemp,  madder,  and  tobacco,  are  indeed  admirable ! 
Marriages  are  the  only  commodity  that  meets  with 
none. 

Yet  from  the  vernal  softness  of  the  air,  the  ver- 
dure of  the  fields,  the  transparency  of  the  streams, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  women,  I  know  few  coun- 
tries more  proper  to  invite  to  courtship.  Here  love 
might  sport  among  painted  lawns  and  warbling 
groves,  and  revel  amidst  gales,  wafting  at  once  both 
fragrance  and  harmony.  Yet  it  seems  he  has  for- 
saken the  island;  and,  when  a  couple  are  now  to 
be  married,  mutual  love,  or  a  union  of  minds,  is 
the  last  and  most  trifling  consideration.  If  their 
goods  and  chattels  can  be  brought  to  unite,  their 
sympathetic  souls  are  ever  ready  to  guarantee  the 
treaty.  The  gentleman's  mortgaged  lawn  becomes 
enamoured  of  the  lady's  marriageable  grove;  the 
match  is  struck  up,  and  both  parties  are  piously  in 
love — according  to  act  of  parliament. 

Thus,  they  who  have  fortune  are  possessed  at 
'east  of  something  that  is  lovely ;  but  I  actually 
pity  those  that  have  none.  I  am  told  there  was  a 
time  when  ladies,  with  no  other  merit  but  youth, 
virtue,  and  beauty,  had  a  chance  for  husbands,  at 
least,  among  the  ministers  of  the  church,  or  the 
oflficers  of  the  army.  The  blush  and  innocence  of 
sixteen  was  said  to  have  a  powerful  influence  over 
these  two  professions.  But  of  late,  all  the  little 
traffic  of  blushing,  ogling,  dimpling,  and  smiling, 
has  been  forbidden  by  an  act  in  that  case  wisely 
made  and  provided.  A  lady's  whole  cargo  of 
smiles,  sighs,  and  whispers,  is  declared  utterly  con- 
traband, till  she  arrives  in  the  warm  latitudes  of 
twenty-two,  where  cbmmodities  of  this  nature  are 
25 


too  often  found  to  decay.  She  is  then  permitted 
to  dimple  and  smile  when  the  dimples  and  smiles 
begin  to  forsake  her;  and,  when  perhaps  grown 
ugly,  is  charitably  intrusted  with  an  unlimited  use 
of  her  charms.  Her  lovers,  however,  by  this  time 
have  forsaken  her ;  the  Captain  has  changed  for 
another  mistress ;  the  priest  himself  leaves  her  in 
solitude  to  bewail  her  virginity;  atid  she  dies  even 
without  benefit  of  clergy. 

Thus  you  find  the  Europeans  discouraging'love 
with  as  much  earnestness  as  the  rudest  savage  of 
Sofala.  The  Genius  is  surely  now  no  more.  In 
every  region  I  find  enemies  in  arms  to  oppress 
him.  Avarice  in  Europe,  jealousy  in  Persia,  cere- 
mony in  China,  poverty  among  the  Tartars,  and 
lust  in  Circassia,  are  all  prepared  to  oppose  his 
power.  The  Genius  is  certainly  banished  from 
earth,  though  once  adotied  under  such  a  variety 
of  forms.  He  is  nov/here  to  be  found ;  and  all  that 
the  ladies  of  each  country  can  produce,  are  but  a 
few  trifling  relics,  as  instances  of  his  former  resi- 
dence and  favour. 

"  The  Genius  of  Love,"  says  the  eastern  apo- 
logue, "had  long  resided  in  the  happy  plains  of 
Abria,  where  every  breeze  was  health,  and  every 
sound  produced  trancjuilUty.  His  temple  at  first 
was  crowded,  but  every  age  lessened  the  number 
of  his  votaries,  or  cooled  their  devotion.  Perceiving, 
therefore,  his  altars  at  length  quite  deserted,  he 
was  resolved  to  remove  to  some  more  propitious 
region,  and  he  apprised  the  fair  sex  of  every  coun- 
try where  he  could  hope  for  a  proper  reception,  to 
assert  their  right  to  his  presence  among  them.  In 
return  to  this  proclamation,  embassies  were  sent 
from  the  ladies  of  every  part  of  the  world  to  in- 
vite him,  and  to  display  the  superiority  of  their 
claims. 

"  And  first,  the  beauties  of  China  appeared.  No 
country  could  compare  with  them  for  modesty, 
either  of  look,  dress,  or  behaviour ;  their  eyes  were 
never  lifted  from  the  ground ;  their  robes  of  the 
most  beautiful  silk  hid  their  hands,  bosom,  and 
neck,  while  their  faces  only  were  left  uncovered. 
They  indulged  no  airs  that  might  express  loose 
desire,  and  they  seemed  to  study  only  the  graces 
of  inanimate  beauty.  Their  black  teeth,  and  pluck- 
ed eyebrows,  were,  however,  alleged  by  the  Genius 
against  them,  and  he  set  them  entirely  aside  when 
he  came  to  examine  their  little  feet. 

"  The  beauties  of  Circassia  next  made  their  ap- 
pearance. They  advanced  hand-in-hand,  singing 
the  most  immodest  airs,  and  leading  up  a  dance 
in  the  most  luxurious  attitudes.  Their  dress  was 
but  half  a  covering ;  the  neck,  the  left  breast,  and 
all  the  limbs,  were  exposed  to  view,  which,  after 
some  time,  seemed  rather  to  satiate  thajri  inflame 
desire.  The  lily  and  the  rose  contended  in  form- 
ing their  complexions;  and  a  soft  sleepiness  of  eye 
added  irre»i*«ibN>  poignancy  to  their  charms:  but 


386 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


their  beauties  were  obtruded,  not  offered,  to  their 
admirers;  they  seemed  to  give  rather  than  receive 
courtship ;  and  the  Genius  of  Love  dismissed  them 
as  unworthy  his  regard,  since  they  exchanged  the 
duties  of  love,  and  made  themselves  not  the  pur- 
sued, but  the  pursuing  sex. 

"  The  kingdom  of  Cashmire  next  produced  its 
charming  deputies.  This  happy  region  seemed 
pecuUarly  sequestered  by  nature  for  his  abode. 
Shady  mountains  fenced  it  on  one  side  from  the 
scorching  sun,  and  sea-born  breezes,  on  the  other, 
gave  peculiar  luxuriance  to  the  air.  Their  com- 
plexions were  of  a  bright  yellow,  that  appeared  al- 
most transparent,  while  the  crimson  tulip  seemed 
to  blossom  on  their  cheeks.  Their  features  and 
limbs  were  delicate  beyond  the  statuary's  power  to 
express,  and  their  teeth  whiter  than  their  own 
ivory.  He  was  almost  persuaded  to  reside  among 
them,  when  unfortunately  one  of  the  ladies  talked 
of  appointing  his  seraglio. 

"In  this  procession  the  naked  inhabitants  of 
Southern  America  would  not  be  left  behind ;  their 
charms  were  found  to  surpass  whatever  the  warm- 
est imagination  could  conceive;  and  served  to  show, 
that  beauty  could  be  perfect,  even  with  the  seem- 
ing disadvantage  of  a  brown  complexion.  But 
their  savage  education  rendered  them  utterly  un- 
qualified to  make  the  proper  use  of  their  power,  and 
they  were  rejected  as  being  incapable  of  uniting 
mental  with  sensual  satisfaction.  In  this  manner, 
the  deputies  of  other  kingdoms  had  their  suits  re- 
jected: the  black  beauties  of  Benin,  and  the  tawny 
daughters  of  Borneo ;  the  women  of  Wida  with 
well-scarred  faces,  and  the  hideous  virgins  of  Caf- 
fraria;  the  squab  ladies  of  Lapland,  three  feet  high, 
and  the  giant  fair  ones  of  Patagonia. 

"  The  beauties  of  Europe  at  last  appeared ;  grace 
was  in  their  steps,  and  sensibility  sat  smiling  in 
every  eye.  It  was  the  universal  opinion,  while 
they  were  approaching,  that  they  would  prevail ; 
and  the  Genius  seemed  to  lend  them  his  most 
favourable  attention.  They  opened  their  preten- 
sions with  the  utmost  modesty ;  but  unfortunately, 
as  their  orator  proceeded,  she  happened  to  let  fall 
the  words,  house  in  town,  settlement,  and  pin- 
money.  These  seemingly  harmless  terms  had  in- 
stantly a  surprising  effect :  the  Genius  with  un- 
governable rage  burst  from  amidst  the  circle;  and, 
waving  his  youthful  pinions,  left  this  earth,  and 
flew  back  to  those  ethereal  mansions  from  whence 
he  descended. 

"The  whole  assembly  was  struck  with  amaze- 
ment; they  now  justly  apprehended,  that  female 
power  would  be  no  more,  since  Love  had  forsaken 
them.  They  continued  some  time  thus  in  a  state 
of  torpid  despair,  when  it  was  proposed  by  one  of 
the  number,  that,  since  the  real  Genius  had  left 
them,  in  order  to  continue  their  power,  they  should 
set  up  an  idol  in  his  stead;  and  that  the  ladies  of 


every  country  should  furnish  him  with  what  each 
liked  best.  This  proposal  was  instantly  relished 
and  agreed  to.  An  idol  was  formed  by  uniting 
the  capricious  gifts  of  all  the  assembly,  though  no 
way  resembling  the  departed  Genius.  The  ladies 
of  China  furnished  the  monster  with  wings ;  those 
of  Cashmire  supplied  him  with  horns ;  the  dames 
of  Europe  clapped  a  purse  in  his  hand ;  and  the 
virgins  of  Congo  furnished  him  with  a  tail.  Since 
that  time,  all  the  vows  addressed  to  Love  are  in 
reality  paid  to  the  idol ;  but,  as  in  other  false  re- 
ligions, the  adoration  seems  most  fervent  where 
the  heart  is  least  sincere."     Adieu. 


LETTER  CXV. 


From  the  Same, 


Mankind  have  ever  been  prone  to  expatiate  in 
the  praise  of  human  nature.  The  dignity  of  man 
is  a  subject  that  has  always  been  the  favourite 
theme  of  humanity :  they  have  declaimed  with  that 
ostentation  which  usually  accompanies  such  as  are 
sure  of  having  a  partial  audience;  they  have  ob- 
tained victories,  because  there  were  none  to  oppose. 
Yet,  from  all  I  have  ever  read  or  seen,  men  appear 
more  apt  to  err  by  having  too  high,  than  by  having 
too  despicable,  an  opinion  of  their  nature;  and,  by 
attempting  to  exalt  their  original  place  in  creation, 
depress  their  real  value  in  society. 

The  most  ignorant  nations  have  always  been 
found  to  think  most  highly  of  themselves.  The 
Deity  has  ever  been  thought  peculiarly  concerned 
in  their  glory  and  preservation;  to  have  fought 
their  battles,  and  inspired  their  teachers:  their 
vdzards  are  said  to  be  familiar  with  heaven;  and 
every  hero  has  a  guard  of  angels,  as  well  as  men, 
to  attend  him.  When  the  Portuguese  first  came 
among  the  wretched  inhabitants  of  the  coast  of 
Africa,  these  savage  nations  readily  allowed  the 
strangers  more  skill  in  navigation  and  war;  yet 
still  considered  them  at  best  but  as  useful  servants, 
brought  to  their  coast  by  their  guardian  serpent, 
to  supply  them  with  luxuries  they  could  have  Uved 
without.  Though  they  could  grant  the  Portuguese 
more  riches,  they  could  never  allow  them  to  have 
such  a  kmg  as  their  Tottiiflondelem,  who  wore  a 
bracelet  of  shells  round  his  neck,  and  whose  legs 
were  covered  with  ivory. 

In  this  manner,  examine  a  savage  in  the  history 
of  his  country  and  predecessors,  you  ever  find  his 
warriors  able  to  conquer  armies,  and  his  sages  ac- 
quainted with  more  than  possible  knowledge. 
Human  nature  is  to  him  an  unknown  country :  he 
thinks  it  capable  of  great  things,  because  he  is  ig- 
norant of  its  boundaries;  whatever  can  be  con- 
ceived to  be  done,  he  allows  to  be  possible,  and 
whatever  is  possible,  he  conjectures  must  have  been 


CITIZEN  OP  THE  WORLD. 


387 


done.  He  never  measures  the  actions  and  powers 
of  others  by  what  himself  is  able  to  perform ;  nor 
makes  a  proper  estimate  of  the  greatness  of  his 
fellows,  by  bringing  it  to  the  standard  of  his  own 
incapacity.  He  is  satisfied  to  be  one  of  a  country 
where  mighty  things  have  been ;  and  imagines  the 
fancied  powers  of  others  reflect  a  lustre  on  him- 
self. Thus,  by  degrees,  he  loses  the  idea  of  his 
own  insignificance  in  a  confused  notion  of  the  ex- 
traordinary powers  of  humanity,  and  is  willing  to 
grant  extraordinary  gifts  to  every  pretender,  be- 
cause unacquainted  with  their  claims. 

This  is  the  reason  why  demi-gods  and  heroes 
have  ever  been  erected  in  times  or  countries  of  ig- 
norance and  barbarity :  they  addressed  a  people, 
who  had  high  opinions  of  human  nature,  because 
they  were  ignorant  how  far  it  could  extend ;  they 
addressed  a  people,  who  were  willing  to  allow  that 
men  should  be  gods,  because  they  were  yet  imper- 
fectly acquainted  with  God  and  with  man.  These 
impostors  knew,  that  all  men  are  naturally  fond  of 
seeing  something  very  great  made  from  the  little 
materials  of  humanity ;  that  ignorant  nations  are 
not  more  proud  of  building  a  tower  to  reach  to  hea- 
ven, or  a  pyramid  to  last  for  ages,  than  of  raising  up  a 
demi-god  of  their  own  country  and  creation.  The 
same  pride  that  erects  a  colossus  or  a  pyramid,  in- 
stals  a  god  or  a  hero ;  but  though  the  adoring  sav- 
age can  raise  his  colossus  to  the  clouds,  he  can  ex- 
alt the  hero  not  one  inch  above  the  standard  of 
humanity:  incapable,  therefore,  of  exalting  the 
idol,  he  debases  himself,  and  falls  prostrate  before 
him. 

When  man  has  thus  acquired  an  erroneous  idea 
of  the  dignity  of  his  species,  he  and  the  gods  be- 
come perfectly  intimate;  men  are  but  angels, 
angels  are  but  men,  nay  but  servants,  that  stand 
in  waiting  to  execute  human  commands.  The 
Persians,  for  instance,  thus  address  their  prophet 
Haly:*  "I  salute  thee,  glorious  creator,  of  whom 
the  sun  is  but  the  shadow.  Masterpiece  of  the 
Lord  of  human  creatures,  great  star  of  justice  and 
religion!  The  sea  is  not  rich  and  liberal,  but  by 
the  gifts  of  thy  munificent  hands.  The  angel 
treasurer  of  heaven  reaps  his  harvest  in  the  fertile 
gardens  of  the  purity  of  thy  nature.  The primum 
mobile  would  never  dart  the  ball  of  the  sun  through 
the  trunk  of  heaven,  were  it  not  to  serve  the  morn- 
ing out  of  the  extreme  love  she  has  for  thee.  The 
angel  Gabriel,  messenger  of  Iruth,  every  day  kisses 
the  groundsel  of  thy  gate.  Were  there  a  place 
more  exalted  than  the  most  high  throne  of  God,  I 
would  affirm  it  to  be  thy  place,  O  master  of  the 
faithful!  Gabriel,  with  all  his  art  and  knowledge, 
is  but  a  mere  scholar  to  thee."  Thus,  my  friend, 
men  think  proper  to  treat  angels;  but  if  indeed 
there  be  such  an  order  of  beings,  with  what  a  de- 


gree of  satirical  contempt  must  they  listen  to  the 
songs  of  little  mortals  thus  flattering  each  other  1 
thus  to  sec  creatures,  wiser  indeed  than  the  monr 
key,  and  more  active  than  the  oyster,  claiming  to 
themselves  the  mastery  of  heaven ;  minims,  the 
tenants  of  an  atom,  thus  arrogating  a  partnership 
in  the  creation  of  universal  nature !  Sure  Heaven 
is  kind,  that  launches  no  thunder  at  those  guilty 
heads!  but  it  is  kind,  and  regards  their  follies  with 
pity,  nor  will  destroy  creatures  that  it  loved  into 
being. 

But,  whatever  success  this  practice  of  making 
demi-gods  might  have  been  attended  with  in  bar- 
barous nations,  I  do  not  know  that  any  man  be- 
came a  god  in  a  country  where  the  inhabitants 
were  refined.  Such  countries  generally  have  too 
close  an  inspection  into  human  weakness  to  think 
it  invested  with  celestial  power.  They  sometimes 
indeed  admit  the  gods  of  strangers,  or  of  their  an- 
cestors, which  had  their  existence  in  times  of  ob- 
scurity; their  weakness  being  forgotten,  while 
nothing  but  their  power  and  their  miracles  were 
remembered.  The  Chinese,  for  instance,  never 
had  a  god  of  their  own  country :  the  idols  which 
the  vulgar  worship  at  this  day  were  brought  from 
the  barbarous  nations  around  them.  The  Roman 
emperors  who  pretended  to  divinity  were  generally 
taught  by  a  poniard  that  they  were  mortal ;  and 
Alexander,  though  he  passed  among  barbarous 
countries  for  a  real  god,  could  never  persuade  his 
polite  countrymen  into  a  similitude  of  thinking. 
The  Lacedemonians  shrewdly  complied  with  his 
commands  by  the  following  sarcastic  edict  j 

it  Axt^a.vJ'fOi  QovKi'Tdi  itvctt  Qioij  Qeof  {(rrce. 

Adieu, 


LETTER  CXVI. 


From  the  Same. 


*  Chardin's  Travels,  p,  40a. 


There  is  something  irresistibly  pleasing  in  the 
conversation  of  a  fine  woman;  even  though  her 
tongue  be  silent,  the  eloquence  of  her  eyes  teaches 
wisdom.  The  mind  sympathizes  with  the  regu- 
larity of  the  object  in  view,  and,  struck  with  exter- 
nal grace,  vibrates  into  respondent  harmony.  In 
this  agreeable  disposition,  I  lately  found  myself  in 
company  with  my  friend  and  his  niece.  Our  con- 
versation turned  upon  love,  which  she  seemed 
equally  capaUe  of  defending  and  inspiring.  We 
were  each  of  diiferent  opinicais  upon  this  subject : 
the  kdy  insisted  that  it  was  a  natural  and  univer- 
sal passion,  and  produced  the  happiness  of  those 
who  cultivated  it  with  proper  precaution.  My 
friend  denied  it  to  be  the  work  of  nature,  but  al- 
lowed it  to  have  a  real  existence,  and  aflirmed,  that 
it  was  of  infinite  service  in  refining  society;*  while 
Ij  to  keep  up  the  dispute,  affirmed  it  to  be  raeiely  a 


388 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


name,  first  used  by  rfie  cunning  part  of  the  fair 
sex,  and  admitted  by  the  silly  part  of  ours,  there- 
fore no  way  more  natural  than  taking  snuff,  or 
chewing  opium. 

"  How  is  it  possible,"  cried  I,  •'  that  such  a  pas- 
sion can  be  natural,  when  our  opinions  even  of 
beauty,  which  inspires  it,  are  entirely  the  result  of 
fashion  and  caprice  7  The  ancients,  who  pretended 
to  be  connoisseurs  in  the  art,  have  praised  narrow 
foreheads,  red  hair,  and  eyebrows  that  joined  each 
other  above  the  nose.  Such  was  the  charms  that 
captivated  Catullus,  Ovid,  and  Anacreon.  Ladies 
would  at  present  be  out  of  humour,  if  their  lovers 
praised  them  for  such  graces ;  and  should  an  an- 
tique beauty  now  revive,  her  face  would  certainly 
be  put  under  the  discipline  of  the  tweezer,  fore- 
head-cloth, and  lead  comb,  before  it  could  be  seen 
in  public  company. 

"But  the  difference  between  the  ancient  and 
moderns  is  not  so  great  as  between  the  different 
countries  of  the  present  world.  A  lover  of  Gon- 
gora,  for  instance,  sighs  for  thick  lips ;  a  Chinese 
lover  is  poetical  in  praise  of  thin.  In  Circassia,  a 
straight  nose  is  thought  most  consistent  with  beau- 
ty :  cross  but  a  mountain  which  separates  it  from 
the  Tartars,  and  there  flat  noses,  tawny  skins,  and 
eyes  three  inches  asunder,  are  all  the  fashion.  In 
Persia,  and  some  other  countries,  a  man,  when  he 
marries,  chooses  to  have  his  bride  a  maid;  in  the 
Philippine  Islands,  if  a  bridegroom  happens  to  per- 
ceive, on  the  first  night,  that  he  is  put  off  with  a 
virgin,  the  marriage  is  declared  void  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  and  the  bride  sent  back  with  dis- 
grace. In  some  parts  of  the  East,  a  woman  of 
beauty,  properly  fed  up  for  sale,  often  amounts  to 
one  hundred  crowns :  in  the  kingdom  of  Loango, 
ladies  of  the  very  best  fashion  are  sold  for  a  pig; 
queens,  however,  sell  better,  and  sometimes  amount 
to  a  cow.  In  short,  turn  even  to  England,  don't 
I  there  see  the  beautiful  part  of  the  sex  neglected; 
and  none  now  marrying  or  making  love,  but  old 
men  and  old  women  that  have  saved  money'?  Don't 
I  see  beauty  from  fifteen  to  twenty-one,  rendered 
null  and  void  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  and  those 
six  precious  years  of  womanhood  put  under  a  stat- 
ute of  virginity?  What!  shall  I  call  that  rancid  pas- 
sion love,  which  passes  between  an  old  bachelor  of 
fifty-six  and  a  widow  lady  of  forty-nine7  Never! 
never!  what  advantage  is  society  to  reap  from  an 
intercourse  where  the  big  belly  is  oftenest  on  the 
man's  side?  Would  any  persuade  me  that  such  a 
passion  was  natural,  unless  the  human  race  were 
more  fit  for  love  as  they  approached  the  decline, 
and,  like  silk  worms,  became  breeders  just  before 
they  expired." 

"  Whether  love  be  natural  or  no,"  replied  my 
friend,  gravely,  "  it  contributes  to  the  happiness  of 
every  i^iety  into  which  it  is  introduced.  All  our 
pleasures  are  short,  and  can  only  charm  at  inter- 


vals ;  love  is  a  method  of  protracting  our  greatest 
pleasure;  and  surely  that  gamester,  who  plays  the 
greatest  stake  to  the  best  advantage,  will,  at  the  end 
of  life,  rise  victorious.  This  was  the  opinion  of 
Vanini,  who  affirmed,  that  every  hour  was  lost 
which  was  not  spent  in  lote.  His  accusers  were 
unable  to  comprehend  his  meaning ;  and  the  poor 
advocate  for  love  was  burned  in  flames,  alas !  no 
way  metaphorical.  But  whatever  advantages  the 
individual  may  reap  from  this  passion,  society  will 
certainly  be  refined  and  improved  by  its  introduc- 
tion ;  all  laws  calculated  to  discourage  it,  tend  to 
imbrute  the  species,  and  weaken  the  state.  Though 
it  can  not  plant  morals  in  the  human  breast,  it  cul- 
tivates them  when  there;  pity,  generosity,  and 
honour,  receive  a  brighter  polish  from  its  assist- 
ance; and  a  single  amour  is  suflScient  entirely  to 
brush  off  the  clown. 

"  But  it  is  an  exotic  of  the  most  delicate  consti- 
tution ;  it  requires  the  greatest  art  to  introduce  it 
into  a  state,  and  the  smallest  discouragement  is  suf- 
ficient to  repress  it  again.  Let  us  only  consider 
with  what  ease  it  was  formerly  extinguished  in 
Rome,  and  with  what  diflaculty  it  was  lately  re- 
vived in  Europe :  it  seemed  to  sleep  for  ages,  and 
at  last  fought  its  way  among  us  through  tilts, 
tournaments,  dragons,  and  all  the  dreams  of  chi- 
valry. The  rest  of  the  world,  China  only  excepted, 
are,  and  have  ever  been  utter  strangers  to  its  de- 
lights and  advantages.  In  other  countries,  as  men 
find  themselves  stronger  than  women,  they  lay  a 
claim  to  a  rigorous  superiority:  this  is  natural,  and 
love,  which  gives  up  this  natural  advantage,  must 
certainly  be  the  effect  of  art, — an  art  calculated  to 
lengthen  out  our  happier  moments,  and  add  new 
graces  to  society."  • 

"  I  entirely  acquiesce  in  your  sentiments,"  says 
the  lady,  "  with  regard  to  the  advantages  of  this 
passion,  but  can  not  avoid  giving  it  a  nobler  origin 
than  you  have  been  pleased  to  assign.  I  must 
think,  that  those  countries,  where  it  is  rejected,  are 
obliged  to  have  recourse  to  art  to  stifle  so  natural  a 
production,  and  those  nations,  where  it  is  cultivat- 
ed, only  make  nearer  advances  to  nature.  The  same 
efforts  that  are  used  in  some  places  to  suppress 
pity,  and  other  natural  passions,  may  have  been 
employed  to  extinguish  love.  No  nation,  howevei 
unpolished,  is  remarkable  for  innocence  that  is  not 
famous  for  passion;  it  has  flourished  in  the  coldest, 
as  well  as  in  the  warmest  regions.  Even  in  the 
sultry  wilds  of  Southern  America,  the  lover  is  not 
satisfied  with  possessing  his  mistress's  person  with- 
out having  her  mind : 

"  In  all  my  Enna's  beauties  bless'd, 

Amidst  profusion  still  I  pine; 
For  though  she  gives  me  up  her  breast, 

Its  panting  tenant  is  not  mine."* 


'  Translation  of  a  South- American  Ode. 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


389 


"  But  the  effects  of  love  are  too  violent  to  be  the 
result  of  an  artificial  passion.  Nor  is  it  in  the 
power  of  fashion  to  force  the  constitution  into  those 
changes  which  we  every  day  observe.  Several 
have  died  of  it.  Few  lovers  are  unacquainted  with 
the  fate  of  the  two  Italian  lovers,  Da  Corsin  and 
Julia  Bellamano,  who,  after  a  long  separation,  ex- 
pired with  pleasure  in  each  other's  arms.  Such 
instances  are  too  strong  confirmations  of  the  reality 
of  the  passion,  and  serve  to  show,  that  suppressing 
it  is  but  opposing  the  natural  dictates  of  the  heart." 
Adieu. 


LETTER  CXVII. 

From  the  Same. 

The  clock  just  struck  two,  the  expiring  taper 
rises  and  sinks  in  the  socket,  the  watchman  forgets 
the  hour  in  slumber,  the  laborious  and  the  happy 
are  at  rest,  and  nothing  wakes  but  meditation 
guilt,  revelry,  and  despair.  The  drunkard  once 
more  fills  the  destroying  bowl,  the  robber  walks 
his  midnight  round,  and  the  suicide  lifts  his  guilty 
arm  against  his  own  sacred  person. 

Let  me  no  longer  waste  the  night  over  the  page 
of  antiquity,  or  the  sallies  of  contemporary  genius, 
but  pursue  the  solitary  walk,  where  Vanity,  ever 
changing,  but  a  few  hours  past  walked  before  me, 
where  she  kept  up  the  pageant,  and  now,  like  a 
froward  child,  seems  hushed  with  her  own  impor- 
tunities. 

What  a  gloom  hangs  all  around!  The  dying 
lamp  feebly  emits  a  yellow  gleam;  no  sound  is 
heard  but  of  the  chiming  clock,  or  the  distant 
watch-dog.  All  the  bustle  of  human  pride  is  for- 
gotten, an  hour  like  this  may  well  display  the 
emptiness  of  human  vanity. 

There  will  come  a  time,  when  this  temporary 
solitude  may  be  made  continual,  and  the  city  itself, 
like  its  inhabitants,  fade  away,  and  leave  a  desert 
in  its  room. 

What  cities,  as  great  as  this,  have  once  triumphed 
in  existence,  had  their  victories  as  great,  joy  as  just, 
and  as  unbounded,  and,  with  short-sighted  pre- 
sumption, promised  themselves  immortality !  Pos- 
terity can  hardly  trace  the  situation  of  some :  the 
sorrowful  traveller  wanders  over  the  awful  ruins 
of  others ;  and,  as  he  beholds,  he  learns  wisdom, 
and  feels  the  transience  of  every  sublunary  pos- 


"Here,"  he  cries,  "stood  their  citadel,  now 
grown  over  with  weeds ;  there  their  senate-house, 
but  now  the  haunt  of  every  noxious  reptile ;  tem- 
fples  and  theatres  stood  here,  now  only  an  undis- 
itinguished  heap  of  ruin.     They  are  fallen,  for 

tury  and  avarice  first  made  them  feeble.  The 
jtawraxds  of  the  state  were  conferred  on  amusing 


and  not  on  useful  members  of  society.  Their  richea 
and  opulence  invited  the  invaders,  who,  though  at 
first  repulsed,  returned  again,  conquered  by  perse- 
verance, and  at  last  swept  the  defendants  into  un- 
distinguished destruction." 

How  few  appear  in  those  streets  which  but  some 
few  hours  ago  were  crowded !  and  those  who  ap- 
pear, now  no  longer  wear  their  daily  mask,  nor  at- 
tempt to  hide  their  lewdness  or  their  misery. 

But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their 
couch,  and  find  a  short  repose  from  wretchedness 
at  the  doors  of  the  opulent?  These  are  strangers, 
wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circumstances  are 
too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  whose  distresses 
are  too  great  even  for  pity.  Their  wretchedness 
excites  rather  horror  than  pity.  Some  are  without 
the  covering  even  of  rags,  and  others  emaciated 
with  disease :  the  world  has  disclaimed  them ;  so- 
ciety turns  its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has 
given  them  up  to  nakedness  and  hunger.  These 
poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen  happier 
days,  and  been  flattered  into  beauty.  They  have 
been  prostituted  to  the  gay  luxurious  villain,  and 
are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the  severity  of  winter. 
Perhaps,  now  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers, 
they  sue  to  wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible, 
or  debauchees  who  may  curse  but  will  not  relieve 
them. 

Why,  why  was  I  born  a  man,  and  yet  see  the 
sufferings  of  wretches  I  can  not  relieve !  Poor 
houseless  creatures!  the  world  will  give  you  re- 
proaches, but  will  not  give  you  reUef  The  slight- 
est misfortimes  of  the  great,  the  most  imaginary 
uneasiness  of  the  rich,  are  aggravated  with  all  the 
power  of  eloquence,  and  held  up  to  engage  our  at- 
tention and  sympathetic  sorrow.  The  poor  weep 
unheeded,  persecuted  by  every  subordinate  species 
of  tyranny;  and  every  law  which  gives  others  se- 
curity becomes  an  enemy  to  them. 

Why  was  this  heart  of  mine  formed  with  so 
much  sensibility?  or  why  was  not  my  fortune 
adapted  to  its  impulse?  Tenderness,  without  a 
capacity  of  reUeving,  only  makes  the  man  who 
feels  it  more  wretched  than  the  object  which  sues 
for  assistance.    Adieu. 


LETTER  CXVIIL 

From  Fum  Hoam  to  Lien  Chi  Altangi,  the  discontented  Wan- 
derer, by  the  way  of  Moscow. 

I  HaVe  been  just  sent  upon  an  embassy  to  Ja- 
pan ;  my  commission  is  to  be  dispatched  in  four 
days,  and  you  can  hardly  conceive  the  pleasure  I 
shall  find  upon  revisiting  my  native  country.  I 
shall  leave  with  joy  this  proud,  barbarous,  inhos- 
pitable region,  where  every  object  conspires  to  di- 
minish my  satisfaction  and  increase  my  patriotism. 


390 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


nRhe 


lut  though  I  find  the  inhabitants  savage,  yet 
'Dutch  mercliants  who  are  permitted  to  trade 
ler  seem  still  more  detestable.  They  have 
raised  my  dislike  to  Europe  in  general ;  by  them  I 
learn  how  low  avarice  can  degrade  human  nature ; 
how  many  indignities  an  European  will  pyffer  for 
gain. 

I  was  present  at  an  audience  given  by  the  em- 
peror to  the  Dutch  envoy,  who  had  sent  several 
presents  to  all  the  courtiers  some  days  previous  to 
his  admission ;  but  he  was  obliged  to  attend  those 
designed  for  the  emperor  himself.  From  the  ac- 
counts I  had  heard  of  this  ceremony,  my  curiosity 
prompted  me  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  whole. 

First  went  the  presents,  set  out  on  beautiful 
enamelled  tables,  adorned  with  flowers,  borne  on 
men's  shoulders,  and  followed  by  Japanese  music 
and  dancers.  From  so  great  respect  paid  to  the 
gifts  themselves,  1  had  fancied  the  donors  must  have 
received  almost  divjne  honours.  But  about  a  .quar- 
ter of  an  hour  after  the  presents  h^d  been  carried 
in  triumph,  the  envoy  and  his  train  were  brought 
forward.  They  were  covered  from  head  to  foot 
with  long  black  veils,  which  prevented  their  seeing, 
each  led  by  a  con<]uctor,  chosen  from  the  meanest  of 
the  people.  In  this  dishonourable  manner,  having 
traversed  the  city  of  Jedo,  they  at  length  arrived  at 
the  palace  gate  ;  and,  after  waiting  half  an  hour, 
were  admitted  into  the  guard-room.  Here  their 
eyes  were  uncovered,  and  in  about  an  hour  the 
gentleman -usher  introduced  them  into  the  hall  of 
audience.  The  emperor  was  at  length  shown,  sit- 
ting in  a  kind  of  alcove  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
room,  and  the  Dutch  envoy  was  conducted  towards 
the  throne. 

As  soon  as  he  had  approached  within  a  certain 
distance,  the  gentleman-usher  cried  out  with  a  loud 
voice,  ITolanda  Capiian;  upon  these  words,  the 
envoy  fell  flat  upon  the  ground,  and  crept  upon  his 
hands  and  feet  towards  the  throne.  Still  approach- 
ing, he  reared  himself  upon  his  knees,  and  then 
bowed  his  forehead  to  the  ground.  These  cere- 
monies being  over,  he  was  directed  to  withdraw, 
still  grovelling  on  his  belly,  and  going  backward 
like  a  lobster. 

Men  must  be  excessively  fond  of  riches,  when 
they  are  earned  with  such  circumstances  of  abject 
submission.  Do  the  Europeans  worship  Heaven 
itself  with  marks  of  more  profound  respect?  Do 
they  confer  those  honours  on  the  Supreme  pf  Be- 
ings, which  they  pay  to  a  barbarous  king,  who  gives 
them  a  permission  to  purchase  trinkets  and  porce- 
lain? What  a  glorious  exchange,  to  forfeit  their 
national  honour,  and  even  their  title  to  humanity, 
for  a  screen  or  a  snufF-box ! 

If  these  ceremonies  essayed  in  the  first  audience 
appeared  mortifying,  those  which  were  practised  in 
the  second  were  infinitely  more  so.  In  the  second 
audience,  the  emperor  and  the  ladies  of  the  court 


were  placed  behind  lattices,  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
see  without  being  seen.  Here  all  the  Europeans 
were  directed  to  pass  in  review,  and  grovel  and  act 
the  serpent  as  before ;  with  this  spectacle  the  whole 
court  seemed  highly  delighted.  The  strangera 
were  asked  a  thousand  ridiculous  questions,  as 
their  names,  and  their  ages ;  they  were  ordered  to 
write,  to  stand  upright,  to  sit,  to  stoop,  to  compli- 
ment each  other,  to  be  drunk,  to  speak  the  Japanese 
language,  to  talk  Dutch,  to  sing,  to  eat ;  in  short, 
they  were  ordered  to  do  all  that  could  satisfy  the 
curiosity  of  women. 

Imagine,  my  dear  Altangi,  a  set  of  grave  men 
thus  transformed  into  buffoons,  and  acting  a  part 
every  whit  as  honourable  as  that  of  those  instructed 
animals  which  are  shown  in  the  streets  of  Pekin 
to  the  mob  on  a  holiday.  Yet  the  ceremony  did 
not  end  here,  for  every  great  lord  of  the  court  was 
to  be  visited  in  the  same  manner ;  and  their  ladies, 
who  took  the  whim  from  their  husbands,  were  all 
equally  fond  of  seeing  the  strangers  perform,  even 
the  children  seeming  highly  diverted  with  the 
dancing  Dutchmen. 

"  Alas,"  cried  I  to  myself,  upon  returning  from 
such  a  spectacle,  "  is  this  the  nation  which  assumes 
such  dignity  at  the  court  of  Pekin  1  Is  this  the 
people  that  appear  so  proud  at  home,  and  in  every 
country  where  they  have  the  least  authority  1 
How  does  a  love  of  gain  transform  the  gravest  of 
mankind  into  the  most  contemptible  and  ridicu- 
lous !  I  had  rather  continue  poor  all  my  life  than 
become  rich  at  such  a  rate.  Perish  those  riches 
which  are  acquired  at  the  expense  of  my  honour 
or  my  humanity !  Let  me  quit,"  said  I,  "  a  coun- 
try where  there  are  none  but  such  as  treat  all  others 
like  slaves,  and  more  detestable  still,  in  suffering 
such  treatment.  I  have  seen  enough  of  this  nation 
to  desire  to  see  more  of  others.  Let  me  leave  a 
people  suspicious  to  excess,  whose  morals  are  cor- 
rupted, and  equally  debased  by  superstition  and 
vice ;  where  the  sciences  are  left  uncultivated,  where 
the  great  are  slaves  to  the  prince,  and  tyrants  to  ' 
the  people ;  where  the  women  are  chaste  only  when 
debarred  of  the  power  of  transgression ;  where  the 
true  disciples  of  Confucius  are  not  less  persecuted 
than  those  of  Christianity :  in  a  word,  a  country 
where  men  are  forbidden  to  think,  and  consequent- 
ly labour  under  the  most  miserable  slavefy,  that 
of  mental  servitude."     Adieu. 


LETTER  CXIX.     . 

From  Lien  Clii  Altangi,  to  Fum  Hoam,  First  Preaident  o/ 
the  Ceremonial  Academy  at  Pekin,  in  China. 

The  misfortunes  of  the  great,  my  frien'l,  are  held  1 1 
up  to  engage  our  attention,  are  enlarged  upon  in  f  1 
tones  of  declamation,  and  the  world  is  called  upon 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


391 


to  gaze  at  the  noble  sufferers :  they  have  at  once 
the  comfort  of  admiration  and  pity. 

Yet,  where  is  the  magnanimity  of  bearing  mis- 
fortunes when  the  whole  world  is  looking  on  1 
Men,  in  such  circumstances,  can  act  bravely  even 
from  motives  of  vanity.  He  only,  who,  in  the  vale 
of  obscurity,  can  brave  adversity;  who,  without 
friends  to  encourage,  acquaintances  to  pity,  or  even 
without  hope  to  alleviate  his  distresses,  can  behave 
with  tranquillity  and  indifference,  is  truly  great : 
whether  peasant  or  courtier,  he  deserves  admira- 
tion, and  should  be  held  up  for  our  imitation  and 
respect. 

The  miseries  of  the  poor  are,  however,  entirely 
disregarded ;  though  some  undergo  more  real  hard- 
ships in  one  day  than  the  great  in  their  whole 
lives.  It  is  indeed  inconceivable  what  difficulties 
the  meanest  English  sailor  or  soldier  endures  with- 
out murmuring  or  regret.  Every  day  to  him  is  a 
day  of  misery,  and  yet  he  bears  his  hard  fate  with- 
out repining. 

With  what  indignation  do  I  hear  the  heroes  of 
tragedy  complain  of  misfortunes  and  hardships, 
whose  greatest  calamity  is  founded  in  arrogance 
and  pride !  Their  severest  distresses  are  pleasures, 
compared  to  what  many  of  the  adventuring  poor 
every  day  sustain,  without  murmuring.  These 
may  eat,  drink,  and  sleep ;  have  slaves  to  attend 
them,  and  are  sure  of  subsistence  for  life ;  while 
many  of  their  fellow-creatures  are  obliged  to  wan- 
der, without  a  friend  to  comfort  or  to  assist  them, 
find  enmity  in  every  law,  and  are  too  poor  to  ob- 
tain even  justice. 

I  have  been  led  into  these  reflections  from  acci- 
dentally meeting,  some  days  ago,  a  poor  fellow 
begging  at  one  of  the  outlets  of  this  town,  with  a 
wooden  leg.  1  was  curious  to  learn  what  had  re- 
duced him  to  his  present  situation ;  and,  after  giv- 
ing him  what  I  thought  proper,  desired  to  know 
the  history  of  his  life  and  misfortunes,  and  the 
manner  in  which  he  was  reduced  to  his  present 
distress. — The  disabled  soldier,  for  such  he  was, 
with  an  intrepidity  truly  British,  leaning  on  his 
crutch,  put  himself  into  an  attitude  to  comply 
with  my  request,  and  gave  me  his  history  as  fol- 
lows: 

"  As  for  misfortunes,  sir,  I  can  not  pretend  to 
have  gone  through  more  than  others.  Except  the 
loss  of  my  limb,  and  my  being  obliged  to  beg,  I 
don't  know  any  reason,  thank  Heaven,  that  I  have 
to  complain :  there  are  some  who  have  lost  both  legs 
and  an  eye,  but  thank  Heaven,  it  is  not  quite  so 
bad  with  me. 

"  My  father  was  a  labourer  in  the  country,  and 
died  when  I  was  five  years  old ;  so  I  was  put  upon 
the  parish.  As  he  had  been  a  wandering  sort  of 
a  man,  the  parishioners  were  not  able  to  tell  to 
what  jMirish  I  belonged,  or  where  I  was  born ;  so 
they  sent  me  to  another  parish,  and  that  parish 


sent  me  to  a  third;  till  at  last  it  was  thought  I  be- 
longed to  no  parish  at  all.  At  length,  however, 
they  fixed  me.  I  had  some  disposition  to  ^a 
scholar,  and  had  actually  learned  my  letters ;  but 
the  master  of  the  work-house  put  me  to  busilness 
as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  handle  a  mallet. 

"  Here  I  lived  an  easy  kind  of  a  life  for  five  years. 
I  only  wrought  ten  hours  in  the  day,  and  had  my 
meat  and  drink  provided  for  my  labour.  It  is  true, 
I  W£(s  not  suffered  to  stir  far  from  the  house,  for 
fear  I  should  run  away :  but  what  of  that  1  1  had 
the  liberty  of  the  whole  house,  and  the  yard  be- 
fore the  door,  and  that  was  enough  for  me. 

"  I  was  next  bound  out  to  a  farmer,  where  I  was 
up  both  early  and  late,  but  I  ate  and  drank  well, 
and  liked  my  business  well  enough,  till  he  died. 
Being  then  obliged  to  provide  for  myself,  I  was  re- 
solved to  go  and  seek  my  fortune.  Thus  I  lived, 
and  went  from  town  to  town,  working  when  I 
could  get  employment,  and  starving  when  I  could 
get  none,  and  might  have  lived  so  still-;  but  hap- 
pening one  day  to  go  through  a  field  belonging  to 
a  magistrate,  I  spied  a  hare  crossing  the  path  just 
before  me.  I  believe  the  devil  put  it  in  my  head 
to  fling  my  stick  at  it :  well,  what  will  you  have 
on't  1  I  killed  the  hare,  and  was  bringing  it  away 
in  triumph,  when  the  Justice  himself  met  me  :  he 
called  me  a  villain,  and  collaring  me,  desired  I 
would  give -an  account  of  myself.  I  began  imme- 
diately to  give  a  full  account  of  all  that  I  knew  of 
my  breed,  seed,  and  generation ;  but,  though  I 
gave  a  very  long  account,  the  Justice  said  I  could 
give  no  account  of  myself;  so  I  was  indicted,  and 
found  guilty  of  being  poor,  and  sent  to  Newgate, 
in  order  to  be  transported  to  the  plantations. 

"People  may  say  this  and  that  of  being  in  gaol; 
but,  for  my  part,  I  found  Newgate  as  agreeable  a 
place  as  ever  I  was  in,  in  all  my  life.  I  had  my 
bellyfull  to  eat  and  drink,  and  did  no  work ;  but 
alas !  this  kind  of  life  was  too  good  to  last  forever  : 
I  was  taken  out  of  prison,  after  five  months,  put 
on  board  of  a  ship,  and  sent  off  with  two  hundred 
more.  Our  passage  was  but  indifferent,  for  we 
were  all  confined  in  the  hold,  and  died  very  fast, 
for  want  of  sweet  air  and  provisions ;  but,  for  my 
part,  I  did  not  want  meat,  because  I  had  a  fever  all 
the  way.  Providence  was  kind;  when  provisions 
grew  rshort,  it  took  away  my  desire  of  eating. 
When  we  came  ashore,  we  were  sold  to  the  plant- 
ers. I  was  bound  for  seven  years,  and  as  I  was 
no  scholar,  for  I  had  forgot  my  letters.  I  was  obliged 
to  work  among  the  negroes ;  and  served  out  my 
time,  as  in  duty  bound  to  do. 

"  When  my  time  was  ejcpired,  I  worked  my 
passage  home,  and  glad  I  was  to  see  Old  England 
again,  because  I  loved  my  country.  O  liberty ! 
liberty !  liberty !  that  is  the  property  of  every 
Englishman,  and  I  will  die  in  its  defence !  I  was 
afraid,  however,  that  I  should  be  indicted  foi  a 


392 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


vagabond  once  more,  so  did  not  much  care  to  go 
into  the  country,  but  kept  about  town,  and  did 
lilSe  jobs  when  I  could  get  them.  I  was  very 
happy  in  this  manner  for  some  time ;  till  one  even- 
ing, coming  home  from  work,  two  men  knocked 
me  down,  and  then  desired  me  to  stand  still.  They 
belonged  to  a  press-gang :  I  was  carried  before  the 
Justice,  and  as  I  could  give  no  account  of  myself 
(that  was  the  thing  that  always  hobbled  me),  I 
had  my  choice  left,  whether  to  go  on  board  of  a 
man  of  war,  or  list  for  a  soldier.  I  chose  to  be  a 
soldier ;  and  in  this  post  of  a  gentleman  I  served 
two  campaigns  in  Flanders,  was  at  the  battles  of 
Val  and  Fontenoy,  and  received  but  one  wound 
through  the  breast,  which  is  troublesome  to  this 
day. 

"  When  the  peace  came  on,  I  was  discharged  ; 
and  as  I  could  not  work,  because  my  wound  was 
sometimes  painful,  I  listed  for  a  landman  in  the 
East  India  Company's  service.  I  here  fought  the 
French  in  six  pitched  battles ;  and  verily  believe, 
that  if  I  could  read  and  write,  our  captain  would 
have  given  me  promotion,  and  made  me  a  corpo- 
ral. But  that  was  not  my  good  fortune ;  I  soon 
fell  sick,  and  when  I  became  good  for  nothing,  got 
leave  to  return  home  again  with  forty  pounds  in  my 
pocket,  which  I  saved  in  the  service.  This  was 
at  the  beginning  of  the  present  war,  so  I  hoped  to 
be  set  on  shore,  and  to  have  the  pleasure  of  spend- 
ing my  money ;  but  the  government  wapted  men, 
and  I  was  pressed  again,  before  ever  I  could  set 
foot  on  shore. 

"  The  boatswain  found  me,  as  he  said,  an  obsti- 
nate fellow :  he  swore  that  I  understood  my  busi- 
ness perfectly  well,  but  that  I  shammed  Abraham 
merely  to  be  idle.  God  knows,  I  knew  nothing 
of  sea  business :  he  beat  me  without  considering 
what  he  was  about.  But  still  my  forty  pounds 
was  some  comfort  to  me  under  every  beating  :  the 
money  was  my  comfort,  and  the  money  I  might 
have  had  to  this  day,  but  that  our  ship  was  taken 
by  the  French,  and  so  I  lost  it  all. 

"  Our  crew  was  carried  into  a  French  prison,  and 
many  of  them  died,  because  they  were  not  used  to 
live  in  a  gaol ;  but  for  my  part,  it  was  nothing  to 
me,  for  I  was  seasoned.  One  night,  however, 
as  I  was  sleeping  on  a  bed  of  boards,  with  a  warm 
blanket  about  me  (for  I  always  loved  to  lie  well), 
I  was  awaked  by  the  boatswain,  who  had  a  dark 
lantern  in  his  hand.  '  Jack,'  says  he  to  me,  •  will 
you  knock  out  the  French  sentry's  brains?'  'I 
don't  care,'  says  I,  striving  to  keep  myself  awake, 
'if  I  lend  a  hand.'  'Then  follow  me,'  says  he, 
*  and  I  hope  we  shall  do  business.'  So  up  1  got. 
and  tied  my  blanket,  which  was  all  the  clothes  1 
had,  about  my  middle,  and  went  with  him  to  fight 
the  Frenchmen.  We  had  no  arms ;  but  one  Eng- 
lishman is  able  to  beat  five  Frenchmen  at  any  time ; 
so  we  went  down  to  the  door,  where  both  the  sen- 


tries were  posted,  and  rushing  upon  them,  seized 
their  arms  in  a  moment,  and  knocked  them  down. 
From  thence,  nine  of  us  ran  together  to  the  quay, 
and  seizing  the  first  boat  we  met,  got  out  of  the 
harbour,  and  put  to  sea.  We  had  not  been  here 
three  days,  before  we  were  taken  up  by  an  English 
privateer,  who  was  glad  of  so  many  good  hands ; 
and  we  consented  to  run  our  chance.  However, 
we  had  not  so  much  luck  as  we  expected.  In 
three  days  we  fell  in  with  a  French  man  of  war, 
of  forty  guns,  while  we  had  but  twenty-three ;  so 
to  it  we  went.  The  fight  lasted  for  three  hours, 
and  I  verily  believe  we  should  have  taken  the 
Frenchman,  but,  unfortunately,  we  lost  almost  all 
our  men,  just  as  we  were  going  to  get  the  victory. 
I  was  once  more  in  the  power  of  the  French,  and 
I  believe  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  me,  had  I 
been  brought  back  to  my  old  gaol  in  Brest ;  but, 
by  good  fortune,  we  were  re-taken,  and  carried  to 
England  once  more. 

"  I  had  almost  forget  to  tell  you,  that  in  this  last 
engagement  I  was  wounded  in  two  places ;  I  lost 
four  fingers  of  the  left  hand,  and  my  leg  was  shot 
off.  Had  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  lost  my 
leg  and  use  of  my  hand  on  board  a  king's  ship,  and 
not  a  privateer,  I  should  have  been  entitled  to 
clothing  and  maintenance  during  the  rest  of  my 
life ;  but  that  was  not  my  chance ;  one  man  is  born 
with  a  silver  spoon  in  his  mouth,  and  another  with 
a  woo'len  ladle.  However,  blessed  be  God,  I  en- 
joy /rod  health,  and  have  no  enemy  in  this  world 
that  I  know  of,  but  the  French  and  the  Justice  of 
Peace." 

Thus  saying,  he  limped  off,  leaving  my  friend 
and  me  in  admiration  of  his  intrepidity  and  con- 
tent ;  nor  could  we  avoid  acknowledging,  that  an 
habitual  acquaintance  with  misery  is  the  truest 
school  of  fortitude  and  philosophy.    Adieu. 


LETTER  CXX. 


From  thp  Same. 


The  titles  of  European  princes  are  rather  more 
numerous  than  ours  of  Asia,  but  by  no  means  so 
sublime.  The  king  of  Visapour  or  Pegu,  not 
satisfied  with  claiming  the.  globe  and  all  its  appur- 
tenances to  him  and  his  heirs,  asserts  a  property 
even  in  the  firmament,  and  extends  his  orders  to 
the  milky  way.  The  monarchs  of  Europe,  with 
more  modesty,  confine  their  titles  to  earth,  but  make 
up  by  number  what  is  wanting  in  their  sublimity. 
Such  is  their  passion  for  a  long  list  of  these  splen- 
did trifles,  that  I  have  known  a  German  prince 
with  more  titles  than  subjects,  and  a  Spanish  no- 
bleman with  more  names  than  shirts. 

Contrary  to  this,  "the  Enghsh  monarchs,"  says     f  1 
a  writer  of  the  last  century,  ■ '  disdam  to  accept  ol     ' ' 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


393 


such  titles,  which  tend  only  to  increase  their  pride, 
without  improving  their  glory ;  they  are  above  de- 
pending on  the  feeble  helps  of  heraldry  for  respect, 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  consciousness  of  ac- 
knowledged power."  At  present,  however,  these 
maxims  are  laid  aside;  the  English  monarchshave 
of  late  assumed  new  titles,  and  have  impressed 
their  coins  with  the  names  and  arms  of  obscure 
dukedoms,  petty  states,  and  subordinate  employ- 
ments. Their  design  in  this,  I  make  no  doubt, 
was  laudably  to  add  new  lustre  to  the  British 
throne;  but,  in  reality,  paltry  claims  only  serve  to 
diminish  that  respect  they  are  designed  to  secure. 

There  is,  in  the  honours  assumed  by  kings,  as 
in  the  decorations  of  architecture,  a  majestic  sim- 
plicity, which  best  conduces  to  inspire  our  rever- 
ence and  respect :  numerous  and  trifling  ornaments, 
in  either,  are  strong  indications  of  meanness  in  the 
designer,  or  of  concealed  deformity.  Should,  for 
instance,  the  emperor  of  China,  among  other  titles, 
assume  that  of  deputy  mandarine  of  Maccau ;  or 
the  monarch  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland, 
desire  to  be  acknowledged  as  duke  of  Brentford, 
Lunenburg,  or  Lincoln;  the  observer  revolts  at 
this  mixture  of  important  and  paltry  claims,  and 
forgets  the  emperor  in  his  familiarity  with  the  duke 
or  the  deputy. 

I  remember  a  similar  instance  of  this  inverted 
ambition,  in  the  illustrious  king  of  Manacabo,  up- 
on his  first  treaty  with  the  Portuguese.  Among 
the  presents  that  were  made  him  by  the  ambassa- 
dor of  that  nation,  was  a  sword  with  a  brass  hilt, 
upon  which  he  seemed  to  set  a  peculiar  value. 
This  he  thought  too  great  an  acquisition  to  his 
glory  to  be  forgotten  among  the  number  of  his 
titles.  He  therefore  gave  orders,  that  his  subjects 
should  style  him  for  the  future.  Talipot,  the  im- 
mortal Potentate  of  Manacabo,  Messenger  of  the 
Morning,  Enlightener  of  the  Sun,  Possessor  of 
the  whole  Earth,  and  mighty  Monarch  of  the 
brass-handled  Sword. 

This  method  of  mixing  majestic  and  paltry 
titles,  of  quartering  the  arms  of  a  great  empire  and 
an  obscure  province  upon  the  same  medal  here, 
had  its  rise  in  the  virtuous  partiality  of  their  late 
monarchs.  Willing  to  testify  an  affection  to  their 
native  country,  they  gave  its  name  and  ensigns  a 
place  upon  their  coins,  and  thus,  in  some*measure, 
ennobled  its  obscurity.  It  was,  indeed,  but  just, 
that  a  people  which  had  given  England  up  their 
king,  should  receive  some  honorary  equivalent  in 
return;  but  at  present  these  motives  are  no  more: 
England  has  now  a  monarch  wholly  British ;  and 
it  has  some  reason  to  hope  for  British  titles  upon 
British  coins. 

However,  were  the  money  of  England  designed 
to  circulate  in  Germany,  there  would  be  no  fla- 
grant impropriety  in  impressing  it  with  German 
names  and  arms ;  but,  though  this  might  have  been 


so  upon  former  occasions,  I  am  told  there  is  no 
danger  of  it  ibr  the  future.  As  England,  there- 
fore, designs  to  keep  back  its  gold,  I  candidly  think 
Lunenburg,  Oldenburg,  and  the  rest  of  them,  may 
very  well  keep  back  their  titles. 

It  is  a  mistaken  prejudice  in  princes  to  think 
that  a  number  of  loud -sounding  names  can  give 
new  claims  to  respect.  The  truly  great  have  ever 
disdained  them.  When  Timur  the  Lame  had 
conquered  Asia,  an  orator  by  profession  came  to 
compliment  him  upon  the  occasion.  He  began 
his  harangue  by  styUng  him  the  most  onmipotent, 
and  the  most  glorious  object  of  the  creation.  The 
emperor  seemed  displeased  with  his  paltry  adula 
tion,  yet  still  he  went  on,  complimenting  him  as 
the  most  mighty,  the  most  valiant,  and  the  most 
perfect  of  beings.  "Hold,  there,"  my  friend,  cries 
the  lame  emperor;  "hold  there  till  I  have  got 
another  leg."  In  fact,  the  feeble  or  the  despotic 
alone  find  pleasure  in  multiplying  these  pageants 
of  vanity,  but  strength  and  freedom  have  nobler 
aims,  and  often  find  the  finest  adulation  in  majestic 
simplicity. 

The  young  monarch  of  this  country  has  already 
testified  a  proper  contempt  for  several  unmeaning 
appendages  on  royalty ;  cooks  and  scullions  have 
been  obliged  to  quit  their  fires ;  gentlemen's  gentle- 
men, and  the  whole  tribe  of  necessary  people  who 
did  nothing,  have  been  dismissed  from  further 
services.  A  youth  who  can  thus  bring  back  sim- 
plicity and  frugality  to  a  court  will  soon  probably 
have  a  true  respect  for  his  own  glory ;  and,  while 
he  has  dismissed  all  useless  employments,  may 
disdain  to  accept  of  empty  or  degrading  titles. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  CXXI. 

From  the  Same. 

Whenever  I  attempt  to  characterize  the  Eng- 
lish in  general,  some  unforeseen  difficulties  constant- 
ly occur  to  disconcert  my  design ;  I  hesitate  be- 
tween censure  and  praise.  When  I  consider  them 
as  a  reasoning  philosophical  people,  they  have  my 
applause ;  but  when  I  reverse  the  medal,  and  ob- 
serve their  inconstancy  and  irresolution,  I  can 
scarcely  persuade  myself  that  I  am  observing  the 
same  people. 

Yet,  upon  examination,  this  very  inconsistency, 
so  remarkable  here,  flows  from  no  other  source 
than  their  love  of  reasoning.  The  man  who  ex- 
amines a  complicated  subject  on  every  side,  and 
calls  in  reason  to  his  assistance,  will  frequently 
change ;  will  find  himself  distracted  by  opposing 
improbabilities  and  contending  proofs;  every  alter- 
ation of  place  will  diversify  the  prospect,  will  give 
some  latent  argument  new  force,  and  contribute  to 
maintain  an  anarchy  in  the  mind. 


394 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


On  the  contrary,  they  who  never  examine  with 
their  own  reason,  act  with  more  simpUcity.  Ig- 
notance  is  positive,  instinct  perseveres,  and  the 
human  being  moves  in  safety  within  the  narrow 
circle  of  brutal  uniformity.  What  is  true  with  re- 
gard to  individuals  is  not  less  so  when  applied  to 
states.  A  reasoning  government  like  this  is  in 
continual  fluctuation,  while  those  kingdoms  where 
men  are  taught,  not  to  controvert  but  obey,  con- 
tinue always  the  same.  In  Asia,  for  instance, 
where  the  monarch's  authority  is  supported  by 
force,  and  acknowledged  through  fear,  a  change  of 
government  is  entirely  unknown.  All  the  inhabi- 
tants seem  to  wear  the  same  mental  complexion, 
and  remain  contented  with  hereditary  oppression. 
The  sovereign's  pleasure  is  the  ultimate  rule  of 
duty;  every  branch  of  the  administration  is  a  per- 
fect epitome  of  the  whole ;  and  if  one  tyrant  is  de- 
posed, another  starts  up  in  his  room  to  govern  as 
his  predecessor.  The  English,  on  the  contrary, 
instead  of  being  led  by  power,  endeavour  to  guide 
themselves  by  reason ;  instead  of  appealing  to  the 
pleasure  of  the  prince,  appeal  to  the  original  rights 
of  mankind.  What  one  rank  of  men  assert  is  de- 
nied by  others,  as  the  reasons  on  opposite  sides 
happen  to  come  home  with  greater  or  less  convic- 
tion. The  people  of  Asia  are  directed  by  prece- 
dent, which  never  alters :  the  English,  by  reason, 
which  is  ever  changing  its  appearance. 

The  disadvantages  of  an  Asiatic  government, 
acting  in  this  manner  by  precedent,  are  evident; 
original  errors  are  thus  continued,  without  hopes 
of  redress;  and  all  marks  of  genius  are  levelled 
dovni  to  one  standard,  since  no  superiority  of  think- 
ing can  be  allowed  its  exertion  in  mending  obvious 
defects.  But,  to  recompense  those  defects,  their 
governments  undergo  no  new  alterations;  they 
have  no  new  evils  to  fear,  nor  no  fermentations  in 
the  constitution  that  continue;  the  struggle  for 
power  is  soon  over,  and  all  becomos  tranquil  as  be- 
fore; they  are  habituated  to  subordination,  and 
men  are  taught  to  form  no  other  desires  than  those 
which  they  are  allowed  to  satisfy. 

The  disadvantages  of  a  government  acting  from 
the  immediate  influence  of  reason,  like  that  of 
England,  are  not  less  than  those  of  the  former.  It 
is  extremely  difficult  to  induce  a  number  of  free 
beings  to  co-operate  for  their  mutual  benefit ;  every 
possible  advantage  will  necessarily  be  sought,  and 
every  attempt  to  procure  it  must  be  attended  with 
a  new  fermentation ;  various  reasons  will  lead  dif- 
ferent ways,  and  equity  and  advantage  will  often 
be  out-balanced  by  a  combination  of  clamour  and 
prejudice.  But  though  such  a  people  may  be  thus 
in  the  wrong,  they  have  been  influenced  by  a  hap- 
py delusion ;  their  errors  are  seldom  seen  till  they 
are  felt ;  each  man  is  himself  the  tyrant  he  has 
obeyed,  and  such  a  master  he  can  easily  forgive. 
The  disadvantages  he  feels  may,  in  reality,   be 


equal  to  what  is  felt  in  the  most  despotic  govern 
ment ;  but  man  will  bear  every  calamity  with  pa 
tience  when  he  knows  himself  to  be  the  author  of 
his  own  misfortunes.    Adieu. 


LETTER  CXXII. 


From  the  Same. 


Mx"  long  residence  here  begins  to  fatigue  me. 
As  every  object  ceases  to  be  new,  it  no  Ipnger  con- 
tinues to  be  pleasing ;  some  minds  are  so  fond  of 
variety,  that  pleasure  itself,  if  permanent,  would 
be  insupportable,  and  we  are  thus  obliged  to  solicit 
new  happiness  even  by  courting  distress,  I  only, 
therefore,  wait  the  arrival  of  my  son  to  vary  this 
trifling  scene,  and  borrow  new  pleasure  from 
danger  and  fatigue.  A  life,  I  own,  thus  spent  in 
wandering  from  place  to  place,  is  at  best  but  empty 
dissipation.  But  to  pursue  trifles  is  the  lot  of  hu- 
manity ;  and  whether  we  bustle  in  a  pantomine, 
or  strut  at  a  coronation ;  whether  we  shout  at  a 
bonfire,  or  harangue  in  a  senate-house ;  whatever 
object  we  follow,  it  will  at  last  surely  conduct  us 
to  futility  and  disappointment.  The  wise  bustle 
and  laugh  as  they  walk  in  the  pageant,  but  fools 
bustle  and  are  important ;  and  this  probably  is  all 
the  difference  between  them. 

This  may  be  an  apology  for  the  levity  of  my 
former  correspondence ;  I  talked  of  trifles :  and  I 
knew  that  they  were  trifles ;  to  make  the  things  of 
this  life  ridiculous,  it  is  only  suflicient  to  call  them 
by  their  names. 

In  other  respects,  I  have  omitted  several  striking 
circumstances  in  the  description  of  this  country, 
as  supposing  them  either  already  known  to  you, 
or  as  not  being  thoroughly  known  to  myself:  but 
there  is  one  omission  for  which  I  expect  no  forgive- 
ness, namely,  my  being  totally  silent  upon  their 
buildings,  roads,  rivers,  and  mountains.  This  is  a 
branch  of  science  on  which  all  other  travellers  are 
so  very  prolix,  that  my  deficiency  will  appear  the 
more  glaring.  With  what  pleasure,  for  instance, 
do  some  read  of  a  traveller  in  Egypt,  measuring  a 
fallen  column  with  his  cane,  and  finding  it  exactly 
five  feet  nine  inches  long ;  of  his  creeping  through 
the  mouth  of  a  catacomb,  and  coming  out  by  a  dif- 
ferent hole  from  that  he  entered ;  of  his  stealing 
the  finger  of  an  antique  statue,  in  spite  of  the  jani- 
zary that  watched  him ;  or  his  adding  a  new  con- 
jecture to  the  hundred  and  fourteen  conjectures 
already  published,  upon  the  names  of  Osiris  and 
Isis! 

Methinks  I  hear  some  of  my  friends  in  China 
demanding  a  similar  account  of  London  and  the 
:  adjacent  villages ;  and  if  I  remain  here  much  long- 
1  er,  it  is  probable  I  may  gratify  their  curiosity.  I 
!  intend,  when  run  dry  on  other  topics,  to  take  a 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


395 


serious  survey  of  the  city  wall ;  to  describe  that 
beautiful  building,  the  mansion-house ;  I  will  enu- 
merate the  magnificent  squares  in  which  the  no- 
bility chiefly  reside,  and  the  royal  palaces  appointed 
for  the  reception  of  the  English  monarch ;  nor  will 
I  forget  the  beauties  of  Shoe-lane,  in  which  I  my- 
self have  resided  since  my  arrival.  You  shall  find 
me  no  way  inferior  to  many  of  my  brother -travellers 
in  the  arts  of  description.  At  present,  however, 
as  a  specimen  of  this  way  of  writing,  I  send  you  a 
few  hasty  remarks,  collected  in  a  late  journey  1 
made  to  Kentish-Town,  and  this  in  the  manner 
of  modern  voyagers. 

"  Having  heard  much  of  Kentish-Town,  I  con- 
ceived a  strong  desire  to  see  that  celebrated  place. 
I  could  have  wished,  indeed,  to  satisfy  my  curiosity 
without  going  thither,  but  that  was  impracticable, 
and  therefore  I  resolved  to  go.  Travellers  have 
two  methods  of  going  to  Kentish-Town ;  they  take 
coach,  which  costs  ninepence,  or  they  may  go  a^oot, 
which  costs  nothing :  in  my  opinion,  a  coach  is  by 
far  the  most  eligible  convenience,  but  I  was  resolved 
to  go  on  foot,  having  considered  with  myself,  that 
going  in  that  manner  would  be  the  cheapest  way. 
"  As  you  set  out  from  Dog-house  bar,  you  enter 
upon  a  fine  level  road  railed  in  on  both  sides,  com- 
manding on  the  right  a  fine  prospect  of  groves,  and 
fields,  enamelled  with  flowers,  which  would  won- 
derfully charm  the  sense  of  smelling,  were  it  not 
for  a  dunghill  on  the  left,  which  mixes  its  effluvia 
with  their  odours.  This  dunghill  is  of  much  greater 
antiquity  than  the  road ;  and  I  must  not  omit  a 
piece  of  injustice  I  was  going  to  commit  upon  this 
occasion.  My  indignation  was  levelled  against  the 
makers  of  the  dunghill,  for  having  brought  it  so 
near  the  road ;  whereas  it  should  have  fallen  upon 
the  makers  of  the  road,  for  having  brought  that  so 
near  the  dunghill. 

"  After  proceeding  in  this  manner  for  some  time, 
a  building,  resembling  somewhat  a  triumphal  arch, 
salutes  the  traveller's  view.  This  structure,  how- 
ever, is  peculiar  to  this  country,  and  vulgarly  called 
a  turnpike-gate :  I  could  perceive  a  long  inscription 
in  large  characters  on  the  front,  probably  upon  the 
occasion  of  some  triumph,  but,  being  in  haste,  I  left 
it  to  be  made  out  by  some  subsequent  adventurer 
who  may  happen  to  travel  this  way ;  so,  continuing 
my  course  to  the  west,  I  soon  arrived  at  an  un- 
walled  town,  called  Islington, 

"  Islington  is  a  pretty  neat  town,  mostly  built 
of  brick,  with  a  church  and  bells ;  it  has  a  small 
lake,  or  rather  pond,  in  the  mid?t,  though  at  pre- 
sent very  much  neglected.  I  am  told  it  is  dry  in 
summer :  if  this  be  the  case,  it  can  be  no  very  proper 
receptacle  for  fish,  of  which  the  inhabitants  them- 
selves seem  sensible,  by  bringing  all  that  is  eaten 
there  from  London. 

"  After  having  surveyed  the  curiosities  of  this 
fair  and  beautiful  town,  I  proceeded  forward,  leav- 


ing a  fair  stone  building,  called  the  White  Conduit 
House,  on  my  right.  Here  the  inhabitants  of  Lon 
don  often  assemble  to  celebrate  a  feast  of  hot  rolls 
and  butter ;  seeing  such  numbers,  each  with  their 
little  tables  before  them,  employed  on  this  occasion, 
must,  no  doubt,  be  a  very  amusing  sight  to  the 
looker-on,  but  still  more  so  to  those  who  perform 
in  the  solemnity. 

'  Prom  hence  I  parted  with  reluctance  to  Pan- 
eras^  as  it  is  written,  or  Pancridge  as  it  is  pro- 
nounced: but  which  should  be  both  pronounced 
and  written  Pangrace :  this  emendation  I  will  ven- 
ture m£o  arhitrio :  ITav,  in  the  Greek  language, 
signifies  aZZ,  which,  added  to  the  English  word, 
grace,  maketh  all  grace,  or  Pangrace;  and,  in- 
deed, this  is  a  very  proper  appellation  to  a  place  of 
so  much  sanctity  as  Pangrace  is  universally  es- 
teemed. However  this  be,  if  you  except  the  parish 
church  and  its  fine  bells,  there  is  little  in  Pangrace 
worth  the  attention  of  the  curious  observer. 

"  From  Pangrace  to  Kentish-Town  is  an  easy 
journey  of  one  mile  and  a  quarter :  the  road  lies 
through  a  fine  champaign  country,  well  watered 
with  beautiful  drains,  and  enamelled  with  flowers 
of  all  kinds,  which  might  contribute  to  charm 
every  sense,  were  it  not  that  the  odoriferous  gales 
are  often  more  impregnated  with  dust  than  per- 
fume. 

"As  you  enter  Kentish-Town,  the  eye  is  at 
once  presented  with  the  shops  of  artificers,  such  as 
venders  of  candles,  small-coal,  and  hair-brooms; 
there  are  also  several  august  buildings  of  red  brick, 
with  numberless  sign-posts,  or  rather  pillars,  in  a 
peculiar  order  of  architecture.  1  send  you  a  draw- 
ing of  several,  vide  ABC.  This  pretty  town 
probably  borrows  its  name  from  its  vicinity  to  the 
county  of  Kent ;  and  indeed  it  is  not  unnatural 
that  it  should,  as  there  are  only  London  and  the 
adjacent  villages  that  lie  between  them.  Be  this 
as  it  will,  perceiving  night  approach,  I  made  a 
hasty  repast  on  roasted  mutton,  and  a  certain  dried 
fruit  called  potatoes,  resolving  to  protract  my  re- 
marks upon  my  return  :  and  this  I  would  very  will- 
ingly have  done,  but  was  prevented  by  a  circum- 
stance which  in  truth  I  had  for  some  time  foreseen, 
for  night  coming  on,  it  was  impossible  to  take  a 
proper  survey  of  the  country,  as  I  was  obliged  to 
return  home  in  the  dark."     Adieu. 


LETTER  CXXIII. 


From  the  Same. 


After  a  variety  of  disappointments,  my  wishes 
are  at  length  fully  satisfied.  My  son,  so  long  ex- 
pected, is  arrived ;  at  once  by  his  presence  banish- 
ing my  anxiety,  and  opening  a  new  scene  of  un- 
expected pleasure.    His  improvements  in  mind 


396 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS 


and  person  have  far  surpassed  even  the  sanguine 
expectations  of  a  father.  I  Jeft  him  a  boy,  but  he 
is  returned  a  man :  pleasing  in  his  person,  harden 
ed  by  travel,  and  poUshed  by  adversity.  His  disap- 
pointment in  love,  howrever,  had  infuaed  an  air  of 
melancholy  into  his  conversation,  which  seemed  at 
intervals  to  interrupt  our  mutual  satisfaction.  I 
expected  that  this  could  find  a  cure  only  from  time; 
but  fortune,  as  if  willing  to  load  us  with  her  fa- 
vours, has  in  a  moment  repaid  every  uneasiness 
with  rapture. 

Two  days  after  his  arrival,  the  man  in  black, 
with  his  beautiful  niece,  came  to  congratulate  us 
upon  this  pleasing  occasion ;  but,  guess  our  sur- 
prise, when  my  friend's  lovely  kinswoman  was 
found  to  be  the  very  captive  my  son  had  rescued 
from  Persia,  and  who  had  been  wrecked  on  the 
Wolga,  and  was  carried  by  the  Russian  peasants  to 
the  port  of  Archangel.  Were  I  to  hold  the  pen  of  a 
novelist,  I  might  be  prolixin  describing  their  feelings 
at  so  unexpected  an  interview;  but  you  may  con- 
ceive their  joy  without  my  assistance :  words  were 
unable  to  express  their  transports,  then  how  can 
words  describe  if? 

When  two  young  persons  are  sincerely  ena- 
moured of  each  other,  nothing  can  give  me  such 
pleasure  as  seeing  them  married:  whether  I  know 
th§  parties  or  not,  I  am  happy  at  thus  binding  one 
link  more  in  the  universal  chain.  Nature  has,  in 
some  measure,  formed  me  for  a  match-maker,  and 
given  me  a  soul  to  sympathize  with  every  mode 
of  human  felicity.  I  instantly,  therefore,  con- 
sulted the  man  in  black,  whether  we  might  not 
crown  their  mutual  wishes  by  marriage :  his  soul 
seems  formed  of  similar  materials  with  mine; 
he  instantly  gave  his  consent,  and  the  next  day 
was  appointed  for  the  solemnization  of  their  nup- 
tials. 

All  the  acquaintances  which  I  had  made  since 
my  aprival  were  present  at  this  gay  solemnity. 
The  little  beau  was  constituted  master  of  the  cere- 
monies, and  his  wife,  Mrs.  Tibbs,  conducted  the 
entertainment  vdth  proper  decorum.  The  man  in 
black,  and  the  pawnbroker's  widow,  were  very 
sprightly  and  tender  upon  this  occasion.  The 
widow  was  dressed  up  under  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Tibbs ;  and  as  for  her  lover,  his  face  was  set  off 
by  the  assistance  of  a  pig-tail  wig,  which  was  lent 
by  the  little  beau,  to  fit  him  for  making  love  with 
proper  formality.  The  whole  company  easily  per- 
ceived that  it  would  be  a  double  wedding  before  all 
was  over,  and,  indeed,  my  friend  and  the  widow 
seemed  to  make  no  secret  of  their  passion ;  he  even 
called  me  aside,  in  order  to  know  my  candid  opin- 
ion, whether  I  did  not  think  him  a  little  too  old  to 
be  married?  "As  for  my  own  part,"  continued 
he,   "I  know  I  am  going  to  play  the  fool,  but 


all  my  friends  will  praise  my  wisdom,  and  pro- 
duce me  as  the  very  pattern  of  discretion  to 
others." 

At  dinner,  every  thing  seemed  to  run  on  with 
good-humour,  harmony,  and  satisfaction.  Every 
creature  in  company  thought  themselves  pretty, 
and  every  jest  was  laughed  at.  The  man  in  black 
sat  next  his  mistress,  helped  her  plate,  chimed  her 
glass,  and  jogging  her  knees  and  her  elbow,  he 
whispered  something  arch  in  her  ear,  on  which  she 
patted  his  cheek  :  never  was  antiquated  passion  so 
playful,  so  harmless,  and  amusing,  as  between  this 
reverend  couple. 

The  second  course  was  now  called  for,  and, 
among  a  variety  of  other  dishes,  a  fine  turkey  was 
placed  before  the  widow.  The  Europeans,  you 
know,  carve  as  they  eat;  my  friend,  therefore, 
begged  his  mistress  to  help  him  to  a  part  of  the 
turkey.  The  widow,  pleased  with  an  opportunity 
of  showing  her  skill  in  carving  (an  art  upon  which 
it  seems  she  piqued  herself),  began  to  cut  it  up  by 
first  taking  oif  the  leg.  "Madam,"  cries  my 
friend,  "  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  advise,  I  would 
begin  by  cutting  oflf  the  wing,  and  then  the  leg 
will  come  off  more  easily." — "  Sir,"  replies  the 
widow,  "  give  me  leave  to  understand  cutting  up  a 
fowl;  I  always  begin  with  the  leg," — "Yes,  mad- 
am," replies  the  lover,  "but  if  the  wing  be  the 
most  convenient  manner,  I  would  begin  with  the 
wing." — "  Sir,"  interrupts  the  lady,  "  when  you 
have  fowls  of  your  own,  begin  with  the  wing  if 
you  please,  but  give  me  leave  to  take  off  the  leg ; 
I  hope  I  am  not  to  be  taught  at  this  time  of  day." 
— "  Madam,"  interrupts  he,  "we  are  never  too  old 
to  be  instructed." — "  Old,  sir!"  interrupts  the  other, 
"  who  is  old,  sir  1  when  I  die  of  age,  I  know  of 
some  that  will  quake  for  fear :  if  the  leg  does  not 
come  off,  take  the  turkey  to  yourself" — "Madam," 
replied  the  man  in  black,  "  I  do  not  care  a  farthing 
whether  the  leg  or  the  wing  comes  off;  if  you  are 
for  the  leg  first,  why  you  shall  have  the  argument, 
even  though  it  be  as  I  say." — "  As  for  the  matter 
of  that,"  cries  the  widow,  "  I  do  not  care  a  fig 
whether  you  are  for  the  leg  off  or  on;  and, 
friend,  for  the  future  keep  your  distance."^ — 
"  O,"  replied  the  other,  "that  is  easily  done; 
it  is  only  removing  to  the  other  end  of  the 
table ;  and  so,  madam,  your  most  obedient  humble 
servant." 

Thus  was  this  courtship  of  an  age  destroyed  in 
one  moment;  for  this  dialogue  effectually  broke  off 
the  match  between  this  respectable  couple,  that 
had  been  but  just  concluded.  The  smallest  acci- 
dents disappoint  the  most  important  treaties. 
However,  though  it  in  some  measure  inter- 
rupted the  general  satisfaction,  it  no  ways  les- 
sened  the    happiness  of  the   youthful   couple  ; 


CITIZEN  OF  THE  WORLD. 


397 


and,  by  the  young  lady's  looks,  I  could  per- 
ceive she  was  not  entirely  displeased  with  this 
interruption. 

In  a  few  hours  the  whole  transaction  seemed  en- 
tirely forgotten,  and  we  have  all  since  enjoyed  those 
satisfactions  which  result  from  a  consciousness  of 
making  each  other  happy.  My  son  and  his  fair 
partner  are  fixed  here  for  Ufe  :  the  man  in  black 
has  given  them  up  a  small  estate  in  the  country, 
which,  added  to  what  I  was  able  to  bestow,  will 


be  capable  of  supplying  all  the  real,  but  not  the 
fictitious,  demands  of  happiness.  As  for  myself, 
the  world  being  but  one  city  to  me,  I  do  not  much 
care  in  which  of  the  streets  I  happen  to  reside  :  1 
shall,  therefore,  spend  the  remainder  of  my  life  in 
examining  the  manners  of  different  countries,  and 
have  prevailed  upon  the  man  in  black  to  be  my 
companion.  "They  must  often  change,"  says 
Confucius,  "  who  would  be  constant  in  happiness 
or  wisdom."    Adieu. 


^^ 


THE 


Mwm  (S)W  ^m^m^^  ^i^msmm^^  m  W), 


ARCHDEACON  OF  CLOGHER. 


[printed  in  1770.] 


The  life  of  a  scholar  seldom  abounds  with  ad- 
venture. His  fame  is  acquired  in  solitude.  And 
the  historian,  who  only  views  him  at  a  distance, 
must  be  content  with  a  dry  detail  of  actions  by 
which  he  is  scarcely  distinguished  from  the  rest  of 
mankind.  But  we  are  fond  of  talking  of  those 
who  have  given  us  pleasure,  not  that  we  have  any 
thing  important  to  say,  but  because  the  subject  is 
pleasing, 

Thomas  Parnell,  D.  D.  was  descended  from 
an  ancient  family,  that  had  for  some  centuries  been 
settled  at  Congleton  in  Cheshire.  His  father, 
Thomas  Parnell,  who  had  been  attached  to  the 
commonwealth  party,  upon  the  Restoration  went 
over  to  Ireland ;  thither  he  carried  a  large  person- 
al fortune,  which  he  laid  out  in  lands  in  that  king- 
dom. The  estates  he  purchased  there,  as  also  that 
of  which  he  was  possessed  in  Cheshire,  descended 
to  our  poet  who  was  his  eldest  son,  and  still  re- 
main in  the  family.  Thus  want,  which  has  com- 
pelled many  of  our  greatest  men  into  the  service  of 
the  muses,  had  no  influence  upon  Parnell ;  he  was 
a  poet  by  inclination. 

He  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  the  year  1679,  and 
received  the  first  rudiments  of  his  education  at  the 
school  of  Doctor  Jones  in  that  city.  Surprising 
things  are  told  us  of  the  greatness  of  his  memory 
at  that  early  period ;  as  his  being  able  to  repeat  by 
heart  forty  lines  of  any  book  at  the  first  reading ;  of 
his  getting  the  third  book  of  the  Iliad  in  one  night's 
time,  which  was  given  in  order  to  confine  him  for 
some  days.  These  stories,  which  are  told  of  almost 
every  celebrated  wit,  may  perhaps  be  true.  But  for 
my  own  part,  I  never  found  any  of  those  prodigies  of 
parts,  although  I  have  known  enow,  that  were  de- 
sirous, among  the  ignorant,  of  being  thought  so. 

There  is  one  presumption,  however,  of  the  early 
maturity  of  his  understanding.  He  was  admitted 
a  member  of  the  college  of  Dublin  at  the  age  of  thir- 


teen, which  is  much  sooner  than  ustial,  as  at  that 
university  they  are  a  great  deal  stricter  in  their  ex- 
amination for  entrance,  than  either  at  Oxford  or 
Cambridge.  His  progress  through  the  college 
course  of  study  was  probably  marked  with  but  little 
splendour;  his  imagination  might  have  been  too 
warm  to  relish  th^old  logic  of  Burgersdicius,  or 
the  dreary  subtletres  of  Smiglesius ;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain, that  as  a  classical  scholar  few  could  equal  him. 
His  *wn  compositions  show  this;  and  the  deference 
which  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  time  paid 
him  upon  that  head,  put  it  beyond  a  doubt.  He 
took  the  degree  of  master  of  arts  the  ninth  of  Ju- 
ly, 1700 ;  and  in  the  same  year  he  was  ordained 
a  deacon,  by  William  bishop  of  Derry,  having  a 
dispensation  from  the  primate,  as  being  under 
twenty-three  years  of  age.  He  was  admitted  into 
priest's  orders  about  three  years  after,  by  William 
archbishop  of  Dublin;  and  on  the  ninth  of  Febru- 
ary, 1705,  he  was  collated  by  Sir  George  Ashe, 
bishop  of  Clogher,  to  the  archdeaconry  of  Clogher. 
About'  that  time  also  he  married  Miss  Anne 
Minchin,  a  young  lady  of  great  merit  and  beauty, 
by  whom  he  had  two  sons,  who  died  young,  and 
one  daughter  who  is  still  living.  His  wife  died  some 
time  before  him;  and  her  death  is  said  to  have 
made  so  great  an  impression  on  his  spirits,  that  it 
served  to  hasten  his  own.  On  the  thirty-first  of 
May,  1716,  he  was  presented,  by  his  friend  and 
patron  Archbishop  King,  to  the  vicarage  of  Fin- 
glass,  a  benefice  worth  about  four  hundred  pounds 
a-year  in  the  diocese  of  Dublin,  but  he  lived  to  en- 
joy his  preferment  a  very  short  time.  He  died  at 
Chester,  in  July,  1717,  on  his  way  to  Ireland,  and 
was  buried  in  Trinity  church  in  that  town,  with- 
out any  monument  to  mark  the  place  of  his  inter- 
ment. As  he  died  without  male  issue,  his  estate 
devolved  to  his  only  nephew,  Sir  John  Parnell, 
baronet,  whose  father  was  younger  brother  to  the 


LIFE  OF  DR.  PARNELL. 


399 


archdeacon,  and  one  of  the  justices  of  the  King's 
bench  in  Ireland. 

Such  is  the  very  unpoetical  detail  of  the  life  of  a 
poet.  Some  dates,  and  some  few  facts  scarcely 
more  interesting  than  those  that  make  the  orna- 
ments of  a  country  tombstone,  are  all  that  remain 
of  one,  whose  labours  now  begin  to  excite  univer- 
sal curiosity.  A  poet,  while  living,  is  seldom  an 
object  sufficiently  great  to  attract  much  attention ; 
his  real  merits  are  known  but  to  a  few,  and  these 
are  generally  sparing  in  their  praises.  When  his 
fame  is  increased  by  time,  it  is  then  too  late  to  in- 
vestigate the  peculiarities  of  hi?  disposition ;  the 
dews  of  the  morning  are  past,  and  we  vainly  try 
to  continue  the  chase  by  the  meridian  splendour. 

There  is  scarcely  any  man  but  might  be  made 
the  subject  of  a  very  interesting  and  amusing  his- 
tory, if  the  writer,  besides  a  thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  character  he  draws,  were  able  to  make 
those  nice  distinctions  which  separate  it  from  all 
others.  The  strongest  minds  have  usually  the 
most  striking  peculiarities,  and  would  consequently 
afford  the  richest  materials :  but  in  the  present  in- 
stance, from  not  knowing  Dr.  Parnell,  his  peculi- 
arities are  gone  to  the  grave  with  him ;  and  we  are 
obliged  to  take  his  character  from  such  as  knew 
but  Uttle  of  him,  or  who,  perhaps,  could  have  given 
very  little  information  if  they  had  knovm  more. 

Parnell,  by  what  I  have  been  able  to  collect  from 
my  father  and  uncle,  who  knew  him,  was  the  most 
capable  man  in  the  world  to  make  the  happiness 
of  those  he  conversed  with,  and  the  least  able  to 
secure  his  own.  He  wanted  that  evenness  of  dis- 
position which  bears  disappointment  with  phlegm, 
and  joy  with  iijdifFerence.  He  was  ever  very  much 
elated  or  depressed ;  and  his  whole  life  spent  in 
agony  or  rapture.  But  the  turbulence  of  these 
passions  only  affected  himself,  and  never  those 
about  him :  he  knew  the  ridicule  of  his  own  charac- 
ter, and  very  effectually  raised  the  mirth  of  his 
companions,  as  well  at  his  vexations  as  at  his 
triumphs. 

How  much  his  company  was  desired,  appears 
from  the  extensiveness  of  his  connexions,  and  the 
number  of  his  friends.  Even  before  he  made  any 
figure  in  the  literary  world,  his  friendship  was 
sought  by  persons  of  every  rank  and  party.  The 
wits  at  that  time  differed  a  good  deal  from  those 
who  are  most  eminent  for  their  understanding  at 
present.  It  would  now  be  thought  a  very  indif 
ferent  sign  of  a  writer's  good  sense,  to  disclaim  his 
private  friends  for  happening  to  be  of  a  different 
party  in  politics ;  but  it  was  then  otherwise,  the 
whig  wits  held  the  tory  wits  in  great  contempt, 
and  these  retaliated  in  their  turn.  At  the  head  of 
one  party  were  Addison,  Steele,  and  Congreve ;  at 
that  of  the  other.  Pope,  Swifl,  and  Arbuthnot. 
Parnell  was  a  friend  to  both  sides,  and  with  a 
^liberaUty  becoming  a  scholar,  scorned  all  those 


trifling  distinctions,  that  are  noisy  for  the  time,  and 
ridiculous  to  posterity.  Nor  did  he  emancipate 
himself  from  these  without  some  opposition  from 
home.  Having  been  the  son  of  a  commonwealth's 
man,  his  tory  connexions  on  this  side  of  the  water 
gave  his  friends  in  Ireland  great  offence :  they  were 
much  enraged  to  see  him  keep  company  with  Pope, 
and  Swift,  and  Gay;  they  blamed  his  undistin- 
guishing  taste,  and  wondered  what  pleasure  he 
could  find  in  the  conversation  of  men  who  ap- 
proved the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  and  disliked  the  Duke 
of  Marlborough.  His  conversation  is  said  to  have 
been  extremely  pleasing,  but  in  what  its  peculiar 
excellence  consisted  is  now  unknown.  The  let- 
ters which  were  written  to  him  by  his  friends,  are 
full  of  compliments  upon  his  talents  as  a  com- 
panion, and  his  good-nature  as  a  man.  I  have 
several  of  them  now  before  me.  Pope  was  parti- 
cularly fond  of  his  company,  and  seems  to  regret 
his  absence  more  than  any  of  the  rest. 
A  letter  from  him  follows  thus : 

"London,  July  29. 
"Dear  Sir, 

"I  wish  it  were  not  as  ungenerous  as  vain  to 
complain  too  much  of  a  man  that  forgets  me,  but  1 
could  expostulate  with  you  a  whole  day  upon  your 
inhuman  silence :  I  call  it  inhuman ;  nor  would  you 
think  it  less,  if  you  were  truly  sensible  of  the  un- 
easiness it  gives  me.  Did  I  know  you  so  ill  as  to 
think  you  proud,  I  would  be  much  less  concerned 
than  I  am  able  to  be,  when  I  know  one  of  the  best- 
natured  men  alive  neglects  me ;  and  if  you  know 
me  so  ill  as  to  think  amiss  of  me,  with  regard  to 
my  friendship  for  you,  you  really  do  not  deserve 
half  the  trouble  you  occasion  me.  I  need  not  tell 
you,  that  both  Mr.  Gay  and  myself  have  written 
several  letters  in  vain;  and  that  we  were  constant- 
ly inquiring,  of  all  who  have  seen  Ireland,  if  they 
saw  you,  and  that  (forgotten  as  we  are)  we  are 
every  day  remembering  you  in  our  most  agreeable 
hours.  All  this  is  true ;  as  that  we  are  sincerely 
lovers  of  you,  and  deplorers  of  your  absence,  and 
that  we  form  no  wish  more  ardently  than  that 
which  brings  you  over  to  us,  and  places  you  in 
your  old  seat  between  us.  We  have  lately  had 
some  distant  hopes  of  the  Dean's  design  to  revisit 
England ;  will  you  not  accompany  him?  or  is  Eng- 
land to  lose  every  thing  that  has  any  charms  for  us, 
and  must  we  pray  for  banishment  as  a  benediction? 
— I  have  once  been  witness  of  some,  I  hope  all  of 
your  splenetic  hours:  come,  and  be  a  comforter  in 
your  turn  to  me,  in  mine.  I  am  in  such  an  un- 
settled state,  that  I  can't  tell  if  I  shall  ever  see  you, 
unless  it  be  this  year:  whether  I  do  or  not,  be  ever 
assured,  you  have  as  large  a  share  of  my  thoughts 
and  good  wishes  as  any  man,  and  as  great  a  por- 
tion of  gratitude  in  my  heart  as  would  enrich  a 
monarch,  could  he  know  where  to  find  it.     I  shall 


400 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


not  die  without  testifying  sometiiing  of  this  nature, 
and  leaving  to  the  world  a  memorial  of  the  friend- 
ship that  has  been  so  great  a  pleasure  and  pride  to 
me.  It  would  be  like  writing  my  own  epitaph,  to 
acquaint  you  with  what  I  have  lost  since  I  saw 
you,  what  I  have  done,  what  I  have  thought,  where 
I  have  lived,  and  where  I  now  repose  in  obscurity. 
My  friend  Jervas,  the  bearer  of  this,  will  inform 
you  of  all  particulars  concerning  me ;  and  Mr.  Ford 
is  charged  with  a  thousand  loves,  and  a  thousand 
complaints,  and  a  thousand  commissions  to  you  on 
my  part.  They  will  both  tax  you  with  the  neglect 
of  some  promises  Which  were  too  agreeable  to  us 
all  to  be  forgot :  if  you  care  for  any  of  us,  tell  them 
so,  and  write  so  to  me.  I  can  say  no  more,  but 
that  I  love  you,  and  am,  in  spite  of  the  longest  ne- 
glect of  happiness, 

"  Dear  Sir,  your  most  faithful 

"  and  affectionate  friend,  and  servant, 
"A.  Pope. 

"  Gay  is  in  Devonshire,  and  from  thence  he  goes 
to  Bath.  My  father  and  mother  nevet  fail  to  com- 
memorate you." 

Among  the  number  of  his  most  intimate  friends 
was  Lord  Oxford,  whom  Pope  has  so  finely  com- 
plimented upon  the  delicacy  of  his  choice. 

For  him  thou  oft  hast  hid  the  world  attend, 
Fond  to  forget  the  statesman  in  the  friend ; 
For  Swift  and  him  despised  the  farce  of  state, 
The  sober  follies  of  the  wise  and  great; 
Dext'rous  the  craving,  fawning  crowd  to  quit, 
And  pleased  to  'scape  from  flattery  to  wit. 

Pope  himself  was  not  only  excessively  fond  of 
his  company,  but  under  several  literary  obligations 
to  him  for  his  assistance  in  the  translation  of  Ho- 
mer. Gay  was  obUged  to  him  upon  another  ac- 
count:  for,  being  always  poor,  he  was  not  above 
receiving  from  Parnell  the  copy -money  which  the 
latter  got  for  his  writings.  Several  of  their  letters, 
now  before  me,  are  proofs  of  this ;  and  as  they  have 
never  appeared  before,  it  is  probable  the  reader  will 
be  much  better  pleased  with  their  idle  effusions, 
than  with  any  thing  I  can  hammer  out  for  his 
amusement. 

"  Binfield,  near  Oakingham,  Tuesday. 
•'Dear  Sir, 

"  I  believe  the  hurry  you  were  in  hindered  your 
giving  me  a  word  by  the  last  post,  so  that  I  am  yet 
to  leam  whether  you  got  well  to  town,  or  continue 
60  there  7  I  very  much  fear  both  for  your  health 
and  your  quiet ;  and  no  man  living  can  be  more 
truly  concerned  in  any  thing  that  touches  either 
than  myself.  I  would  comfort  myself,  however, 
with  hoping,  that  your  business  may  not  be  un- 
successful, for  your  sake ;  and  that  at  least  it  may 
soon  be  put  into  other  proper  hands.    For  my  own. 


1  beg  earnestly  of  you  to  return  to  us  as  soon  as 
possible.  You  know  how  very  much  I  want  you ; 
and  that,  however  your  business  may  depend  upon 
any  other,  my  business  depends  entirely  upon  you; 
and  yet  still  I  hope  you  will  find  your  man,  even 
though  I  lose  you  the  mean  while.  At  this  time, 
the  more  I  love  you,  the  more  I  can  spare  you: 
which  alone  willj  I  dare  say,  be  a  reason  to  you  to 
let  me  have  you  back  the  sooner.  The  minute  1 
lost  you,  Eustathius  with  nine  hundred  pages,  and 
jiine  thousand  contractions  of  the  Greek  charac- 
ters, arose  to  view !  Spondanus,  with  all  his  aux- 
iliaries, in  number  a  thousand  pages  (value  three 
shillings)  and  Dacier's  three  volumes,  Barnes's 
two,  Valterie^s  three,  Cuperus,  half  in  Greek,  Leo 
AUatus,  three  parts  in  Greek,  Scaliger,  Macrobius, 
and  (worse  than  them  all)  Aulus  GeUius!  All 
these  rushed  upon  my  soul  at  once,  and  whelmed 
me  under  a  fit  of  the  headach.  I  cursed  them  re- 
ligiously, damned  my  best  friends  among  the  rest, 
and  even  blasphemed  Homer  himself.  Dear  sir, 
not  only  as  you  are  a  frierid,  and  a  good-natured 
man,  but  as  you  are  a  Christian  and  a  divine,  come 
back  speedily,  and  prevent  the  increase  of  my  sins; 
for,  at  the  rate  I  have  begun  to  rave,  I  shall  not 
only  damn  all  the  poets  and  commentators  who 
have  gone  before  me,  but  be  damn'd  myself  by  all 
who  come  after  me.  To  be  serious ;  you  have  not 
only  left  me  to  the  last  degree  impatient  for  your 
return,  who  at  all  times  should  have  been  so 
(though  never  so  much  as  since  I  knew  you  in  best 
health  here,)  but  you  have  wrought  several  mira- 
cles upon  our  fainily;  you  have  made  old  people 
fond  of  a  young  and  gay  person,  and  inveterate 
papists  of  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England ; 
even  Nurse  herself  is  in  danger  of  being  in  love  in 
her  old  age,  and  (for  all  I  know)  would  even  mar- 
ry Dennis  for  your  sake,  because  he  is  your  man, 
and  loves  his  master.  In  short,  come  down  forth- 
wdth,  or  give  me  good  reasons  for  delaying,  though 
but  for  a  day  or  two,  by  the  next  post.  If  I  find 
them  just,  I  will  come  up  to  you,  though  you 
know  how  precious  my  time  is  at  present;  my 
hours  were  never  worth  so  much  money  before; 
but  perhaps  you  are  not  sensible  of  this,  who  give 
away  your  own  works.  You  are  a  generous  au- 
thor; I  a  hackney  scribbler;  you  a  Grecian,  and 
bred  at  a  university;  I  a  poor  Englishman,  of  my 
own  educating:  you  a  reverend  parson,  I  a  wag: 
in  shott,  you  are  Dr.  Parnelle  (with  an  e  at  the 
end  of  your  name,)  and  I 

"Your  most  obliged  and  affectionate 
"  Friend  and  faithful  servant, 
"  A.  Pope. 

"  My  hearty  service  to  the  Dean,  Dr.  Arbuth- 
rot,  Mr.  Ford,  and  the  true  genuine  shepherd, 
J.  Gay  of  Devon.  I  expect  him  down  with 
you," 


LIFJ5  OF  DR.  PARNELL. 


401 


We  may  easily  perceive  by  this,  that  Pamell 
was  not  a  little  necessary  to  Pope  in  conducting 
his  translation  ;  however,  he  has  worded  it  so  am- 
biguously, that  it  is  impossible  to  bring  the  charge 
directly  against  him.  But  he  is  much  more  expli- 
cit when  he  mentions  his  friend  Gay's  obligations 
in  another  letter,  which  he  takes  no  pains  to  con- 
ceal. 

"Dear  Sir, 

"  I  write  to  you  with  the  same  warmth,  the  same 
zeal  of  good- will  and  friendship,  with  which  I  used 
to  converse  with  you  two  years  ago,  and  can't 
thmk  myself  absent,  when  I  feel  you  so  much  at  my 
heart.     The  picture  of  you  which  Jervas  brought 
me  over,  is  infinitely  less  Uvely  a  representation 
than  that  I  carry  about  with  me,  and  which  rises 
to  my  mind  whenever  I  think  of  you.     I  have 
inany  an  agreeable  reverie  through  those  woods 
and  downs  where  we  once  rambled  togetheif ;  my 
head  is  sometimes  at  the  Bath,  and  sometimes  at 
Letcomb,  where  the  Dean  makes  a  great  part  of 
my  imaginary  entertainment,  this  being  the  cheap- 
est way  of  treating  me ;  I  hope  he  will  not  be  dis- 
pleased at  this  manner  of  paying  my  respects  to 
him,  instead  of  following  my  friend  Jervas's  exam- 
ple, which,  to  say  the  truth,  I  have  as  much  incli- 
nation to  do  as  I  want  ability.     I  have  been  ever 
since  December  last  in  greater  variety  of  business 
than  any  such  men  as  you  (that  is,  divines  and 
philosophers)  can  possibly  imagine  a  reasonable 
creature  capable  of.    Gray's  play,  among  the  r6st, 
has  cost  much  time  and  long-suffering,  to  stem  a 
tide  of  malice  and  party,  that  certain  authors  have 
raised  against  it ;  the  best  revenge  upon  such  fel- 
lows is  now  in  my  hands,  I  mean  your  Zoilus, 
which  really  transcends  the  expectation  1  had  con- 
ceived of  it.     I  have  put  it  into  the  press,  begin- 
ning with  the  poem  Batrachom ;  for  you  seem,  by 
the  first  paragraph  of  the  dedication  to  it,  to  design 
to  prefix  the  name  of  some  particular  person.     I 
beg  therefore  lo  know  for  whom  you  intend  it,  that 
the  publication  maiy  not  be  delayed  on  this  account, 
and  this  as  soon  as  is  possible.     Inform  me  also 
upon  what  terms  I  am  to  deal  with  the  bookseller, 
and  whether  you  design  the  copy-money  for  Gay, 
as  you  formerly  talked ;  what  number  of  books  you 
would  have  yourself,  etc.     I  scarce  see  any  thing 
to  be  altered  in  this  whole  piece ;  in  the  poems  you 
sent  I  will  take  the  liberty  you  allow  me :  the  story 
of  Pandora,  and  the  Eclogue  upon  Health,  are  two 
of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  ever  read.     I  do  not 
say  this  to  the  prejudice  of  the  rest,  but  as  I  Tiave 
read  these  oftener.     Let  me  know  how  far  my 
commission  is  to  extend,  and  be  confident  of  my 
punctual  performance  of  whatever  you  enjoin.    I 
must  add  a  paragraph  on  this  occasion  in  regard  to 
Mr.  Ward,  whose  verses  have  been  a  great  plea- 
sure to  me ;  1  will  contrive  they  shall  be  so  to  the 
26 


world,  whenever  I  can  find  a  proper  opportunity 
of  publishing  them. 

"  1  shall  very  soon  print  an  entire  collection  of 
my  own  madrigals,  which  I  look  upon  as  making 
my  last  will  and  testament,  since  in  it  I  shall  give 
all  I  ever  intend  to  give  (which  I'll  beg  your's  and 
the  Dean's  acceptance  of).  You  must  look  on 
me  no  more  a  poet,  but  a  plain  commoner,  who 
lives  upon  his  own,  and  fears  and  flatters  no  man. 
I  hope  before  I  die  to  discharge  the  debt  I  owe  to 
Homer,  and  get  upon  the  whole  just  fame  enough 
to  serve  for  an  annuity  for  my  own  time,  though  I 
leave  nothing  to  posterity. 

"I  beg  our  correspondence  may  be  more  fre- 
quent than  it  has  been  of  late.     I  am  sure  my  es- 
teem and  love  for  you  never  more  deserved  it  from 
you,  or  more  prompted  it  from  you.     I  desired  our 
friend  Jervas  (in  the  greatest  hurry  of  my  busi- 
ness) to  say  a  great  deal  in  my  name,  both  to  your- 
self and  the  Dean,  and  must  once  more  repeat  the 
assurances  to  you  both,  of  an  unchanging  friend' 
ship  and  unalterable  esteem. 
I  am,  Dear  Sir, 
"  Most  entirely,  your  affectionate, 
"  Faithful,  obliged  friend  and  servant, 
"  A.  Pope." 

From  these  letters  to  Pamell,  we  may  conclude, 
as  far  as  their  testimony  can  go,  that  he  was  an 
agreeable,  a  generous,  and  a  sincere  man.   Indeed, 
he  took  care  that  his  friends  should  always  see  him 
to  the  best  advantage ;  for,  when  he  found  his  fits 
of  spleen  and  uneasiness,  which  sometimes  lasted 
for  weeks  together,  returning,  he  returned  with  all 
expedition  to  the   remote  parts  of  Ireland,  and 
there  made  out  a  gloomy  kind  of  satisfaction,  m 
giving  hideous  descriptions  of  the  solitude  to  which 
he  retired.     It  is  said  of  a  famous  painter,  that, 
being  confined  in  prison  for  debt,  his  whole  de- 
light consisted  in  drawing  the  faces  of  his  credi- 
tors in  caricatura.     It  was  just  so  with  Pamell. 
From  many  of  his  unpublished  pieces  which  I 
have  seen,  and  from  others  that  have  appeared,  it 
would  seem,  that  scarcely  a  bog  in  his  neighbour- 
hood was  left  without  reproach,  and  scarcely  a 
mountain  reared  its  head  unsung.     "  I  can  easily," 
says  Pope,  in  one  of  his  letters,  in  answer  to  a 
dreary  description  of  Parnell's,  "  I  can  easily  image 
to  my  thoughts  the  solitary  hours  of  your  eremiti- 
cal life  in  the  mountains,  from  some  parallel  to  it 
in  my  own  retirement  at  Binfield:"  and  in  another 
place,  "  We  are  both  miserably  enough  situated, 
God  knows ;  but  of  the  two  evils,  I  think  the  soli- 
tudes of  the  South  are  to  be  preferred  to  the  deserts 
of  the  West."     In  this  manner  Pope  answered 
him  in  the  tone  of  his  own  complaints ;  and  these 
descriptions  of  the  imagined  distress  of  his  situa- 
tion served  to  give  him  a  temporary  relief;  they 
threw  off  the  blame  from  himself,  and  laid  upon 


402 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


fortune  and  accident  a  wretchedness  of  his  own 
creating. 

But  though  this  method  of  quarrelling  in  his 
poems  with  his  situation,  served  to  relieve  himself,- 
yet  it  was  not  easily  endured  by  the  gentlemen  of 
the  neighbourhood,  who  did  not  care  to  confess 
themselves  his  fellow-sufferers.  He  received  many 
mortifications  upon  that  account  among  them  ;  for, 
being  naturally  fond  of  company,  he  could  not  en- 
dure to  be  without  even  theirs,  which,  however, 
among  his  English  friends,  he  pretended  to  despise. 
In  fact,  his  conduct,  in  this  particular,  was  rather 
splenetic  than  wise :  he  had  either  lost  the  art  to 
engage,  or  did  not  employ  his  skill  in  securing 
those  more  permanent,  though  more  humble  con- 
nexions, and  sacrificed,  for  a  month  or  two  in 
England,  a  whole  year's  happiness  by  his  country 
fire-side  at  home. 

However,  what  he  permitted  the  world  to  see 
of  his  life  was  elegant  and  splendid ;  his  fortune 
(for  a  poet)  was  very  considerable,  and  it  may 
easily  be  supposed  he  lived  to  the  very  extent  of 
it.  The  fact  is,  his  expenses  were  greater  than 
his  income,  and  his  successor  found  the  estate 
somewhat  impaired  at  his  decease.  As  soon  as 
ever  he  had  collected  in  his  annual  revenues,  he 
immediately  set  out  for  England,  to  enjoy  the  com- 
pany of  his  dearest  friends,  and  laugh  at  the  more 
prudent  world  that  were  minding  business  ajid 
gaining  money.  The  friends  to  whom,  during 
the  latter  part  of  his  life,  he  was  chiefly  attached, 
were  Pope,  Svnft,  Arbuthnot,  Jervas,  and  Gay. 
Among  these  he  was  particularly  happy,  his  mind 
was  entirely  at  ease,  and  gave  a  loose  to  every  harm- 
less folly  that  came  uppermost.  Indeed,  it  was  a 
society  in  which,  of  all  others,  a  wise  man  might 
be  most  foolish,  without  incurring  any  danger  or 
contempt.  Perhaps  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to 
see  a  letter  to  him  from  a  part  of  this  junto,  as 
there  is  something  striking  even  in  the  levities  of 
genius.  It  comes  from  Gay,  Jervas,  Arbuthnot, 
and  Pope,  assembled  at  a  chop-house  near  the  Ex- 
change, and  is  as  follows : 

*'  My  Dear  Sir, 

"  I  was  last  summer  in  Devonshire,  and  am  this 
winter  at  Mrs.  Bonyer's.  In  the  smnmer  I  wrote 
a  poem,  and  in  the  winter  I  have  published  it, 
which  I  have  sent  to  you  by  Dr.  Elwood.  In  the 
summer  I  ate  two  dishes  of  toad-stools  of  my  own 
gathering,  instead  of  mushrooms ;  and  in  the  win- 
ter I  have  been  sick  with  wine,  as  I  am  at  this  time, 
blessed  be  God  for  it !  as  I  must  bless  God  for  all 
things.  In  the  summer  I  spoke  truth  to  damsels, 
in  the  vvrinter  I  told  lies  to  ladies.  Now  you  know 
where  I  have  been,  and  what  I  have  done,  I  shall 
tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do  the  ensuing  summer ; 
I  propose  to  do  the  same  thing  I  did  last,  which 
Vfos  td  meet  you  in  any  part  of  England  you  would 


appoint ;  don't  let  me  have  two  disappointments. 
I  have  Icwiged  to  hear  from  you,  and  to  that  intent 
I  teased  you  with  three  or  four  letters :  but,  having 
no  answer,  I  feared  both  yours  and  my  letters 
might  have  miscarried.  I  hope  my  performance 
will  please  the  Dean,  whom  I  often  wished  for,  and 
to  whom  I  would  have  often  wrote,  but  for  the 
same  reasons  I  neglected  writing  to  you.  I  hope 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  I  love  you,  and  how 
glad  I  shall  be  to  hear  from  you :  which,  next  to 
the  seeing  you,  would  be  the  greatest  satisfaction 
to  your  most  affectionate  friend  and  humble  ser- 
vant, "  J.  G.» 

"  Dear  Mr.  Archdeacon, 

"  Though  my  proportion  of  this  epistle  should 
be  but  a  sketch  in  miniature,  yet  I  take  up  this 
half  page,  having  paid  my  club  with  the  good  com- 
pany both  for  our  dinner  of  chops  and  for  this  pa- 
per. The  poets  will  give  you  lively  descriptions 
in  their  way;  I  shall  only  acquaint  you  with  that 
which  is  directly  my  province.  I  have  just  set  the 
last  hand  to  a  couplet,  for  so  I  may  call  two  nymphs 
in  one  piece.  They  are  Pope's  favourites,  and 
though  few,  you  will  guess  must  have  cost  me  more 
pains  than  any  nymphs  can  be  worth.  He  has 
been  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  that  I  should 
have  made  them  as  beautiful  upon  canvass  as  he 

has  done  upon  paper.     If  this  same  Mr.  P 

should  omit  to  write  for  the  dear  frogs,  and  the 
Pervigilium,  I  must  entreat  you  not  to  let  me  lan- 
guish for  them,  as  I  have  done  ever  since  they 
crossed  the  seas :  remember  by  what  neglects,  etc. 
we  missed  them  when  we  lost  you,  and  therefore 
I  have  not  yet  forgiven  any  of  those  triflers  that  let 
them  escape  and  run  those  hazards.  I  am  going 
on  the  old  rate,  and  want  you  and  the  Dean  pro- 
digiously, and  am  in  hopes  of  making  you  a  visit 
this  summer,  and  of  hearing  from  you  both,  now 
you  are  together.  Fortescue,  I  am  sure,  will  be 
concerned  that  he  is  not  in  Cornhill,  to  set  his  hand 
to  these  presents,  not  only  as  a  witness,  but  as  a 
"  Servitcur  tres  humble, 

'^  C.  Jervas.'* 

"  It  is  so  great  an  honour  to  a  poor  Scotchman 
to  be  remembered  at  this  time  of  day,  especially  by 
an  inhabitant  of  the  Glacialis  lerne,  that  I  take  it 
very  thankfully,  and  have,  with  my  good  friends, 
remembered  you  at  our  table  in  the  chop-house  in 
Exchange-alley.  There  wanted  nothing  to  com- 
plete our  happiness  but  your  company,  and  our 
dear  friend  the  Dean's.  I  am  sure  the  whole  en- 
tertainment would  have  been  to  his  relish.  Gay 
has  got  so  much  money  by  his  Art  of  Walking  the 
Streets,  that  he  is  ready  to  set  up  his  equipage;  he 
is  just  going  to  the  Bank  to  negociate  some  ex- 
change-bills. Mr.  Pope  delays  his  second  volume 
of  his  Homer  till  the  martial  spirit  of  the  rebels  is 


LIFE  OF  DR.  PARNELL. 


403 


quite  quelled,  it  being  judged  that  the  first  part  did 
some  harm  that  way.  Our  love  again  and  again 
to  the  dear  Dean.  Fuimus  torys,  I  can  say  no 
more.  Arbuthnot." 

"  When  a  man  is  conscious  that  he  does  no  good 
himself,  the  next  thing  is  to  cause  others  to  do 
some.  I  may  claim  some  merit  this  way,  in  hasten- 
ing this  testimonial  from  your  friends  above  writ- 
ing :  their  love  to  you  indeed  wants  no  spur,  their 
ink  wants  no  pen,  their  pen  wants  no  hand,  their 
hand  wants  no  heart,  and  so  forth  (after  the  man- 
ner of  Rabelais ;  which  is  betwixt  some  meaning 
and  no  meaning) ;  and  yet  it  may  be  said,  when 
present  thought  and  opportunity  is  wanting,  their 
pens  want  ink,  their  hands  want  pens,  their  hearts 
want  hands,  etc.  till  time,  place,  and  conveniency, 
concur  to  set  them  writing,  as  at  present,  a  sociable 
meeting,  a  good  dinner,  warm  fire,  and  an  easy 
situation  do,  to  the  joint  labour  and  pleasure  of  this 
epistle. 

"Wherein  if  I  should  say  nothing  I  should  say 
much  (much  being  included  in  my  love),  though 
my  love  be  such,  that,  if  I  should  say  much,  I 
should  yet  say  nothing,  it  being  (as  Cowley  says) 
equally  impossible  either  to  conceal  or  to  express  it. 

"  If  I  were  to  tell  you  the  thing  I  wish  above  all 
things,  it  is  to  see  you  again ;  the  next  is  to  see 
here  your  treatise  of  Zoilus,  with  Batrachomuoma- 
chia,  and  the  Pervigilium  Veneris,  both  which 
poems  are  masterpieces  in  several  kinds;  and  I 
question  not  the  prose  is  as  excellent  in  its  sort  as 
the  Essay  on  Homer.  Nothing  can  be  more  glo- 
rious to  that  great  author  than  that  the  same  hand 
that  raised  his  best  statue,  and  decked  it  with  its 
old  laurels,  should  also  hang  up  the  scarecrow  of 
his  miserable  critic,  and  gibbet  up  the  carcass  of 
Zoilus,  to  the  terror  of  the  witlings  of  posterity. 
More,  and  much  more,  upon  this  and  a  thousand 
other  subjects,  will  be  the  matter  of  my  next  letter, 
wherein  I  must  open  all  the  friend  to  you.  At 
this  time  I  must  be  content  with  telling  you,  I  am 
faithfully  your  most  affectionate  and  humble  ser- 
vant, "  A.  Pope." 

If  we  regard  this  letter  with  a  critical  eye,  we 
must  find  it  indifferent  enough ;  if  we  consider  it 
as  a  mere  effusion  of  friendship,  in  which  every 
writer  contended  in  affection,  it  will  appear  much 
to  the  honour  of  those  who  wrote  it.  To  be  mind- 
ful of  an  absent  friend  in  the  hours  of  mirth  and 
feasting,  when  his  company  is  least  wanted,  shows 
no  slight  degree  of  sincerity.  Yet  probably  there 
was  still  another  motive  for  writing  thus  to  him  in 
conjunction.  The  above  named,  together  with 
Swift  and  Parnell,  had  some  time  before  formed 
themselves  into  a  society,  called  the  Scrihhlerus 
Club,  and  I  should  suppose  they  commemorated 
him  thus,  as  being  an  absent  member. 


It  is  past  a  doubt  that  they  wrote  many  things 
in  conjunction,  and  Gay  usually  held  the  pen. 
And  yet  I  do  not  remember  any  productions  which 
were  the  joint  effort  of  this  society,  as  doing  it  hon- 
our. There  is  something  feeble  and  quaint  in  all 
their  attempts,  as  if  company  repressed  thought, 
and  genius  wanted  solitude  for  its  boldest  and  hap- 
piest exertions.  Of  those  productions  in  which 
Parnell  had  a  principal  share,  that  of  the  Origin 
of  the  Sciences  from  the  Monkeys  in  Ethiopia,  is 
particularly  mentioned  by  Pope  himself,  in  some 
manuscript  anecdotes  which  he  lefl  behind  him. 
The  Life  of  Homer  also,  prefixed  to  the  translation 
of  the  Iliad,  is  written  by  Parnell  and  corrected  by 
Pope ;  and,  as  that  great  poet  assures  us  in  the  same 
place,  this  correction  was  not  effected  without  great 
labour.  "It  is  still  stiff,"  says  he,  "and  was  vnrit- 
ten  still  stiffer ;  as  it  is,  I  verily  think  it  cost  me 
more  pains  in  the  correcting,  than  the  writing  it 
would  have  done,"  All  this  may  be  easily  credit- 
ed ;  for  every  thing  of  Parnell' s  that  has  appeared 
in  prose,  is  written  in  a  very  awkward  inelegant 
manner.  It  is  true,  his  productions  teem  with  im- 
agination, and  show  grejit  learning,  but  they  want 
that  ease  and  sweetness  for  which  his  poetry  is  so 
much  admired ;  and  the  language  is  also  shame- 
fully incorrect.  Yet,  though  all  this  must  be  al- 
lowed. Pope  should  have  taken  care  not  to  leave 
his  errors  upon  record  against  him,  or  put  it  in  the 
power  of  envy  to  tax  his  friend  with  faults  that  do 
not  appear  in  what  he  has  left  to  the  world.  A 
poet  has  a  right  to  expect  the  same  secrecy  in  his 
friend  as  in  his  confessor ;  the  sins  he  discovers  are 
not  divulged  for  punishment  but  pardon.  Indeed, 
Pope  is  almost  inexcusable  in  this  instance,  as  what 
he  seems  to  condemn  in  one  place  he  very  much 
applauds  in  anotlier.  In  one  of  the  letters  from 
him  to  Parnell,  abovementioned,  he  treats  the  Life 
of  Homer  with  much  greater  respect,  and  seems  to 
say,  that  the  prose  is  excellent  in  its  kind.  It  must 
be  confessed,  however,  that  he  is  by  no  means  in- 
consistent ;  what  he  says  in  both  places  may  very 
easily  be  reconciled  to  truth ;  but  who  can  defend 
his  candour  and  sincerity. 

It  would  be  hard,  however,  to  suppose  that  there 
was  no  real  friendship  between  these  great  men. 
The  benevolence  of  Parnell's  disposition  remains 
unimpeached ;  and  Pope,  though  subject  to  starts 
of  passion  and  envy,  yet  never  missed  an  oppor- 
tunity of  being  truly  serviceable  to  him.  The  com- 
merce between  them  was  carried  on  to  the  common 
interest  of  both.  When  Pope  had  a  Miscellany  to 
publish,  he  applied  to  Parnell  for  poetical  assist- 
ance, and  the  latter  as  implicitly  submitted  to  him 
for  correction.  Thus  they  mutually  advanced  each 
other's  interest  or  fame,  and  grew  stronger  by  con- 
junction. Nor  was  Pope  the  only  person  to  whom 
Parnell  had  recourse  for  assistance.  We  learn 
from  Swift's  letters  to  Stella,  that  he  sutmitted  his 


404 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


pieces  to  all  his  friends,  and  readily  adopted  their 
alterations.  Swift,  among  the  number,  was  very 
useful  to  him  in  that  particular ;  and  care  has  been 
taken  that  the  world  should  not  remain  ignorant 
of  the  obligation. 

But  in  the  connexion  of  wits,  interest  has  gene- 
rally very  little  share ;  they  have  only  pleasure  in 
view,  and  can  seldom  find  it  but  among  each  other. 
The  Scribblcrus  Club,  when  the  members  were  in 
town,  were  seldom  asunder,  and  they  often  made 
excursions  together  into  the  country,  and  generally 
on  foot.  Swift  was  usually  the  butt  of  the  compa- 
ny, and  if  a  trick  was  played,  he  was  always  the 
suflferer.     The  whole  party  once  agreed  to  walk 

down  to  the  house  of  Lord  B ,  who  is  still 

living,  and  whose  seat  is  about  twelve  miles  from 
town.  As  every  one  agreed  to  make  the  best  of 
his  way,  Swift,  who  was  remarkable  for  walking, 
soon  left  the  rest  behind  him,  fully  resolved,  upon 
his  arrival,  to  choose  the  very  best  bed  for  himself, 
for  that  was  his  custom.  In  the  meantime  Par- 
nell  was  determined  to  prevent  his  intentions,  and 

taking  horse,  arrived  at  Lord  B 's  by  another 

way,  long  before  him.  Having  apprised  his  lord- 
ship of  Swift's  design,  it  was  resolved  at  tmy  rate 
to  keep  him  out  of  the  house ;  but  how  to  afiect  this 
was  the  question.  Swift  never  had  the  small-pox, 
and  was  very  much  afraid  of  catching  it :  as  soon 
therefore  as  he  appeared  striding  along  at  some 
distance  from  the  house,  one  of  his  lordship's  ser- 
vants was  dispatched  to  inform  him,  that  the  small- 
pox was  then  making  great  ravages  in  the  family, 
but  that  there  was  a  summer-house  with  a  field-bed 
at  his  service,  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  There  the 
disappointed  Dean  was  obliged  to  retire,  and  take 
a  cold  supper  that  was  sent  out  to  him,  while  the 
rest  were  feasting  within.  However,  at  last  they 
took  compassion  on  him ;  and  upon  his  promising 
never  to  choose  the  best  bed  again,  they  permitted 
him  to  make  one  of  the  company. 

There  is  something  satisfactory  in  these  accounts 
of  the  follies  of  the  wise ;  they  give  a  natural  air  to 
the  -picture,  and  reconcile  us  to  our  own.  There 
have  been  few  poetical  societies  more  talked  of,  or 
productive  of  a  greater  variety  of  whimsical  con- 
ceits, than  this  of  the  Scribblerus  Club,  but  how 
long  it  lasted  I  can  not  exactly  determine.  The 
whole  of  Parnell's  poetical  existence  was  not  of 
more  than  eight  or  ten  years'  continuance  ;  his  first 
excursions  to  England  began  about  the  year  1706, 
and  he  died  in  the  year  1718 ;  so  that  it  is  probable 
the  club  began  with  him,  and  his  death  ended  the 
connexion.  Indeed,  the  festivity  of  his  conversa- 
tion, the  benevolence  of  his  heart,  and  the  gene- 
rosity of  his  temper,  were  quaUties  that  might  serve 
to  cement  any  society,  and  that  could  hardly  be 
replaced  when  he  was  taken  away.  During  the 
two  or  three  last  years  of  his  Ufe,  he  was  more  fond 
of  company  than  ever,  and  could  scarcely  bear  to 


be  alone.  The  death  of  his  wife,  it  is  said,  was  a 
loss  to  him  that  he  was  unable  to  support  or  re- 
cover. From  that  time  he  could  never  venture  to 
court  the  Muse  in  solitude,  where  he  was  sure  to 
find  the  image  of  her  who  first  inspired  his  attempts. 
He  began  therefore  to  throw  himself  into  every 
company,  and  seek  from  wine,  if  not  relief,  at  least 
insensibility.  Those  helps  that  sorrow  first  called 
for  assistance,  habit  soon  rendered  necessary,  and 
he  died  before  his  fortieth  year,  in  some  measure  a 
martyr  to  conjugal  fideUty. 

Thus,  in  the  space  of  a  very  few  years,  Parnell 
attained  a  share  of  fame  equal  to  what  most  of  his 
contemporaries  were  a  long  life  in  acquiring.  He 
is  only  to  be  considered  as  a  poet ;  and  the  univer 
sal  esteem  in  which  his  poems  are  held,  and  the 
reiterated  pleasure  they  give  in  the  perusal,  are  a 
sufficient  test  of  their  merit.  He  appears  to  me  to 
be  the  last  of  that  great  school  that  had  modelled 
itself  upon  the  ancients,  and  taught  English  poetry 
to  resemble  what  the  generality  of  mankind  have 
allowed  to  excel.  A  studious  and  correct  observer 
of  antiquity,  he  set  himself  to  consider  nature  with 
the  lights  it  lent  him :  and  he  found  that  the  more 
aid  he  borrowed  from  the  one,  the  more  delight- 
fully he  resembled  the  other.  To  copy  nature  is  a 
task  the  most  bungling  workman  is  able  to  exe- 
cute ;  to  select  such  parts  as  contribute  to  dehght,  is 
reserved  only  for  those  whom  accident  has  blessed 
with  uncommon  talents,  or  such  as  have  read  the 
ancients  with  indefatigable  industry.  Parnell  is 
ever  happy  in  the  selection  of  his  images,  and  scru- 
pulously careful  in  the  choice  of  his  subjects.  His 
productions  bear  no  resemblance  to  those  tawdry 
things,  which  it  has  for  some  time  been  the  fashion 
to  admire ;  in  writing  which  the  poet  sits  down 
without  any  plan,  and  heaps  up  splendid  images 
without  any  selection;  where  the  reader  grows 
dizzy  with  praise  and  admiration,  and  yet  soon 
grows  weary,  he  can  scarcely  tell  why.  Our  poet, 
on  the  contrary,  gives  out  his  beauties  with  a  more 
sparing  hand ;  he  is  still  carrying  his  reader  for- 
ward, and  just  gives  him  refreshment  sufficient  to 
support  him  to  his  journey's  end.  At  the  end  of 
his  course,  the  rea-ler  regrets  that  his  way  has  been 
so  short,  he  wonders  that  it  gave  him  so  little  trou- 
ble, and  so  resolves  to  go  the  journey  over  agam. 

His  poetical  language  is  not  less  correct  than  his 
subjects  are  pleasing.  He  found  it  at  that  period 
in  which  it  was  brought  to  its  highest  pitch  of  re- 
finement :  and  ever  since  his  time  it  has  been 
gradually  debasing.  It  is  indeed  amazing,  after 
what  has  been  done  by  Dryden,  Addison,  and 
Pope,  to  improve  and  harmonize  our  native  tongue 
that  their  successors  should  have  taken  so  much 
pains  to  involve  it  into  pristine  barbarity.  These 
misguided  innovators  have  not  been  content  with 
restoring  antiquated  words  and  phrases,  but  have 
indulged  themselves  in  the  most  licentious  transpo- 


LIFE  OF  DR.  PARNELL. 


405 


sitions,  and  the  harshest  constructions,  vainly  ima- 
gining, that  the  more  their  writings  are  unlike 
prose,  the  more  they  resemble  poetry.  They  have 
adopted  a  language  of  their  own,  and  call  upon 
mankind  for  admiration.  All  those  who  do  not 
understand  them  are  silent  and  those  who  make 
out  their  meaning  are  willing  to  praise,  to  show 
they  understand.  From  these  follies  and  affecta- 
tions the  poems  of  Parnell  are  entirely  free ;  he 
has  considered  the  language  of  poetry  as  the  lan- 
guage of  life,  and  conveys  the  warmest  thoughts  in 
the  simplest  expression. 

Parnell  has  written  several  poems  besides  those 
published  by  Pope,  and  some  of  them  have  been 
made  public  with  very  little  credit  to  his  reputation. 
There  are  still  many  more  that  have  not  yet  seen 
the  light,  in  the  possession  of  Sir  John  Parnell  his 
nephew,  who,  from  that  laudable  zeal  which  he  has 
for  his  uncle's  reputation,  will  probably  be  slow  in 
publishing  what  he  may  even  suspect  will  do  it 
injury.  Of  those  which  are  usually  inserted  in 
his  works,  some  are  indifferent,  and  some  moderate- 
ly good,  but  the  greater  part  are  excellent.  A 
slight  stricture  on  the  most  striking  shall  conclude 
this  account,  which  I  have  already  drawn  out  to 
a  disproportionate  length. 

Hesiod,  or  the  Rise  of  Woman,  is  a  very  fine  il- 
lustration of  a  hint  from  Hesiod.  It  was  one  of  his 
earliest  productions,  and  first  appeared  in  a  miscel- 
lany published  by  Tonson. 

Of  the  three  songs  that  follow,  two  of  them  were 
written  upon  the  lady  he  afterwards  married ;  they 
were  the  genuine  dictates  of  his  passion,  but  are 
not  excellent  in  their  kind. 

The  Anacreontic,  beginning  with,  "  When 
Spring  came  on  with  fresh  delight,"  is  taken  from 
a  French  poet  whose  name  I  forget,  and,  as  far  as 
I  am  able  to  judge  of  the  French  language  is  bet- 
ter than  the  original.  The  Anacreontic  that  fol- 
lows "  Gay  Bacchus."  etc.,  is  also  a  translation  of 
a  Latin  poem  by  AureUus  Augurellus,  an  Italian 
poet,  beginning  with, 

Invitat  olim  Bacchus  ad  coenam  suos 
Comum,  Jocum,  Cupidinem. 

Parnell,  when  he  translated  it,  applied  the  cha- 
racters to  some  of  his  friends,  and,  as  it  was  written 
for  their  entertainment,  it  probably  gave  them  more 
pleasure  than  it  has  given  the  public  in  the  peru- 
sal. It  seems  to  have  more  spirit  than  the  original ; 
but  it  is  extraordinary  that  it  was  published  as  an 
original  and  not  as  a  translation.  Pope  should 
have  acknowledged  it,  as  he  knew. 

The  fairy  tale  is  incontestably  one  of  the  finest 
pieces  in  any  language.  The  old  dialect  is  not 
perfectly  well  preserved,  but  this  is  a  very  sUght 
defect,  where  all  the  rest  is  so  excellent. 

The  Pervigilium  'Veneris,  (which,  by  the  by, 
dots  not  belong  to  Catullus)  is  very  well  versified, 


and  in  general  all  Parncll's  translations  are  excel- 
lent. The  Battle  of  the  Frogs  and  Mice,  which 
follows,  is  done  as  well  as  the  subject  would  admit: 
but  there  is  a  defect  in  the  translation  which  sinks 
it  below  the  original,  and  which  it  was  impossible 
to  remedy;  I  mean  the  names  of  the  combatants, 
which  in  the  Greek  bear  a  ridiculous  allusion  to 
their  natures,  have  no  force  to  the  English  reader. 
A  bacon-eater  was  a  good  name  for  a  mouse,  and 
Pternotractas  in  Greek  was  a  very  good  sounding 
word  that  conveyed  that  meaning.  Puffcheck 
would  sound  odiously  as  a  name  for  a  frog,  and 
yet  Physignathos  does  admirably  well  in  the  origi- 
nal. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Pope  is  one  of  the  finest 
compliments  that  ever  was  paid  to  any  poet; 
the  description  of  his  situation  at  the  end  of  it 
is  very  fine,  but  far  from  being  true.  That 
part  of  it  where  he  deplores  his  being  far  from 
wit  and  learning,  as  being  far  from  Pope,  gave 
particular  offence  to  his  friends  at  home.  Mr. 
Coote,  a  gentleman  in  his  neighbourhood,  who 
thought  that  he  himself  had  wit,  was  very  much 
displeased  with  Parnell  for  en  sting  his  eyes  so  far 
off  for  a  learned  friend,  when  he  could  so  conve- 
niently be  supplied  at  home. 

The  translation  of  a  part  of  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock  into  monkish  verse,  serves  to  show  what  a . 
master  Parnell  was  of  the  Latin ;  -a  copy  of  verses 
made  in  this  manner,  is  one  of  the  most  difficult 
trifles  that  can  possibly  be  imagined.  I  am  assured 
that  it  was  written  upon  the  following  occasion. 
Before  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  was  yet  completed. 
Pope  was  reading  it  to  his  friend  Swift,  who  sat 
very  attentively,  while  Parnell,  who  happened  to 
be  in  the  house,  went  in  and  out  without  seeming 
to  take  any  notice.  However,  he  was  very  dili- 
gently employed  in  listening,  and  was  able,  from 
the  strength  of  his  memory,  to  bring  away  the 
whole  description  of  the  toilet  pretty  exactly.  This 
he  versified  in  the  manner  now  published  in  his 
works;  and  the  next  day,  when  Pope  was  reading 
his  poem  to  some  friends,  Parnell  insisted  that  he 
had  stolen  that  part  of  the  description  from  an  old 
monkish  manuscript.  An  old  paper  with  the  Latin 
verses  was  soon  brought  forth,  and  it  was  not  till 
after  some  time  that  Pope  was  delivered  from  the 
onfusion  which  it  at  first  produced. 

The  Book-worm  is  another  unacknowledged 
translation  from  a  Latin  poem  by  Beza.  It  was 
the  fashion  with  the  wits  of  the  last  age  to  conceal 
the  places  whence  they  took  their  hints  or  their 
subjects.  A  trifling  acknowledgment  would  have 
made  that  lawful  prize,  which  may  now  be  consid- 
ered as  plunder. 

The  Night  Piece  on  Death  deserves  every  praise, 
and  I  should  suppose,  with  very  little  amendment, 
might  be  made  to  surpass  all  those  night  pieces 
and  church-yard  scenes  that  have  since  appeared. 


406 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


But  the  poem  of  Pamell's  best  known,  and  on 
which  his  best  reputation  is  grounded,  is  the  Her- ; 
mit.  Pope,  speaking  of  this  in  those  manuscript 
anecdotes  already  quoted,  says  "  That  the  poem  is 
very  good.  The-story,"  continues  he,  "  was  writ- 
ten originally  in  Spanish,  whence  probably  Howel 
had  translated  it  into  prose,  and  inserted  it  in  one 
of  his  letters.  Addison  liked  the  scheme,  and  was 
not  disinclined  to  come  into  it."  However  this 
may  be,  Dr.  Henry  Moore,  in  his  dialogues,  has 
the  very  same  story ;  and  I  have  been  informed  by 
some,  that  it  is  originally  of  Arabian  invention. 

With  respect  to  the  prose  works  of  Parnell,  I 
have  mentioned  them  already ;  his  fame  is  too  well 
grounded  for  any  defects  in  them  to  shake  it.  I 
will  only  add,  that  the  Life  of  Zoilus  was  written 
at  the  request  of  his  friends,  and  designed  as  a 
satire  upon  Dennis  and  Theobald,  with  whom  his 
club  had  long  been  at  variance.  I  shall  end  this 
account  with  a  letter  to  him  from  Pope  and  Gay,  in 
which  they  endeavour  to  hasten  him  to  finish  that 
production. 

"  London,  March  18. 
"Dear  Sir, 

"  I  must  own  I  have  long  owed  you  a  letter,  but 
you  must  owij,  you  have  owed  me  one  a  good  deal 
longer.  Besides,  I  have  but  two  people  in  the 
whole  kingdom  of  Ireland  to  take  care  of;  the  Dean 
and  you :  but  you  have  several  who  complain  of 
your  neglect 'in  England.  Mr.  Gay  complains, 
Mr.  Harcourt  complains,  Mr.  Jervas  complains. 
Dr.  Arbuthnot  complains,  my  Lord  complains ;  I 
complain.  (Take  notice  of  this  figure  of  iteration, 
when  you  make  your  next  sermon.)  Some  say  you 
are  in  deep  discontent  at  the  new  turn  of  affairs; 
others,  that  you  are  so  much  in  the  archbishop's 
good  graces,  that  you  will  not  correspond  with  any 
that  have  seen  the  last  ministry.  Some  affirm  you 
have  quarrelled  with  Pope  (whose  friends  they  ob- 
serve daily  fall  from  him  on  account  of  his  satirical 
and  comical  disposition;)  others  that  you  are  in- 
sinuating yourself  into  the  opinion  of  the  inge- 
nious Mr.  What-do-ye-call-him.  Some  think  you 
are  preparing  your  sermons  for  the  press;  and 
others,  that  you  will  transform  them  into  essays  and 
moral  discourses.  But,  the  only  excuse  that  I  will 
allow,  is  your  attention  to  the  Life  of  Zoilus.  The 
frogs  already  seem  to  croak  for  their  transportation 


to  England,  and  are  sensible  how  much  that  Doc- 
tor is  cursed  and  hated,  who  introduced  their  spe- 
cies into  your  nation ;  therefore,  as  you  dread  the 
wrath  of  St.  Patrick,  send  them  hither,  and  rid  the 
ki  ngdom  of  those  pernicious  and  loquacious  animals. 

"  I  have  at  length  received  your  poem  out  of  Mr. 
Addison's  hands,  which  shall  be  sent  as  soon  as 
you  order  it,  and  in  what  manner  you  shall  appoint. 
I  shall  in  the  mean  time  give  Mr.  Tooke  a  packet 
for  you,  consisting  of  divers  merry  pieces.  Mr. 
Gay's  new  farce,  Mr.  Burnet's  letter  to  Mr.  Pope, 
Mr.  Pope's Templeof  Fame,  Mr.  ThomasBumet's 
Grrumbler  on  Mr.  Gay,  and  the  Bishop  of  Ails- 
bury's  Elegy,  written  either  by  Mr.  Gary  or  some 
other  hand. 

"  Mr.  Pope  is  reading  a  letter;  and  in  the  mean 
time,  I  make  use  of  the  pen  to  testify  my  uneasi- 
ness in  not  hearing  from  you.  I  find  success,  even 
in  the  most  trivial  things,  raises  the  indignation  of 
Scribblers:  for  I,  for  my  What-d'ye-call-it,  could 
neither  escape  the  fury  of  Mr.  Burnet,  or  the  Ger- 
man doctor ;  then  where  will  rage  end,  when  Ho- 
mer is  to  be  translated'?  Let  Zoilus  hasten  to  your 
friend's  assistance,  and  envious  criticism  shall  be 
no  more.  I  am  in  hopes  that  we  may  order  our 
afiairs  so  as  to  meet  this  summer  at  the  Bath ;  for 
Mr.  Pope  and  myself  have  thoughts  of  taking  a 
trip  thither.  You  shall  preach,  and  we  will  write 
lampoons;  for  it  is  esteemed  as  great  an  honour  to 
leave  the  Bath  for  fear  of  a  broken  head,  as  for  a 
Terrse  Fihus  of  Oxford  to  be  expelled.  I  have  no 
place  at  court ;  therefore,  that  I  may  not  entirely 
be  without  one  every  where,  show  that  I  have  a 
place  in  your  remembrance. 

"  Your  most  affectionate, 
"  Faithful  servants, 

"A.  Pope  and  J.  Gay." 

"Homer  will  be  pubhshed  in  three  weeks." 

I  can  not  finish  this  trifle  without  returning  my 
sincerest  acknowledgments  to  Sir  John  Parnell, 
for  the  generous  assistance  he  was  pleased  to  give 
me,  in  furnishing  me  with  many  materials,  when 
he  heard  I  was  about  writing  the  life  of  his  uncle, 
as  also  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hayes,  relations  of  our 
poet;  and  to  my  very  good  friend  Mr.  Stevens, 
who,  being  an  ornament  to  letters  himself,  is  verj 
ready  to  assist  all  the  attempts  of  others. 


THE  LIFE 


^tnvvt,  ^wti  mutount  ^SoUnoDrofee. 


{first  printed  in  1771.] 


There  are  some  characters  that  seem  formed 
by  nature  to  take  delight  in  struggUng  with  oppo- 
sition, and  whose  most  agreeable  hours  are  passed 
in  storms,  of  their  own  creating.  The  subject  of 
the  present  sketch  was,  perhaps,  of  all  others,  the 
most  indefatigable  in  raising  himself  enemies,  to 
show  his  power  in  subduing  them ;  and  was  not 
less  employed  in  improving  his  superior  talents 
than  in  finding  objects  on  which  to  exercise  their 
activity.  His  life  was  spent  in  a  continual  con- 
flict of  politics ;  and,  as  if  that  was  too  short  for  the 
combat,  he  has  left  his  memory  as  a  subject  of  last- 
ing contention. 

It  is,  indeed,  no  easy  matter  to  preserve  an  ac- 
knowledged impartiality  in  talking  of  a  man  so 
differently  regarded  on  account  of  his  poUtical,  as 
well  as  his  religious  principles.  Those  whom  his 
pohtics  may  please  will  be  sure  to  condemn  him 
for  his  religion ;  and,  on  the  contrary,  those  most 
strongly  attached  to  his  theological  opinions  are 
the  most  likely  to  decry  his  politics.  On  whatever 
side  he  is  regarded,  he  is  sure  to  have  opposers; 
and  this  was  perhaps  what  he  most  desired,  having, 
from  nature,  a  mind  better  pleased  with  the  struggle 
than  the  victory. 

Henry  St.  John,  Lord  Viscount  Bolingbroke, 
was  born  in  the  year  1672,  at  Battersea,  in  Surrey, 
at  a  seat  that  had  teen  in  the  possession  of  his  an- 
cestors for  ages  before.  His  family  was  of  the  first 
rank,  equally  conspicuous  for  its  antiquity,  dignity, 
and  large  possessions.  It  is  found  to  trace  its  origin 
as  high  as  Adam  de  Port,  Baron  of  Basing,  in 
Hampshire,  before  the  Conquest ;  and  in  a  suc- 
cession of  ages,  to  have  produced  warriors,  patriots, 
and  statesmen,  some  of  whom  were  conspicuous 
for  their  loyalty,  and  others  for  their  defending  the 
rights  of  the  people.  His  grandfather.  Sir  Walter 
St.  John,  of  Battersea,  marrying  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  Lord  Chief  Justice  St.  John,  who,  as  all 


know,  was  strongly  attached  to  the  republican 
party,  Henry,  the  subject  of  the  present  memoir, 
was  brought  up  in  his  family,  and  consequently 
imbibed  the  first  principles  of  his  education  amongst 
the  dissenters.  At  that  time,  Daniel  Burgess,  a 
fanatic  of  a  very  peculiar  kind,  being  at  once  pos- 
sessed of  zeal  and  humour,  and  as  well  known  for 
the  archness  of  his  conceits  as  the  furious  obstina- 
cy of  his  principleSj  was  confessor  in  the  presby- 
terian  way  to  his  grandmother,  and  was  appointed 
to  direct  our  author's  first  studies.  Nothing  is  so 
apt  to  disgust  a  feeling  mind  as  mistaken  zeal;  and, 
perhaps,  the  absurdity  of  the  first  lectures  he  re- 
ceived might  have  given  him  that  contempt  for  all 
religions  which  he  might  have  justly  conceived 
against  one.  Indeed  no  task  can  be  more  morti- 
fying than  what  he  was  condemned  to  undergo : 
"I  was  obliged,"  says  he,  in  one  place,  ".while yet 
a  boy,  to  read  over  the  commentaries  of  Dr.  Man- 
ton,  whose  pride  it  was  to  have  made  a  hundred 
and  nineteen  sennons  on  the  hundred  and  nine- 
teenth psalm."  Dr.  Manton  and  his  sermons  were 
not  likely  to  prevail  much  on  one  who  was,  per- 
haps, the  most  sharp-sighted  in  the  world  at  dis- 
covering the  absurdities  of  others,  however  he 
might  have  been  guilty  of  establishing  many  of 
his  own. 

But  these  dreary  institutions  were  of  no  very 
long  continuance ;  as  soon  as  it  was  fit  to  take  him 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  women,  he  was  sent  to 
Eton  school,  and  removed  thence  to  Christ-church 
college  in  Oxford.  His  genius  and  understanding 
were  seen  and  admired  in  both  these  seminaries, 
but  his  love  of  pleasure  had  so  much  the  ascenden- 
cy, that  he  seemed  contented  rather  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  great  powers  than  their  ex- 
ertion. However,  his  friends,  and  those  who  knew 
him  most  intimately,  were  thoroughly  sensible  of 
the  extent  of  his  mind ;  and  when  he  left  tha 


408 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


university,  he  was  considered  as  one  who  had  the 
fairest  opportunity  of  making  a  shining  figure  ii> 
active  life. 

Nature  seemed  not  less  kind  to  him  in  her  ex- 
ternal embellishments  than  in  adorning  his  mind. 
With  the  graces  of  a  handsome  person,  and  a  face 
in  which  dignity  was  happily  blended  with  sweet- 
ness, he  had  a  manner  of  address  that  was  very 
engaging.  His  vivacity  was  always  awake,  his 
apprehension  was  quick,  his  wit  refined,  and  his 
memory  amazing:  his  sublety  in  thinking  and 
reasoning  was  profound;  and  all  these  talents 
were  adorned  with  an  elocution  that  was  irre- 
sistible. 

To  the  assemblage  of  so  many  gifts  from  na- 
ture, it  was  expected  ,that  art  would  soon  give  her 
finishing  hand;  and  that  a  youth,  begun  in  excel 
lence,  would  soon  ari;ive  at  perfection :  but  such  is 
the  perverseness  of  human  nature,  that  an  age 
which  should  have  been  employed  in  the  acquisi- 
tion of  knowledge,  was  dissipated  in  pleasure;  and 
instead  of  aiming  to  excel  in  praiseworthy  pur- 
suits, Bolingbroke  seamed  more  ambitious  of  being 
thought  the  greatest  rake  about  town.  This  period 
might  have  been  conjpared  to  that  of  fermentatjon 
in  liquors,  which  grow  muddy  before  they  bright- 
en; but  it  must  also  be  confessed,  that  those  liquors 
which  never  ferment  are  seldom  clear.*    In  this 
state  of  disorder,  he  was  not  without  his  lucid  in- 
tervals ;  and  even  while  he  was  noted  for  keeping 
Miss  Gmnley,  tlie  most  expensive  prostitute  in  the 
kingdom,  and  bearing  the  greatest  quantity  of  wine 
without  intoxication,   he  even  then  despised  his 
paltry  ambition.     "The  love  of  study,"  says  he, 
"  and  desire  of  knowledge,  were  what  I  felt  all  my 
life;  and  though  my  genius,  unlike  the  demon  of 
Socrates,   whispered  s<^)  softly,   that  very  often  I 
heard  him  not  in  the  hurry  of  these  passions  with 
which  I  was  transported,  yet  some  calmer  hours 
there  were,  and  in  them  I  hearkened  to  him." 
These  sacred  admonitions  were  indeed  very  few, 
since  his  excesses  are  remembered  to  this  very  day. 
I  have  spoken  to  an  old  man,  who  assured  me,  that 
he  saw  him  and  one  of  his  companions  run  naked 
through  the  Park  in  a  fit  of  intoxication ;  but  then 
it  was  a  time  when  public  decency  might  be  trans- 
gressed with  less  danger  than  at  present. 

During  this  period,  as  all  his  attachments  were 
to  pleasure,  so  his  studies  only  seemed  to  lean  that 
way.  His  first  attempts  were  in  poetry,  in  which 
he  discovers  more  wit  than  taste,  more  labour  than 
harmony  in  his  versification.  We  have  a  copy  of 
his  verses  prefixed  to  Dry  den's  Virgil,  compliment- 


•  Our  author  appears  fond  of  this  figure,  for  we  find  it  in- 
troduced into  his  Essay  on  Polite  Literature.  The  propriety, 
however,  both  of  the  simile,  and  of  the  position  it  endeavours 
to  illustrate,  is  ably  examined  in  a  periodical  work,  entitled 
lift  Philanthrope,  published  in  London  in  the  year  1797. 


ing  the  poet,  and  praising  his  translation.  Wo 
have  another,  not  so  well  known,  prefixed  to  a 
French  work,  published  in  Holland  by  the  Che- 
vaUer  de  St.  Hyacinth,  entitled,  Le  Chef-d'-(Euvre 
d'un  Inconnu.  This  performance  is  a  humorous 
piece  of  criticism  upon  a  miserable  old  ballad;  and 
Bolingbroke's  compliment,  though  written  in  Eng- 
lish, is  printed  in  Greek  characters,  so  that  at  the 
first  glance  it  may  deceive  the  eye,  and  be  mistaken 
for  real  Greek.  There  are  two  or  three  things 
more  of  his  composition,  which  have  appeared  since 
his  death,  but  which  do  honour  neither  to  his  parts 
nor  memory. 

In  this  mad  career  of  pleasure  he  continued  for 
sometime;  but  at  length,  in  1700,  when  he  ar- 
rived at  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  he  be- 
gan to  dislike  his  method  of  living,  and  to  find  that 
sensual  pleasure  alone  was  not  suflftcient  to  make 
the  happiness  of  a  reasonable  creature.  He  there- 
fore made  his  first  eflTort  to  break  from  his  state  of 
infatuation,  by  marrying  the  daughter  and  coheir- 
ess of  Sir  Henry  Winchescomb,  a  descendant  from 
the  famous  Jack  of  Newbury,  who,  though  but  a 
clothier  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  was  able  to 
entertain  the  king  and  all  his  retinue  in  the  most 
splendid  manner.  This  lady  was  possessed  of  a 
fortune  exceeding  forty  thousand  pounds,  and  was 
not  deficient  in  mental  accompUshments ;  but 
whether  he  was  not  yet  fully  satiated  with  his 
former  pleasures,  or  whether  her  temper  was  not 
conformable  to  his  own,  it  is  certain  they  were  far 
from  living  happily  together.  After  cohabiting  for 
some  time  together,  they  parted  by  mutual  consent, 
both  equally  displeased ;  he  complaining  of  the  ob- 
stinacy of  her  temper,  she  of  the  shamelessness  of 
his  infidelity.  A  great  part  of  her  fortune,  some 
time  after,  upon  his  attainder,  was  given  her  back; 
but,  as  her  family  estates  were  settled  upon  him, 
he  enjoyed  them  after  her  death,  upon  the  reversal 
of  his  attainder. 

Having  taken  a  resolution  to  quit  the  allure- 
ments of  pleasure  for  the  stronger  attractions  of 
ambition,  soon  after  his  marriage  he  procured  a 
seat  in  the  House  of  Commons,  being  elected  for 
the  borough  of  Wotton-Basset,  in  Wiltshire,  his 
father  having  served  several  times  for  the  same 
place.     Besides  his  natural  endowmeiits  and  his 
large  fortune,  he  had  other  very  considerable  ad- 
vantages that  gave  him  weight  in  the  senate,  and 
seconded  his  views  of  preferment.     His  grand- 
father, Sir  Walter  St.  John,  was  still  alive;  and 
that  gentleman's  interest  was  so  great  in  his  own 
county  of  Wilts,  that  he  represented  it  in  two  Par- 
liaments in  a  former  reign.     His  father  also  was 
then  the  representative  for  the  same;  and  the  in- 
terest of  his  wife's  family  in  the  House  was  very 
extensive.     Thus  Bolingbroke  took  his  seat  with 
many  accidental  helps,  but  his  chief  and  great  re- 
source lay  in  his  own  extensive  abilities. 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


409 


At  that  time  the  whig  and  the  tory  parties  were 
strongly  opposed  in  the  House,  and  pretty  nearly 
balanced.  In  the  latter  years  of  King  William,  the 
tories,  who  from  every  motive  were  opposed  to  the 
court,  had  been  gaining  popularity,  and  now  began 
to  make  a  public  stand  against  their  competitors. 
Robert  Harley,  afterwards  Earl  of  Oxford,  a 
staunch  and  confirmed  tory,  was  in  the  year  1700 
chosen  Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
was  continued  in  the  same  upon  the  accession  of 
Clueen  Anne,  the  year  ensuing.  Bolingbroke  had 
all  along  been  bred  up,  as  was  before  observed, 
among  the  dissenters,  his  friends  leaned  to  that 
persuasion,  and  all  his  connexions  were  in  the 
whig  interest.  However,  either  from  principle,  or 
from  perceiving  the  tory  party  to  be  then  gaining 
ground,  while  the  whigs  were  declining,  he  soon 
changed  his  connexions,  and  joined  himself  to  Har- 
ley, for  whom  then  he  had  the  greatest  esteem ;  nor 
did  he  bring  him  his  vote  alone,  but  his  opinion, 
which,  even  before  the  end  of  his  first  session,  he 
rendered  very  considerable,  the  House  perceiving 
even  in  so  young  a  speaker  the  greatest  eloquence, 
united  with  the  profoundest  discernment.  The 
year  following  he  was  again  chosen  anew  for  the 
same  borough,  and  persevered  in  his  former  at- 
tachments, by  which  he  gained  such  an  authority 
and  influence  in  the  House,  that  it  was  thought 
proper  to  reward  his  merit ;  and,  on  the  10th  of 
April,  1704,  he  was  appointed  Secretary  at  War 
and  of  the  Marine,  his  friend  Harley  having  a 
little  before  been  made  Secretary  of  State. 

The  tory  party  being  thus  established  in  power, 
It  may  easily  be  supposed  that  every  method  would 
be  used  to  depress  the  whig  interest,  and  to  prevent 
it  from  rising ;  yet  so  much  justice  was  done  even 
to  merit  in  an  enemy,  that  the  Duke  of  Marlbo- 
rough, who  might  be  considered  as  at  the  head  of 
the  opposite  party,  was  supplied  with  all  the  ne- 
cessaries for  carrying  on  the  war  in  Flanders  with 
vigour;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  the  greatest 
events  of  his  campaigns,  such  as  the  battles  of 
Blenheim  and  Ramifies,  and  several  glorious  at- 
tempts made  by  the  duke  to  shorten  the  war  by 
some  decisive  action,  fell  out  while  Bolingbroke 
was  Secretary  at  War.  In  fact  he  was  a  sincere 
admirer  of  that  great  general,  and  avowed  it  upon 
all  occasions  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life ;  he 
knew  his  faults,  he  admired  his  virtues,  and  had 
the  boast  of  being  instrumental  in  giving  lustre  to 
those  triumphs  by  which  his  own  power  was  in  a 
manner  overthrown. 

As  the  affairs  of  the  nation  were  then  in  as 
fluctuating  a  state  as  at  present,  Harley,  after 
maintaining  the  lead  for  above  three  years,  was  in 
his  turn  obliged  to  submit  to  the  whigs,  who  once 
more  became  the  prevailing  party,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  resign  the  seals.  The  friendship  between 
him  and  Bolingbroke  seemed  at  this  time  to  have 


been  sincere  and  disinterested ;  for  the  latter  chose 
to  follow  his  fortune,  and  the  next  day  resigned  his 
employments  in  the  administration,  follbwing  his 
friend's  example,  and  setting  an  example  at  once  of 
integrity  and  moderation.  As  an  instance  of  this, 
when  his  coadjutors,  the  tories,  were  for  carrying 
a  violent  measure  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in 
order  to  bring  the  Princess  Sophia  into  England, 
Bolingbroke  so  artfully  opposed  it,  that  it  dropped 
without  a  debate.  For  this  his  moderation  was 
praised,  but  perhaps  at  the  expense  of  his  sagacity. 

For  some  time  the  whigs  seemed  to  have  gained 
a  complete  triumph,  and  upon  the  election  of  a  new 
Parliament,  in  the  year  1708,  Bolingbroke  was  not 
returned.  The  interval  which  followed,  of  above 
two  years,  he  employed  in  the  severest  study,  and 
this  recluse  period  he  ever  after  used  to  consider  as 
the  most  active  and  serviceable  of  his  whole  life. 
But  his  retirement  was  soon  interrupted  by  the 
prevailing  of  his  party  once  more ;  for  the  Whig 
ParUament  being  dissolved  in  the  year  1710,  he 
was  again  chosen,  and  Harley  being  made  Chan- 
cellor, and  Under -treasurer  of  the  Exchequer,  the 
important  post  of  Secretary  of  State  was  given  to 
our  author,  in  which  he  discovered  a  degree  of 
genius  and  assiduity  that  perhaps  have  never  been 
known  to  be  united  in  one  person  to  the  same 
degree. 

The  English  annals  scarcely  produce  a  more 
trying  juncture,  or  that  required  such  various  abili- 
ties to  regulate.  He  was  then  placed  in  a  sphere 
where  he  was  obliged  to  conduct  the  machine  of 
state,  struggling  with  a  thousand  various  calami- 
ties ;  a  desperate  enraged  party,  whose  character- 
istic it  has  ever  been  to  bear  none  in  power  but 
themselves ;  a  war  conducted  by  an  able  general, 
his  professed  opponent,  and  whose  victories  only 
tended  to  render  him  every  day  more  formidable ; 
a  foreign  enemy,  possessed  of  endless  resources, 
and  seeming  to  gather  strength  from  every  defeat ; 
an  insidious  aUiance,  that  wanted  only  to  gain  the 
advantage  of  victory,  without  contributing  to  the 
expenses  of  the  combat ;  a  weak  declining  mistress, 
that  was  led  by  every  report,  and  seemed  ready  to 
listen  to  whatever  was  said  against  him ;  still  morp, 
a  gloomy,  indolent,  and  suspicious  colleague,  that 
envied  his  power,  and  hated  him  for  his  abilities : 
these  were  a  part  of  the  difficulties  that  Bofingbroke 
had  to  struggle  with  in  office,  and  under  which  he 
was  to  conduct  the  treaty  of  peace  of  Utrecht,  which 
was  considered  as  one  of  the  most  compUcated  ne- 
gociations  that  history  can  afford.  But  nothing 
seemed  too  great  for  his  abilities  and  industry ;  he 
set  himself  to  the  undertaking  with  spirit ;  he  be- 
gan to  pave  the  way  to  the  intended  treaty,  by 
making  the  people  discontented  at  the  continuance 
of  the  war ;  for  this  purpose  he  employed  himself 
in  drawing  up  accurate  computations  of  the  num- 
bers of  our  own  men,  and  that  of  foreigners,  em- 


410 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ployed  in  its  destructive  progress.  He  even  wrote 
m  the  Examiner,  and  other  periodical  papers  of 
the  times,  showing  how  much  of  the  burden  rested 
upon  England,  and  how  little  was  sustained  by 
those  who  falsely  boasted  their  alliance.  By  these 
means,  and  after  much  debate  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  Clueen  received  a  petition  from  Par- 
Uament,  showing  the  hardships  the  allies  had  put 
upon  England  in  carrying  on  this  war,  and  conse- 
quently how  necessary  it  was  to  apply  relief  to  so 
ill-judged  a  connexion.  It  may  be  easily  supposed 
that  the  Dutch,  against  whom  this  petition  was 
chiefly  levelled,  did  all  that  was  in  their  power  to 
oppose  it :  many  of  the  foreign  courts  also,  with 
whom  he  had  any  transactions,  were  continually 
at  work  to  defeat  the  minister's  intentions.  Me- 
morial was  delivered  after  memorial ;  the  people  of 
England,  the  Parliament,  and  all  Europe,  were 
made  acquainted  with  the  injustice  and  the  dan- 
gers of  such  a  proceeding ;  however,  Bolingbroke 
went  on  with  steadiness  and  resolution,  and  al- 
though the  attacks  of  his  enemies  at  home  might 
have  been  deemed  sufficient  to  employ  his  atten- 
tion, yet  he  was  obliged,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
furnished  materials  to  the  press  in  London,  to  fur- 
nish instructions  to  all  our  ministers  and  ambassa- 
dors abroad,  who  would  do  nothing  but  in  pursu- 
ance of  his  directions.  As  an  orator  in  the  senate, 
he  exerted  all  his  eloquence,  he  stated  all  the  great 
points  that  were  brought  before  the  House,  he  an- 
swered the  objections  that  were  made  by  the  lead- 
ers of  the  opposition ;  and  all  this  with  such  suc- 
cess, that  even  his  enemies,  while  they  opposed 
his  power,  acknowledged  his  abilities.  Indeed, 
such  were  the  difficulties  he  had  to  encounter,  that 
we  find  him  acknowledging  himself  some  years 
after,  that  he  never  looked  back  on  tliis  great  event, 
passed  as  it  was,  without  a  secret  emotion  of  mind, 
when  he  compared  the  vastness  of  the  undertaking, 
and  the  importance  of  the  success,  with  the  means 
employed  to  bring  it  about,  and  with  those  which 
were  employed  to  frustrate  his  intentions. 

While  he  was  thus  industriously  employed,  he 
was  not  without  the  rewards  that  deserved  to  fol- 
low such  abilities,  joined  to  so  much  assiduity.  In 
July,  1712,  he  was  created  Baron  St.  John  of 
Lidyard  Tregoze,  in  Wiltshire,  and  Viscount  Bo- 
lingbroke ;  by  the  last  of  which  titles  he  is  now 
generally  known,  and  is  likely  to  be  talked  of  by 
posterity ;  he  was  also  the  same  year  appointed 
Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  county  of  Essex.  By  the 
titles  of  Tregoze  and  Bolingbroke,  he  united  the 
honours  of  elder  and  younger  branches  of  his  fami- 
ly ;  and  thus  transmitted  into  one  channel  the  op- 
posing interest  of  two  races,  that  had  been  distin- 
guished, one  for  their  loyalty  to  King  Charles  I. 
the  other  for  their  attachment  to  the  Parliament 
that  opposed  him.  It  was  always  his  boast,  that 
he  steered  clear  of  the  extremes  for  which  his  an- 


cestors had  been  distinguished,  having  kept  the 
spirit  of  the  one,  and  acknowledged  the  subordina- 
tion that  distinguished  the  other. 

BoUngbroke,  being  thus  raised  very  near  the 
summit  of  power,  began  to  perceive  more  clearly 
the  defects  of  him  who  was  placed  there.  He  now 
began  to  find,  that  Lord  Oxford,  whose  party  he 
had  followed,  and  whose  person  he  had  esteemed, 
was  by  no  means  so  able  or  so  industrious  as  he 
supposed  him  to  be.  He  now  began  from  his  heart 
to  renounce  the  friendship  which  he  once  had  for 
his  coadjutor ;  he  began  to  imagine  him  treache- 
rous, mean,  indolent,  and  invidious ;  he  even  be- 
gan to  ascribe  his  own  promotion  to  Oxford's  ha- 
tred, and  to  suppose  that  he  was  sent  up  to  the 
House  of  Lords  only  to  render  him  contemptible. 
These  suspicions  were  partly  true,  and  partly  sug- 
gested by  Bolingbroke's  own  ambition :  being  sen- 
sible of  his  own  superior  importance  and  capacity, 
he  could  not  bear  to  see  another  take  the  lead  in 
public  affairs,  when  he  knew  they  owed  their  chief 
success  to  his  own  management.  Whatever  might 
have  been  his  motives,  whether  of  contempt,  ha- 
tred, or  ambition,  it  is  certain  an  irreconcileable 
breach  began  between  these  two  leaders  of  their 
party ;  their  mutual  hatred  was  so  great,  that  even 
their  own  common  interest,  the  vigour  of  their  ne- 
gociations,  and  the  safety  of  their  friends,  were  en- 
tirely sacrificed  to  it.  It  was  in  vain  that  Swift, 
who  was  admitted  into  their  counsels,  urged  the 
unreasonable  impropriety  of  their  disputes ;  that, 
while  they  were  thus  at  variance  within  the  walls, 
the  enemy  were  making  irreparable  breaches  with- 
out. Bolingbroke's  antipathy  was  so  great,  that 
even  success  would  have  been  hateful  to  him  if 
Lord  Oxford  were  to  be  a  partner.  He  abhorred 
him  to  that  degree,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  be 
joined  with  him  in  any  case  ;  and  even  some  time 
after,  when  the  lives  of  both  were  aimed  at,  he 
could  not  think  of  concerting  measures  with  him 
for  their  mutual  safety,  preferring  even  death  itself 
to  the  appearance  of  a  temporary  friendship. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  weak  and  injudi- 
cious than  their  mutual  animosities  at  this  junc- 
ture ;  and  it  may  be  asserted  with  truth,  that  men 
who  were  unable  to  suppress  or  conceal  their  re- 
sentments upon  such  a  trying  occasion,  were  unfit 
to  take  the  lead  in  any  measures,  be  their  industry 
or  their  abilities  ever  so  great.  In  fact,  their  dis- 
sensions were  soon  found  to  involve  not  only  them, 
but  their  party  in  utter  ruin ;  their  hopes  had  for 
some  time  been -declining,  the  whigs  were  daily 
gaining  ground,  and  the  queen's  death  soon  after 
totally  destroyed  all  their  schemes  witj^  their 
power. 

Upon  the  accession  of  George  I.  to  the  throne, 
danger  began  to  threaten  the  late  ministry  o)i  every 
side :  whether  they  had  really  intentions  of  bring- 
ing in  the  Pretender,  or  whether  the  whigs  made 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


411 


it  a  pretext  for  destroying  them,  is  uncertain  ;  but 
the  king  very  soon  began  to  show  that  they  were 
to  expect  neither  favour  nor  mercy  at  his  hands. 
Upon  his  landing  at  Greenwich,  when  the  court 
came  to  wait  upon  him,  and  Lord  Oxford  among 
the  number,  he  studiously  avoided  taking  any  no- 
tice of  him,  and  testified  his  resentment  by  the  ca- 
resses he  bestowed  upon  the  members  of  the  opposite 
faction.  A  regency  had  been  some  time  before 
appointed  to  govern  the  kingdom,  and  Addison 
was  made  Secretary.  Bolingbroke  still  maintain- 
ed his  place  of  State  Secretary,  but  subject  to  the 
contempt  of  the  great,  and  the  insults  of  the  mean. 
The  first  step  taken  by  them  to  mortify  him,  was 
to  order  all  letters  and  packets,  directed  to  the  Sec- 
retary of  State,  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Addison ;  so 
that  Bolingbroke  was  in  fact  removed  from  his 
oflEice,  that  is,  the  execution  of  it,  in  two  days 
after  the  queen's  death.  But  this  was  not  the 
worst;  for  his  mortifications  were  continually 
heightened  by  the  daily  humiliation  of  waiting  at 
the  door  of  the  apartment  where  the  regency  sat, 
with  a  bag  in  his  hand,  and  being  all  the  time,  as 
it  were,  exposed  to  the  insolence  of  those  who 
were  tempted  by  their  natural  malevolence,  or  who 
expected  to  make  their  court  to  those  in  power  by 
abusing  him. 

Upon  this  sudden  turn  of  fortune,  when  the 
seals  were  taken  from  him,  he  went  into  the  coun- 
try; and  having  received  a  message  from  court  to 
be  present  when  the  seal  was  taken  from  the  door 
of  the  secretary's  office,  he  excused  himself,  alleg- 
ing, that  so  trifling  a  ceremony  might  as  well  be 
performed  by  one  of  the  under  secretaries,  but  at 
the  same  time  requested  the  honour  of  kissing  the 
king's  hand,  to  whom  he  testified  the  utmost  sub- 
mission. This  request,  however,  was  rejected 
with  disdain ;  the  king  had  been  taught  to  regard 
him  as  an  enemy,  and  threw  himself  entirely  on 
the  whigs  for  safety  and  protection. 

The  new  Parliament,  mostly  composed  of  whigs, 
met  on  the  17th  of  March,  and  in  the  king's  speech 
from  the  throne  many  inflaming  hints  were  given, 
and  many  methods  of  violence  chalked  out  to  the 
two  Houses.  "  The  first  steps  (says  Lord  Bo- 
lingbroke, spealiing  on  this  occasion)  in  both  were 
perfectly  answerable ;  and,  to  the  shame  of  the 
peerage  be  it  spoken,  I  saw  at  that  time  several 
lords  concur  to  condemn,  in  one  general  vote,  all 
that  they  had  approved  in  a  former  Parliament  by 
many  particular  resolutions.  Among  several 
bloody  resolutions  proposed  and  agitated  at  this 
time,  the  resolution  of  impeaching  me  of  high 
treason  was  taken,  and  I  took  that  of  leaving  Eng- 
land, not  in  a  panic  terror,  improved  b}'-  the  arti- 
fices of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  whom  I  knew 
even  at  that  time  too  well  to  act  by  his  advice  or 
information  in  any  case,  but  on  such  grounds  as 
the  proceedings  which  soon  followed  sufficiently 


justified,  and  such  as  I  have  never  repented  build- 
ing upon.  Those  who  blamed  it  in  the  first  heat, 
were  soon  after  obliged  to  change  their  language  * 
for  what  other  resolution  could  I  take?  The  me- 
thod of  prosecution  designed  against  me  would  have 
put  me  out  of  a  condition  immediately  to  act  for 
myself,  or  to  serve  those  who  were  less  exposed 
than  me,  but  who  were  however  in  danger.  On 
the  other  hand,  how  few  were  there  on  whose  as- 
sistance I  could  depend,  or  to  whom  I  would  even 
in  these  circumstances  be  obliged?  The  ferment 
in  the  nation  was  wrought  up  to  a  considerable 
height ;  but  there  was  at  that  time  no  reason  to 
expect  that  it  could  influence  the  proceedings  in 
Parhament,  in  favour  of  those  who  should  be  ac- 
cused :  left  to  its  own  movement,  it  was  much 
more  proper  to  quicken  than  slacken  the  prosecu- 
tions ;  and  who  was  there  to  guide  its  motions  ? 
The  tories,  who  had  been  true  to  one  another  to 
the  last,  were  a  handful,  and  no  great  vigour  could 
be  expected  from  them;  the  whimsicals,  disap- 
pointed of  the  figure  which  they  hoped  to  make, 
began  indeed  to  join  their  old  friends.  One  of 
the  principal  among  them,  namely,  the  Earl  of  An- 
glesea,  was  so  very  good  as  to  confess  to  me,  that 
if  the  court  had  called  the  servants  of  the  late 
queen  to  account,  and  stopped  there,  he  must  have 
considered  himself  as  a  judge,  and  acted  according 
to  his  conscience  on  what  should  have  appeared  to 
him ;  but  that  war  had  been  declared  to  the  whole 
tory  party,  and  that  now  the  state  of  things  was 
altered.  This  discourse  needed  no  commentary, 
and  proved  to  me,  that  I  had  never  erred  in  the 
judgment  I  made  of  this  set  of  men.  Could  I  then 
resolved  to  be  obliged  to  them,  or  to  suffer  with 
Oxford  7  As  much  as  I  still  was  heated  by  the 
disputes,  in  which  I  had  been  all  my  life  engaged 
against  the  whigs,  I  would  sooner  have  chosen  to 
owe  my  security  to  their  indulgence,  than  to 
the  assistance  of  the  whimsicals ;  but  I  thought 
banishment,  with  all  her  train  of  evils,  preferable 
to  either." 

Such  was  the  miserable  situation  to  which  he 
was  reduced  upon  this  occasion :  of  all  the  number 
of  his  former  flatterers  and  dependants,  scarcely 
was  one  found  remaining.  Every  hour  brought 
fresh  reports  of  his  alarming  situation,  and  the  dan- 
gers which  threatened  him  and  his  party  on  all 
sides.  Prior,  who  had  been  employed  in  nego- 
ciating  the  treaty  of  Utrecht,  was  come  over  to 
Dover,  and  promised  to  reveal  all  he  knew.  The 
Dulce  of  Marlborough  planted  his  creatures  round 
his  lordship,  who  artfully  endeavoured  to  increase 
the  danger;  and  an  impeachment  was  actually 
preparing  in  which  he  was  accused  of  high  treason. 
It  argued  therefore  no  great  degree  of  timidity  in 
his  lordship,  to  take  the  first  opportunity  to  with- 
draw from  danger,  and  to  suffer  the  first  boilings 
of  popular  animosity  to  quench  the  flame  that  had 


41: 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


been  raised  against  him  :  accordingly,  having  made 
a  gallant  show  of  despising  the  machinations  against 
him,  having  appeared  in  a  very  unconcerned  man- 
ner at  the  play-house  in  Drur^-lane,  and  having 
bespoke  another  play  for  the  night  ensuing ;  having 
subscribed  to  a  new  opera  that  was  to  be  acted 
some  time  after,  and  talked  of  making  an  elaborate 
defence ;  he  went  off  that  same  night  in  disguise 
to  Dover,  as  a  servant  to  Le  Vigne,  a  messenger  be- 
longing to  the  French  king;  and  there  one  Wil- 
liam Morgan,  who  had  been  a  captain  in  General 
Hill's  regiment  of  dragoons,  hired  a  vessel,  and 
carried  him  over  to  Calais,  where  the  governor  at- 
tended him  in  his  coach,  and  carried  him  to  his 
house  with  all  possible  distinction. 

The  news  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's  flight  was  soon 
known  over  the  whole  town;  and  the  next  day  a 
letter  from  him  to  Lord  Lansdowne  was  handed 
about  in  print,  to  the  following  effect : 

"  My  Lord, 

"  I  left  the  town  so  abruptly,  that  I  had  no  time 
to  take  leave  of  you  or  any  of  my  friends.  You 
will  excuse  me,  when  you  know  that  I  had  certain 
and  repeated  informations,  from  some  who  are  in 
the  secret  of  affairs,  that  a  resolution  was  taken, 
by  tliose  who  have  power  to  execute  it,  to  pursue 
me  to  the  scaffold.  My  blood  was  to  have  been 
(the  cement  of  a  new  alliance,  nor  could  my  inno- 
cence be  any  security,  after  it  had  once  been  de- 
manded from  abroad,  and  resolved  on  at  home,  that 
it  was  necessary  to  cut  me  off.  Had  there  been 
the  least  reason  to  hope  for  a  fair  and  open  trial, 
after  having  been  already  prejudged  unheard  by 
the  two  Houses  of  Parliament,  I  should  not  have 
/declined  the  strictest  examination.  I  challenge  the 
most  inveterate  of  my  enemies  to  produce  any  one 
instance  of  a  criminal  correspondence,  or  the  least 
.corruption  of  any  part  of  the  administration  in 
which  I  was  concerned.  If  my  zeal  for  the  honour 
and  dignity  of  my  Royal  Mistress,  and  the  true  in- 
terest of  my  country,  have  any  where  transported 
me  to  let  slip  a  warm  or  unguarded  expression,  I 
hope  the  most  favourable  interpretation  will  be  put 
upon  it.  It  is  a  comfort  that  will  remain  with  me 
in  all  my  misfortunes,  that  I  served  her  majesty 
faithfully  and  dutifully,  in  that  especially  which 
she  had  most  at  heart,  relieving  her  people  from  a 
bloody  and  expensive  war,  and  that  I  have  also  been 
too  much  an  Englishman  to  sacrifice  the  interests 
of  my  country  to  any  foreign  ally;  and  it  is  for  this 
crime  only  that  I  am  now  driven  from  thence.  You 
shall  hear  more  at  large  from  me  shortly. 

"Yours,"  etc. 

No  sooner  was  it  universally  known  that  he  was 
retired  to  France,  than  his  flight  was  construed 
into  a  proof  of  his  guilt ;  and  his  enemies  accord- 
ingly set  about  driving  on  his  icjpeachment  with 


redoubled  alacrity.  Mr.,  afterwards  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  who  had  suffered  a  good  deal  by  his  at- 
tachment to  the  whig  interest  during  the  former 
reign,  now  undertook  to  bring  in  and  conduct  the 
charge  against  him  in  the  House  of  Common.^. 
His  impeachment  consisted  of  six  articles,  which 
Walpole  read  to  the  House,  in  substance  as  fol- 
lows:—First,  that  whereas  the  Lord  Bolingbroke 
had  assured  the  Dutch  ministers,  that  the  queen 
his  mistress  would  make  no  peace  but  in  concert 
with  them,  yet  he  had  sent  Mr.  Prior  to  France 
that  same  year  with  proposals  for  a  treaty  of  peace 
with  that  monarch,  without  the  consent  of  the  al- 
lies. Secondly,  that  he  advised  and  promoted  the 
making  a  separate  treaty  of  convention  with  France, 
which  was  signed  in  September.  Thirdly,  that  he 
disclosed  to  M.  Mesnager,  the  French  minister  at 
London,  this  convention,  which  was  the  prelimi- 
nary instructions  to  her  majesty's  plenipotentiaries 
at  Utrecht.  Fourthly,  that  her  majesty's  final  in- 
structions to  her  plenipotentiaries  were  disclosed 
by  him  to  the  Abbot  Gualtier,  who  was  an  emissa- 
ry of  France.  Fifthly,  that  he  disclosed  to  the 
French  the  manner  how  Tournay  in  Flanders 
might  be  gained  by  them.  And  lastly,  that  he  ad- 
vised and  promoted  the  yielding  up  Spain  and  the 
West  Indies  to  the  Duke  of  Anjou,  then  an  enemy 
to  her  majesty.  These  were  urged  by  Walpole 
with  great  vehemence,  and  aggravated  with  all  the 
eloquence  of  which  he  was  master.  He  challenged 
any  person  in  behalf  of  the  accused,  and  asserted, 
that  to  vindicate,  were  in  a  manner  to  share  his 
guilt.  In  this  universal  consternation  of  the  tory 
party,  none  was  for  some  time  seen  to  stir ;  but  at 
length  General  Ross,  who  had  received  favours  from 
his  lordship,  boldly  stood  up,  and  said,  he  wondered 
that  no  man  more  capable  was  found  to  appear  in 
defence  of  the  accused.  However,  in  attempting 
to  proceed,  he  hesitated  so  much  that  he  was 
obliged  to  sit  down,  observing,  that  he  would  re- 
serve what  he  had  to  say  to  another  opportunity. 
It  may  easily  be  supposed,  that  the  whigs  found  no 
great  difficulty  in  passing  the  vote  for  his  impeach- 
ment through  the  House  of  Commons.  It  was 
brought  into  that  House  on  the  10th  of  June,  1715, 
it  was  sent  up  to  the  House  of  Lords  on  the  6th 
of  August  ensuing,  and  in  consequence  of  which 
he  was  attainted  by  them  of  high  treason  on  the 
10th  of  September.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust 
than  such  a  sentence;  but  justice  had  been  drovwed 
in  the  spirit  of  party. 

Bolingbroke,  thus  finding  all  hopes  cut  t>ff  at^ 
home,  began  to  think  of  improving  his  wretched 
fortune  upon  the  continent.  He  had  left  England 
with  a  very  small  fortune,  and  his  attainder  totally 
cut  off  all  resources  for  the  future.  In  this  de- 
pressed situation  he  began  to  listen  to  some  propo- 
sals which  were  made  by  the  Pretender,  who  was 
then  residing  at  Bar,  in  France,  and  who  was  do- 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


413 


sirous  of  admitting  Bolingbroke  into  his  secret 
councils,  A  proposal  of  this  nature  had  been  made 
him  shortly  after  his  arrival  at  Paris,  and  before 
his  attainder  at  home  ;  but,  while  he  had  yet  any 
hopes  of  succeeding  in  England,  he  absolutely  re- 
fused, and  made  the  best  applications  his  ruined 
fortune  would  permit,  to  prevent  the  extremity 
of  his  prosecution. 

He  had  for  some  time  waited  for  an  opportunity 
of  determining  himself,  even  after  he  found  it  vain 
to  think  of  making  his  peace  at  home.  He  let  his 
Jacobite  friends  in  England  know  that  they  had 
but  to  command  him,  and  he  was  ready  to  venture 
in  their  service  the  little  all  that  remained,  as  frank- 
ly as  he  had  exposed  all  that  was  gone.  At  length, 
says  he,  talking  of  himself,  these  commands  came, 
and  were  executed  in  the  following  manner.  The 
person  who  was  sent  to  me  arrived  in  the  begin- 
ning of  July,  1715,  at  the  place  I  had  retired  to  in 
Dauphiny.  He  spoke  in  the  name  of  all  his  friends 
whose  authority  could  influence  me;  and  he  brought 
word,  that  Scotland  was  not  only  ready  to  take 
arms,  but  under  some  sort  of  dissatisfaction  to  be 
withheld  from  beginning:  that  in  England  the 
people  were  exasperated  against  the  government 
to  such  a  degree,  that,  far  from  wanting  to  be  en- 
couraged, they  could  not  be  restrained  from  insult- 
ing it  on  every  occasion ;  that  the  whole  tory  party 
was  become  avowedly  Jacobites ;  that  many  officers 
of  the  army,  and  the  majority  of  the  soldiers,  were 
well  affected  to  the  cause;  that  the  city  of  London 
was  ready  to  rise,  and  that  the  enterprises  for  seiz- 
ing of  several  places  were  ripe  for  execution ;  in  a 
word,  that  most  of  the  principal  tories  were  in  con- 
cert with  the  Duke  of  Ormond :  for  I  had  pressed 
prticularly  to  be  informed  whether  his  grace  acted 
alone,  or  if  not,  who  were  his  council ;  and  that  the 
others  were  so  disposed,  that  there  remained  no 
doubt  of  their  joining  as  soon  as  the  first  blow 
should  be  struck.  He  added,  that  my  friends  were 
a  little  surprised  to  observe  that  I  lay  neuter  in  such 
a  conjuncture.  He  represented  to  me  the  danger 
I  ran,  of  being  prevented  by  people  of  all  sides  from 
having  the  merit  of  engaging  early  in  this  enter- 
prise, and  how  unaccountable  it  would  be  for  a  man, 
impeached  and  attainted  under  the  present  govern- 
ment, to  take  rip  share  in  bringing  about  a  revolu- 
tion, so  near  at  hand  and  so  certain.  He  entreated 
that  I  would  defer  no  longer  to  join  the  Chevalier, 
to  advise  and  assist  in  carrying  on  his  affairs,  and 
to  solicit  and  negociate  at  the  court  of  France, 
where  my  friends  imagined  that  I  should  not  fail 
to  meet  a  favourable  reception,  and  whence  they 
made  no  doubt  of  receiving  assistance  in  a  situation 
of  affairs  so  critical,  so  unexpected,  and  so  promis- 
ing. He  concluded,  by  giving  me  a  letter  from  the 
Pretender,  whom  he  had  seen  in  his  way  to  me, 
in  which  I  was  pressed  to  repair  without  loss  of 
time  to  Commercy ;  and  this  instance  was  ground- 


ed on  the  message  which  the  bearer  of  the  letter 
had  brought  me  from  England.  In  the  progress 
of  the  conversation  with  the  messenger,  he  related 
a  number  of  facts,  which  satisfied  me  as  to  the 
general  disposition  of  the  people ;  but  he  gave  me 
little  satisfaction  as  to  the  measures  taken  to  im- 
prove this  disposition,  for  driving  the  business  on 
with  vigour,  if  it  tended  to  a  revolution,  or  for  sup- 
porting it  to  advantage,  if  it  spun  into  a  war.  When 
I  questioned  him  concerning  several  persons  whose 
disinclination  to  the  government  admitted  no  doubt, 
and  whose  names,  quality,  and  experience  were 
very  essential  to  the  success  of  the  undertaking,  he 
owned  to  me  that  they  kept  a  great  reserve,  and 
did  at  most  but  encourage  others  to  act  by  general 
and  dark  expressions.  I  received  this  account  and 
this  summons  ill  in  my  bed ;  yet  important  as  the 
matter  was,  a  few  minutes  served  to  determine  me. 
The  circumstances  wanting  to  form  a  reasonable 
inducement  to  engage  did  not  excuse  me;  but 
the  smart  of  a  bill  of  attainder  tingled  in  every 
vein,  and  I  looked  on  my  party  to  be  under  op- 
pression, and  to  call  for  my  assistance.  Besides- 
which,  I  considered  first  that  I  should  be  certainly 
informed,  when  I  conferred  with  the  Chevalier,  of 
many  particulars  unknown  to  this  gentleman :  for 
I  did  not  imagine  that  the  English  cojuld  be  so 
near  to  take  up  arms  as  he  represented  them  to 
be,  on  no  other  foundation  than  that  which  he  ex- 


In  this  manner,  having  for  some  time  debated 
with  himself,  and  taken  his  resolution,  he  lost  no 
time  in  repairing  to  the  Pretender  at  Commercy, 
and  took  the  seals  of  that  nominal  king,  as  he  had 
formerly  those  of  his  potent  mistress.  But  this  was 
a  terrible  falling  off"  indeed ;  and  the  very  first  con- 
versation he  had  with  this  weak  projector,  gave 
him  the  most  unfavourable  expectations  of  future 
success.  He  talked  to  me,  says  his  lordship,  like 
a  man  who  expected  every  moment  to  set  out  for 
England  or  Scotland,  but  who  did  not  very  well 
know  for  which :  and  when  he  entered  into  the 
particulars  of  his  affairs,  I  found,  that  concerning 
the  former  he  had  nothing  more  circumstantial  or 
positive  to  go  upon  than  what  I  have  already  re- 
lated. But  the  Duke  of  Ormond  had  been  for  some 
time,  I  can  not  say  how  long,  engaged  with  the' 
Chevalier :  he  had  taken  the  direction  of  this  whole 
affair,  as  far  as  it  related  to  England,  upon  himself;- 
and  had  received  a  commission  for  this  purpose, 
which  contained  the  most  ample  powers  that  could 
be  given.  But  still,  however,  all  was  unsettled, 
undetermined,  and  ill  understood.  The  duke  had 
asked  from  France  a  small  body  of  forces,  a  sum 
of  money,  and  a  quantity  of  ammunition :  but  to 
the  first  part  of  the  request  he  received  a  flat  deni- 
al, but  was  made  to  hope  that  some  arms  and  some 
ammunition  might  be  given.  This  was  but  a  very 
gloomy  prospect ;  yet  hope  swelled  the  depressed 


414 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


party  so  high,  that  they  talked  of  nothing  less  than 
an  instant  and  ready  revolution.  It  was  their  in- 
terest to  be  secret  and  industrious ;  but,  rendered 
sanguine  by  their  passions,  they  made  no  doubt  of 
subverting  a  government  with  which  they  were 
angry,  and  gave  as  great  an  alarm  as  would  have 
been  imprudent  at  the  eve  of  a  general  insurrec- 
tion. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Bolingbroke 
arrived  to  take  up  his  new  office  at  Commercy ;  ahd 
although  he  saw  the  deplorable  state  of  the  party 
with  which  he  was  embarked,  yet  he  resolved  to 
give  his  affairs  the  best  complexion  he  was  able, 
and  set'  out  for  Paris,  in  order  to  procure  from  that 
court  the  necessary  succours  for  his  new  master's 
invasion  of  England.  But  his  reception  and  ne- 
gociations  at  Paris  were  still  more  unpromising 
than  those  at  Commercy  ;  and  nothing  but  absolute 
infatuation  seemed  to  dictate  every  measure  taken 
by  the  party.  He  there  found  a  multitude  of 
people  at  work,  and  every  one  doing  what  seemed 
good  in  his  own  eyes ;  no  subordination,  no  order, 
no  concert.  The  Jacobites  had  wrought  one  another 
up  to  look  upon  the  success  of  the  present  designs 
as  infallible  :  every  meeting-house  which  the  popu- 
lace demolished,  as  he  himself  says,  every  little 
drunken  riot  which  happened,  served  to  confirm 
them  in  these  sanguine  expectations ;  and  there  was 
hardly  one  among  them,  who  would  lose  the  air  j 
of  contributing  by  his  intrigues  to  the  restoration, 
which  he  took  for  granted  would  be  brought  about 
in  a  few  weeks.  Care  and  hope,  says  our  author 
very  humorously,  sat  on  every  busy  Irish  face; 
those  who  could  read  and  write  had  letters  to  show, 
and  those  who  had  not  arrived  to  this  pitch  of  eru- 
dition had  their  secrets  to  whisper.  No  sex  was 
excluded  from  this  ministry ;  Fanny  Oglethorpe 
kept  her  corner  in  it;  and  Olive  Trant,  a  woman 
of  the  same  mixed  reputation,  was  the  great  wheel 
of  this  political  machine.  The  ridiculous  corres- 
pondence was  carried  on  with  England  by  people 
of  like  importance,  and  who  were  busy  in  sound- 
ing the  alarm  in  the  ears  of  an  enemy,  whom  it 
was  their  interest  to  surprise.  By  these  means,  as 
he  himself  continues  to  inform  us,  the  government 
of  England  was  put  on  its  guard,  so  that  before  he 
came  to  Paris,  what  was  doing  had  been  discover- 
ed. The  little  armament  made  at  Havre  de  Grace, 
which  furnished  the  only  means  to  the  Pretender 
of  landing  on  the  coasts  of  Britain,  and  which  had 
exhar.sted  the  treasury  of  St.  Germain's,  was  talk- 
ed of  publicly.  The  Earl  of  Stair,  the  EngUsh 
minister  at  that  city,  very  soon  discovered  its  desti- 
nation, and  all  the  particulars  of  the  intended  in- 
vasion; the  names  of  the  persons  from  whom  sup- 
plies came,  and  who  were  particularly  active  in  the 
design,  were  whispered  about  at  tea-tables  and 
coffee-houses.  In  short,  what  by  the  indiscretion 
of  the  projectors,  what  by  the  private  interests  and 


ambitious  views  of  the  French,  the  most  private 
transactions  came  to  light;  and  such  of  the  more 
prudent  plotters,  who  supposed  that  they  had  trust- 
ed their  heads  to  the  keeping  of  one  or  two  friends, 
were  in  reality  at  the  mercy  of  numbers.  Into 
such  company,  exclaims  our  noble  writer,  was  I 
fallen  for  my  sins.  Still,  however,  he  went  on, 
steering  in  the  wide  ocean  without  a  compass,  till 
the  death  of  Louis  XIV.,  arul  the  arrival  of  the 
Duke  of  Ormond  at  Paris,  rendered  all  his  en- 
deavours abortive :  yet,  notwithstanding  these  un- 
favourable circumstances,  he  still  continued  to  dis- 
patch several  messages  and  directions  for  England, 
to  which  he  received  very  evasive  and  ambiguous 
answers.  Among  the  number,  of  these,  he  drew 
up  a  paper  at  Chaville,  in  concert  with  the  Duke 
of  Ormond,  Marshal  Berwick,  and  De  Torcy, 
which  was  sent  to  England  just  before  the  death  of 
the  King  of  France,  representing  that  France  could 
not  answer  the  demands  of  their  memorial,  and 
praying  directions  what  to  do.  A  reply  to  this 
came  to  him  through  the  French  Secretary  of  State, 
wherein  they  declared  themselves  unable  to  say 
any  thing,  till  they  saw  what  turn  affairs  would 
take  on  the  death  of  the  king,  which  had  reached 
their  ears.  Upon  another  occasion,  a  message 
coming  from  Scotland  to  press  the  Chevalier  to 
hasten  their  rising,  he  dispatched  a  messenger  to 
London  to  the  Earl  of  Mar,  to  tell  him  that  the 
concurrence  of  England  in  the  insurrection  was  ar- 
dently wished  and  expected:  but,  instead  of  that 
nobleman's  waiting  for  instructions,  he  had  already 
gone  into  the  Highlands,  and  there  actually  put 
himself  at  the  head  of  his  clans.  After  this,  in 
concert  with  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  he  dispatched 
one  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  got  all  the  papers  by  heart, 
for  fear  of  a  miscarriage,  to  their  friends  in  Eng- 
land, to  inform  them,  that  though  the  Chevaliei 
was  destitute  of  succour,  and  all  reasonable  hopes 
of  it,  yet  he  would  land  as  they  pleased  in  England 
or  Scotland  at  a  minute's  warning;  and  therefore 
they  might  rise  immediately  after  they  had  sent 
dispatches  to  him.  To  this  message  Mr,  Hamil- 
ton returned  very  soon  with  an  answer  given  by 
Lord  Lansdowne,  in  the  name  of  all  the  persons 
privy  to  the  secret,  that  since  affairs  grew  daily, 
worse,  and  would  not  mend  by  delay,  the  mal- 
contents in  England  had  resolved  to  declare  im- 
mediately, and  would  be  ready  to  join  the  Duke 
of  Ormond  on  his  landing;  adding,  that  his  person 
would  be  as  safe  in  England  as  in  Scotland,  and 
that  in  every  other  respect  it  was  better  he  should 
land  in  England ;  that  they  had  used  their  utmost 
endeavours,  and  hoped  the  western  counties  would 
be  in  a  good  posture  to  receive  him ;  and  that  he 
should  land  as  near  as  possible  to  Plymouth.  With 
these  assurances  the  duke  embarked,  though  he 
had  heard  before  of  the  seizure  of  many  of  his  most 
zealous  adherents,  of  the  dispersion  bf  many  more 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


415 


and  the  consternation  of  all ;  so  that  upon  his  ar- 
rival at  Plymouth,  finding  nothing  in  readiness,  he 
returned  to  Britany.  In  these  circumstances  the 
Pretender  himself  sent  to  have  a  vessel  got  ready 
for  him  at  Dunkirk,  in  which  he  went  to  Scotland, 
leaving  Lord  Bolingbroke  all  this  while  at  Paris, 
to  try  if  by  any  means  some  assistance  might  not 
be  procured,  without  which  all  hopes  of  success 
were  at  an  end.  It  was  during  this  negociation 
upon  this  miserable  proceeding,  that  he  was  sent 
for  by  Mrs.  Trant  (a  woman  who  had  for  some 
time  before  ingratiated  herself  with  the  Regent  of 
France,  by  supplying  him  with  mistresses  from 
England),  to  a  little  house  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
where  she  lived  with  Mademoiselle  Chausery,  an 
old  superannuated  waiting-woman  belonging  to 
the  regent.  By  these  he  was  acquainted  with  the 
measures  they  had  taken  for  the  service  of  the 
Duke  of  Ormond ;  although  Bolingbroke,  who  was 
actual  secretary  to  the  negociation,  had  never  been 
admitted  to  a  confidence  in  their  secrets.  He  was 
therefore  a  little  surprised  at  finding  such  mean 
agents  employed  without  his  privity,  and  very  soon 
found  them  utterly  unequal  to  the  task.  He  quick- 
ly therefore  withdrew  himself  from  such  wretched 
auxiliaries,  and  the  regent  himself  seemed  pleased 
at  his  defection. 

In  the  mean  time  the  Pretender  set  sail  from  Dun- 
kirk for  Scotland;  and  though  Bolingbroke  had 
all  along  perceived  that  his  cause  was  hojjcless, 
and  his  projects  ill-designed ;  although  he  had  met 
with  nothing  but  opposition  and  disappointment  in 
his  service ;  yet  he  considered  that  this  of  all  others 
was  the  time  he  could  not  be  permitted  to  relax  in 
the  cause.  He  now  therefore  neglected  no  means, 
forgot  no  argument  which  his  understanding  could 
suggest,  in  applying  to  the  court  of  France ;  but 
his  success  was  not  answerable  to  his  industry. 
The  King  of  France,  not  able  to  furnish  the  Pre- 
tender with  money  himself,  had  written  some  time 
before  his  death  to  his  grandson  the  King  of  Spain, 
and  had  obtained  from  him  a  promise  of  forty 
thousand  crowns.  A  small  part  of  this  sum  had 
been  received  by  the  queen's  treasurer  at  St.  Ger- 
main's, and  had  been  sent  to  Scotland,  or  employ- 
ed to  defray  the  expenses  which  were  daily  mak- 
ing on  the  coast ;  at  the  same  time  Bolingbroke 
pressed  the  Spanish  ambassador  at  Paris,  and  so- 
licited the  minister  at  the  court  of  Spain.  He 
took  care  to  have  a  number  of  officers  picked  out 
of  the  Irish  troops  which  serve  in  France,  gave 
them  their  routes,  and  sent  a  ship  to  receive  and 
transport  them  to  Scotland.  Still,  however,  the 
money  came  in  so  slowly,  and  in  such  trifling  sums, 
that  it  turned  to  little  account,  and  the  officers 
were  on  their  way  to  the  Pretender.  At  the  same 
time  he  formed  a  design  of  engaging  French  pri- 
vateers in  the  expedition,  that  were  to  have  carried 
whatever  should  be  necessary  to  send  to  any  part 


of  Britain  in  their  first  voyage,  and  then  to  cruise 
under  the  Pretender's  commission.  He  had  ac- 
tually agi-eed  for  some,  and  had  it  in  his  power  to 
have  made  the  same  bargain  with  others  :  Sweden 
on  the  one  side,  and  Scotland  on  the  other,  could 
have  affijrded  them  retreats  ;  and,  if  the  war  had 
been  kept  up  in  any  part  of  the  mountains,  this 
armament  would  have  been  of  the  utmost  advan- 
tage. But  all  his  projects  and  negociations  failed 
by  the  Pretender's  precipitate  return,  who  was  not 
above  six  weeks  in  his  expedition,  and  flew  out  af 
Scotland  even  before  all  had  been  tried  in.  his  de- 
fence. 

The  expedition  being  in  this  manner  totally  de- 
feated, Bolingbroke  now  began  to  think  that  it  was 
his  duty  as  well  as  interest  to  save  the  poor  re- 
mains of  the  disappointed  party.  He  never  hati 
any  great  opinion  of  the  Pretender's  success  be- 
fore he  set  off;  but  when  this  adventurer  had  taken 
the  last  step  which  it  was  in  his  power  to  make, 
our  secretary  then  resolved  to  suffer  neither  him, 
nor  the  Scotch,  to  be  any  longer  bubbles  of  theij 
own  credulity,  and  of  the  scandalous  artifices  of 
the  French  court.  In  a  conversation  he  had  with 
the  Marshal  de  Pluxelies,  he  took  occasion  to  de- 
clare, that  he  would  not  he  the  instrument  of  amus- 
ing the  Scotch  ;  and  since  he  was  able  to  do  theni 
no  other  service,  he  would  at  least  inform  thena 
of  what  little  dependence  they  might  place  upon 
assistance  from  France.  He  added,  that  he  would 
send  them  vessels,  which,  with  those  already  on 
the  coast  of  Scotland,  might  serve  to  bring  off  the 
Pretender,  the  Earl  of  Mar,  and  as  many  others 
as  possible.  The  Marshal  approved  his  resolu- 
tion, and  advised  him  to  execute  it,  as  the  only 
thing  which  was  left  to  do ;  but  in  the  mean  time 
the  Pretender  landed  at  Graveline,  and  gave  orders 
to  stop  all  vessels  bound  on  his  account  to  Scot- 
land ;  and  Bolingbroke  saw  him  the  morning  after 
his  arrival  at  St.  Germain's,  and  he  received  him 
with  open  arms. 

As  it  was  the  secretary's  business,  as  soon  as 
Bolfngbroke  heard  of  his  return,  he  went  to  ac- 
quaint the  French  court  with  it ;  when  it  was  re- 
commended to  him  to  advise  the  Pretender  to  pro- 
ceed to  Bar  with  all  possible  diligence  ;  and  in  this 
measure  Bolingbroke  entirely  concurred.  But  the 
Pretender  himself  was  in  no  such  haste  :  he  had 
a  mind  to  stay  some  time  at  St.  Germain's,  and  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Paris,  and  to  have  a  private 
meeting  with  the  regent :  he  accordingly  sent 
Bolingbroke  to  solicit  this  meeting,  who  exerted  all 
his  influence  in  the  negociation.  He  wrote  and 
spoke  to  the  Marshall  de  Huxelles,  who  answered 
him  by  word  of  mouth  and  by  letters,  refusing 
him  by  both,  and  assuring  him  that  the  regent  said 
the  things  which  were  asked  were  puerilities,  and 
swore  he  would  not  sec  him.  The  secretary,  no 
ways  displeased  with  his  ill  success,  returned  with 


416 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


this  answer  to  his  master,  who  acquiesced  in  this 
determination,  and  declared  he  would  instantly  set 
out  for  Lorrain,  at  the  same  time  assuring  Boling- 
broke  of  his  firm  reliance  on  his  integrity. 

However,  the  Pretender,  instead  of  taking  post 
for  Lorrain,  as  he  had  promised,  went  to  a  little 
house  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where  his  female 
ministers  resided,  and  there  continued  for  several 
days,  seeing  the  Spanish  and  Swedish  ministers, 
and  even  the  regent  himself.  It  might  have  been 
in  these  interviews  that  he  was  set  against  his  new 
secretary,  and  taught  to  believe  that  he  had  been 
remiss  in  his  duty  and  false  to  his  trust :  be  this  as 
it  will,  a  few  days  after  the  Duke  of  Ormond  came 
to  see  Bolingbroke,  and,  having  first  prepared  him 
for  the  surprise,  put  into  his  hands  a  note  directed 
to  the  duke,  and  a  little  scrip  of  paper  directed  to 
the  secretary  :  they  were  both  in  the  Pretender's 
hand-viT-iting,  and  dated  as  if  written  by  him  on 
his  way  to  Lorrain  ;  but  in  this  Bolingbroke  was 
not  to  be  deceived,  who  knew  the  place  of  his  pre- 
sent residence.  In  one  of  these  papers  the  Pre- 
tender declared  that  he  had  no  further  occasion  for 
the  secretary's  service ;  and  the  other  was  an  order 
to  him  to  give  up  the  papers  in  his  office  ;  all  which, 
he  observes,  might  have  been  contained  in  a  letter- 
case  of  a  moderate  size.  He  gave  the  duke  the 
seals,  and  some  papers  which  he  could  readily  come 
at ;  but  for  some  others,  in  which  there  were  seve- 
ral insinuations,  under  the  Pretender's  own  handj 
reflecting  upon  the  duke  himself,  these  he  took 
care  to  convey  by  a  safe  hand,  since  it  would  have 
been  very  improper  that  the  duke  should  have  seen 
them.  As  he  thus  gave  up  without  scruple  all  the 
papers  which  remained  in  his  hands,  because  he 
was  determined  never  to  make  use  of  them,  so  he 
declares  he  took  a  secret  pride  in  never  asking  for 
those  of  his  own  which  were  in  the  Pretender's 
hands ;  contenting  himself  with  making  the  duke 
understand,  how  little  need  there  was  to  get  rid  of 
a  man  in  this  manner,  who  only  wanted  an  oppor- 
tunity to  get  rid  of  the  Pretender  and  his  Cause. 
In  fact,  if  we  survey  the  measures  taken  on  the 
one  side,  and  the  abilities  of  the  man  on  the  other, 
it  will  not  appear  any  way  wonderful  that  he 
should  be  disgusted  with  a  party,  who  had  neither 
principle  to  give  a  foundation  to  their  hopes,  union 
to  advance  them,  nor  abilities  to  put  them  in 
ftiotion. 

Bolingbroke,  being  thus  dismissed  from  the  Pre- 
tender's service,  supposed  that  he  had  got  rid  of 
the  trouble  and  the  ignominy  of  so  mean  an  em- 
p'foymelit  at  the  same  time ;  but  he  was  mistaken  : 
he  was  no  sooner  rejected  from  the  office  than  ar- 
ticles of  impeachment  were  preferred  against  him, 
in  the  same  manner  as  he  had  before  been  im- 
peached in  England,  though  not  with  such  efiectual 
injury  to  his  person  and  fortune.  The  articles  of 
his  impeachment  by  the  Pretender  were  branched 


out  into  seven  heads,  in  which  he  was  accused  of 
treachery,  incapacity,  and  neglect.  The  first  was, 
that  he  was  never  to  be  found  by  those  who  came 
to  him  about  business ;  and  if  by  chance  or  strata- 
gem they  got  hold  of  him,  he  affected  being  in  a 
hurry,  and  by  putting  them  off  to  another  time, 
still  avoided  giving  them  any  answer.  The  second 
was,  that  the  Earl  of  Mar  complained,  by  six  dif- 
ferent messengers  at  different  times,  before  the 
Chevalier  came  from  Dunkirk,  of  his  being  in 
want  of  arms  and  ammunition,  and  prayed  a  speedy 
relief;  and  though  the  things  demanded  were  in 
my  lord's  power,  there  was  not  so  much  as  one 
pound  of  powder  in  any  of  the  ships  which  by  his 
lordsliip's  directions  parted  from  France.  Thirdly, 
the  Pretender  himself  after  his  arrival  sent  Gene- 
ral Hamilton  to  inform  him.  that  his  want  of  arms 
and  ammunition  was  such,  that  he  should  be  oblig- 
ed to  leave  Scotland,  unless  he  received  speedy  re- 
lief;  yet  Lord  Bolingbroke  amused  Mr.  Hamilton 
twelve  days  together,  and  did  not  introduce  him 
to  any  of  the  French  ministers,  though  he  was  re- 
ferred to  them  for  a  particular  account  of  affairs  ; 
or  so  much  as  communicated  his  letters  to  the 
queen,  or  any  body  else.  Fourthly,  the  Count  de 
Castel  Blanco  had  for  several  months  at  Havre  a 
considerable  quantity  of  arms  and  ammunition, 
and  did  daily  ask  his  lordship's  orders  how  to  dis- 
pose of  them,  but  never  got  any  instructions. 
Fifthly,  the  Pretender's  friends  at  the  French 
court  had  for  some  time  past  no  very  good  opinion 
of  his  lordship's  integrity,  and  a  very  bad  one  of 
his  discretion.  Sixthly,  at  a  time  when  many 
merchants  in  France  would  have  carried  privately 
any  quantity  of  arms  and  ammunition  into  Scot- 
land, his  lordship  desired  a  public  order  for  the  em- 
barkation, which  being  a  thing  not  to  be  granted, 
is  said  to  have  been  done  in  order  to  urge  a  denial. 
Lastly,  the  Pretender  wrote  to  his  lordship  by  every 
occasion  after  his  arrival  in  Scotland ;  and  though 
there  were  many  opportunities  of  writing  m  re- 
turn, yet,  from  the  time  he  landed  there  to  the  day 
he  left  it,  he  never  received  any  letter  from  his 
lordship.  Such  were  the  articles,  by  a  very  extra- 
ordinary reverse  of  fortune,  preferred  against  Lord 
Bolingbroke,  in  less  than  a  year  after  similar  arti- 
cles were  drawn  up  against  him  by  the  opposite 
party  at  home.  It  is  not  easy  to  find  out  what  he 
could  have  done  thus  to  disoblige  all  sides  ;  but  he 
had  learned  by  this  time  to  make  out  happiness 
from  the  consciousness  of  his  own  designs,  and  to 
consider  all  the  rest  of  mankind  as  uniting  in  a 
faction  to  oppress  virtue. 

But  though  it  was  mortifying  to  be  thus  rejected 
on  both  sides,  yet  he  was  not  remiss  in  vindicating 
himself  from  all.  Against  these  articles  of  im- 
peachment, therefore,  he  drew  up  an  elaborate  an- 
swer in  which  he  vindicates  himself  with  great 
plausibility.     He  had  long,  as  he  asserts,  wishoil 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


417 


Vi  leave  the  Pretender's  service,  but  was  entirely  at 
*  loss  how  to  conduct  himself  in  so  difficult  a  re- 
signation ;  but  at  length,  says  he,  the  Pretender 
and  his  council  disposed  of  things  better  for  me 
than  I  could  have  done  for  myself.  I  had  resolved, 
on  his  return  from  Scotland,  to  follow  him  till  his 
residence  should  be  fixed  somewhere ;  after  which, 
having  served  the  tories  in  this,  which  I  looked 
upon  as  their  last  struggle  for  power,  and  having 
continued  to  act  in  the  Pretender's  affairs  till  the 
end  of  the  term  for  which  I  embarked  with  him,  I 
should  have  esteemed^vmyself)  to  be  at  liberty,  and 
should,  in  the  civilest  manner  I  was  able,  have 
taken  my  leave  of  him.  Had  we  parted  thus, 
I  should  have  remained  in  a  very  strange  situation 
all  the  rest  of  my  life ;  on  one  side  he  would  have 
thought  that  he  had  a  right  on  any  future  occasion 
to  call  me  out  of  my  retreat,  the  tories  would  pro- 
bably have  thought  the  same  thing ;  my  resolution 
was  taken  to  refuse  them  both,  and  1  foresaw  that 
both  would  condemn  me ;  on  the  other  side,  the 
consideration  of  his  having  kept  measures  with  me, 
joined  to  that  of  having  once  openly  declared  for 
him,  would  have  created  a  point  of  honoiir,  by 
which  I  should  have  been  tied  down,  not  only  from 
ever  engaging  against  him,  but  also  from  making 
my  peace  at  home.  The  Pretender  cut  this  Gordian 
knot  asunder  at  one  blow;  he  broke  the  links  of 
that  chain  which  former  engagements  had  fastened 
on  me,  and  gave  me  a  right  to  esteem  myself  as 
free  from  all  obligations  of  keeping  measures  with 
him,  as  I  should  have  continued  if  I  had  never  en- 
gaged in  his  interest. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  one  so  very  delicate 
to  preserve  his  honour,  would  previously  have 
basely  betrayed  his  employer ;  a  man,  conscious  of 
acting  so  infamous  a  part,  would  have  undertaken 
no  defence,  but  let  the  accusations,  which  could 
not  materially  affect  him,  blow  over,  and  wait  for 
the  calm  that  was  to  succeed  in  tranquillity.  He 
appeals  to  all  the  ministers  with  whom  he  transact- 
ed business,  for  the  integrity  of  his  proceedings  at 
that  juncture;  and  had  he  been  really  guilty, 
when  he  opposed  the  ministry  here  after  his  return, 
they  would  not  have  failed  to  brand  and  detect  his 
duplicity.  The  truth  is,  that  he  perhaps  was  the 
most  disinterested  minister  at  that  time  in  the  Pre- 
tender's court;  as  he  had  spent  great  sums  of  his 
own  money  in  his  service,  and  never  would  be 
obliged  to  him  for  a  farthing,  in' which  case  he  be- 
lieves he  was  single.  His  integrity  is  much  less 
impeachable  on  this  occasion  than  his  ambition;  for 
all  the  steps  he  took  may  be  fairly  ascribed  to  his 
,  displeasure  at  having  the  Duke  of  Ormond  and  the 
Earl  of  Mar  treated  more  confidentially  than  him- 
self. It  was  his  aim  always  to  be  foremost  in  every 
administration,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  act  as 
subaltern  to  so  •  paltry  a  court  a^  that  of  the  Pre- 
lender's. 

27 


At  all  periods  of  his  exile,  he  still  looked  towards 
home  with  secret  regret ;  and  had  even  taken  every 
opportunity  to  apply  to  those  in  power,  either  to 
soften  his  prosecutions,  or  lessen  the  number  of  his 
enemies  at  home.  In  accepting  his  office  under  the 
Pretender,  he  made  it  a  condition  to  be  at  liberty  to 
quit  the  post  whenever  he  should  think  proper; 
and  being  now  disgracefully  dismissed,  he  turned 
his  mind  entirely  towards  making  his  peace  in 
England,  and  employing  all  the  unfortunate  expe- 
rience he  had  acquired  to  undeceive  his  tory  friends, 
and  to  promote  the  union  and  quiet  of  his  native 
country.  It  was  not  a  little  favourable  to  his  hopes, 
that  about  this  time,  though  unknown  to  him,  the 
Earl  of  Stair,  ambassador  to  the  French  court,  had 
received  full  power  to  treat  with  him  whilst  he  was 
engaged  with  the  Pretender ;  but  yet  had  never 
made  him  any  proposals,  which  might  be  consider- 
ed as  the  grossest  outrage.  But  when  the  breach 
with  the  Pretender  was  universally  known,  the 
carl  sent  one  Monsieur  Saludin,  a  gentleman  of 
Geneva,  to  Lord  Bolingbroke,  to  communicate  to 
him  his  Majesty  King  George's  favourable  dispo- 
tion  to  grant  him  a  pardon,  and  his  own  earnest 
desire  to  serve  him  as  far  as  he  was  able.  This 
was  an  offer  by  much  too  advantageous  for  Boling- 
broke, in  his  wretched  circumstances,  to  refuse ;  he 
embraced  it,  as  became  him  to  do,  with  all  possible 
sense  of  the  king's  goodness,  and  of  the  ambassa- 
dor's friendship.  They  had  frequent  conferences 
shortly  after  upon  the  subject.  The  turn  which 
the  English  ministry  gave  the  matter,  was  to  enter 
into  a  treaty  to  reverse  his  attainder,  and  to  stipu- 
late the  conditions  on  which  this  act  of  grace  should 
be  granted  him  :  but  this  method  of  negociation  he 
would  by  no  means  submit  to;  the  notion  of  a 
treaty  shocked  him,  and  he  resolved  never  to  be  re- 
stored, rather  than  go  that  way  to  work.  Accord- 
ingly, he  opened  himself  without  any  reserve  to 
Lord  Stair,  and  told  him,  that  he  looked  upon  him- 
self obliged  in  honour  and  conscience  to  undeceive 
his  friends  in  England,  both  as  to  the  state  of  for- 
eign affairs,  as  to  the  management  of  the  Jacobite 
interest  abroad,  and  as  to  the  characters  of  the 
persons ;  in  every  one  of  which  points  he  knew 
them  to  be  most  grossly  and  most  dangerously  de- 
luded. He  observed,  that  the  treatment  he  had 
received  from  the  Pretender  and  his  adherents, 
would  justify  him  to  the  world  in  doing  this ;  that, 
if  he  remained  in  exile  all  his  life,  he  might  be  as  - 
sured  that  he  would  never  have  more  to  do  with 
the  Jacobite  cause ;  and  that,  if  he  were  restored, 
he  would  give  it  an  effectual  blow,  in  making  that 
apology  which  the  Pretender  had  put  him  under  a 
necessity  of  making  :  that  in  doing  this,  he  flatter- 
ed himself  that  he  should  contribute  something  to- 
wards the  establishment  of  the  king's  government, 
and  to  the  union  of  his  subjects.  He  added,  that 
if  the  court  thought  him  sincere  in  those  profes- 


418 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


flions,  a  treaty  with  him  was  unnecessary;  and 
if  they  did  not  beUeve  so,  then  a  treaty  would  be 
dangerous  to  him.  The  Earl  of  Stair,  who  has 
also  confirmed  this  account  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's, 
in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Craggs,  readily  came  into  his 
sentiments  on  this  head,  and  soon  after  the  king 
approved  it  upon  their  representations;  he  accord- 
ingly received  a  promise  of  pardon  from  George  I., 
who,  on  the  2d  of  July,  1716,  created  his  father 
Baron  of  Battersea,  in  the  county  of  Surrey,  and 
Viscount  St.  John.  This  seemed  preparatory  to 
his  own  restoration ;  and,  instead  of  prosecuting 
any  further  ambitious  schemes  against  the  govern- 
ment, he  rather  began  to  turn  his  mind  to  philoso- 
phy; and  since  he  could  not  gratify  his  ambition  to 
its  full  extent,  he  endeavoured  to  learn  the  art  of 
despising  it.  The  variety  of  distressful  events  that 
had  hitherto  attended  all  his  struggles,  at  last  had 
thrown  him  into  a  state  of  reflection,  and  this  pro- 
duced, by  way  of  relief,  a  consolatio  philosophica, 
which  he  wrote  the  same  year,  under  the  title  of 
•'  Reflections  upon  Exile."  In  this  piece,  in  which 
he  professes  to  imitate  the  manner  of  Seneca,  he 
with  some  wit  draws  his  own  picture,  and  repre- 
sents himself  as  suflfering  persecution,  for  having 
served  his  country  with  abilities  and  integrity.  A 
state  of  exile  thus  incurred,  he  very  justly  shows  to 
be  rather  honourable  than  distressful ;  and  indeed 
there  are  few  men  who  will  deny,  that  the  com- 
pany of  strangers  to  virtue  is  better  than  the  com- 
pany of  enemies  to  it.  Besides  this  philosophical 
tract,  he  also  wrote  this  year  several  letters,  in  an- 
swer to  the  charges  laid  upon  him  by  the  Pretender 
and  his  adherents  ;  and  the  following  year  he  drew 
up  a  vindication  of  his  whole  conduct  with  respect 
to  the  tories,  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to  Sir  William 
Windham. 

Nor  was  he  so  entirely  devoted  to  the  fatigues  of 
business,  but  that  he  gave  pleasure  a  share  in  its 
pursuits.  He  had  never  much  agreed  with  the  la- 
dy he  first  married,  and  after  a  short  cohabitation 
they  separated,  and  lived  ever  after  asunder.  She 
therefore  remained  in  England  upon  his  going  into 
exile,  and  by  proper  application  to  the  throne,  was 
allowed  a  sufficient  maintenance  to  support  her 
with  becoming  dignity :  however,  she  did  not  long 
survive  his  first  disgrace ;  and  upon  his  becoming 
a  widower  he  began  to  think  of  trying  his  fortune 
once  more  in  a  state  which  was  at  first  so  unfa- 
vourable. For  this  purpose  he  cast  his  eye  on  the 
widow  of  Villette,  a  niece  to  the  famous  Madame 
Maintenon ;  a  young  lady  of  great  merit  and  un- 
derstanding, possessed  of  a  very  large  fortune,  but 
encumbered  with  a  long  and  troublesome  law-suit. 
In  the  company  of  this  very  sensible  woman  he 
passed  his  time  in  France,  sometimes  in  the  coun- 
try, and  sometimes  at  the  capital,  till  the  year  1723, 
in  which,  after  the  breaking  up  of  the  Parliament, 
his  majesty  was  pleased  to  grant  him  a  pardon  as 


to  his  personal  safety,  but  as  yet  neither  restoring 
him  to  his  family  inheritance,  his  titie,  nor  a  seal 
in  Parliament. 

To  obtain  this  favour  had  been  the  governing 
principle  of  his  politics  for  some  years  before ;  and 
upon  the  first  notice  of  his  good  fortune,  he  pre 
pared  to  return  to  his  native  country,  where,  how- 
ever, his  dearest  connexions  were  either  dead,  or 
declared  themselves  suspicious  of  his  former  con- 
duct in  support  of  their  party.  It  is  observable  that 
Bishop  Atterbury.  who  was  banished  at  this  time 
for  a  supposed  treasonable  correspondence  in  favour 
of  the  tories,  was  set  on  shore  at  Calais,  just  when 
Lord  Bolingbroke  arrived  there  on  his  return  to 
England.  So  extraordinary  a  reverse  of  fortune 
could  not  fail  of  strongly  affecting  that  good  pre- 
late, who  observed  with  some  emotion,  that  he  per- 
ceived himself  to  be  exchanged :  he  presently  left  it 
to  his  auditors  to  imagine,  whether  his  country 
were  the  loser  or  the  gainer  by  such  ad  exchange. 

Lord  Bolingbroke,  upon  his  returi^'Xo  his  native 
country,  began  to  make  very  vigorous  applications 
for  further  favours  from  the  crown :  his  pardon, 
without  the  means  of  support,  was  but  an  empty, 
or  perhaps  it  might  be  called  a  distressful  act  of 
kindness,  as  it  brought  him  back  among  his  former 
friends  in  a  state  of  inferiority  his  pride  could  not 
endure.  However,  his  applications  were  soon  after 
successful,  for  in  about  two  years  after  his  return 
he  obtained  an  act  of  Parliament  to  restore  him  to 
his  family  inhentance,  which  amounted  to  nearly 
three  thousand  pounds  a-year.  He  was  also  ena- 
bled by  the  same  to  possess  any  purchase  he  should 
make  of  any  other  estate  in  the  kingdom ;  and  he 
accordingly  pitched  upon  a  seat  of  Lord  Tanker- 
ville's,  at  Dawley,  near  Uxbridge,  in  Middlesex, 
where  he  settled  with  his  lady,  and  laid  himself  out 
to  enjoy  the  rural  pleasures  in  perfection,  since  the 
more  glorious  ones  of  ambition  were  denied  him. 
With  this  resolution  he  began  to  improve  his  new 
purchase  in  a  very  peculiar  style,  giving  it  all  the 
air  of  a  country  farm,  and  adorning  even  his  hall 
with  all  the  implements  of  husbandry.  We  have 
a  sketch  of  his  way  of  living  in  this  retreat  in  a  let- 
ter of  Pope's  to  Swifl,  who  omits  no  opportunity 
of  representing  his  lordship  in  the  most  amiable 
points  of  view.  This  letter  is  dated  from  Dawley, 
the  country  farm  abovementioned,  and  begins  thus : 
"I  now  hold  the  pen  for  my  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
who  is  reading  your  letter  between  two  hay-cocks  j 
but  his  attention  is  somewhat  diverted,  by  casting 
his  eyes  on  the  clouds,  not  in  the  admiration  of  what 
you  say,  but  for  fear  of  a  shower.  He  is  pleased 
with  your  placing  him  in  the  triumvirate  between 
yourself  and  me ;  though  he  says  he  doubts  he  shall 
fare  like  Lepidus,  while  one  of  us  runs  away  witli 
all  the  power,  like  Augustus,  and  another  with  all 
the  pleasure,  like  Antony.  It  is  upon  a  foresight 
of  this,  that  he  has  fitted  up  his  farm,  and  you  will 


LIFE  OP  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


419 


agree  that  this  scheme  of  retreat  is  not  founded 
upon  weak  appearances.  Upon  his  return  from 
Bath,  he  finds  all  peccant  humours  are  purged  out 
of  him;  and  his  great  temperance  and  economy  are 
so  signal,  that  the  first  is  fit  for  my  constitution, 
and  the  latter  would  enable  you  to  lay  up  so  much 
money  as  to  buy  a  bishopric  in  England.  As  to 
the  return  of  his  health  and  vigour,  were  you  here, 
you  might  inquire  of  his  hay-makers  ;  but  as  to  his 
temperance,  I  can  answer  that  for  one  whole  day 
w^e  have  had  nothing  for  dinner  but  mutton-broth, 
beans  and  bacon,  and  a  barn-door  fowl.  Now  his 
lordship  is  run  after  his  cart,  I  have  a  moment  left 
to  myself  to  tell  you,  that  I  overheard  him  yesterday 
agree  with  a  painter  for  two  hundred  pounds,  to 
paint  his  country  hall  with  rakes,  spades,  prongs, 
etc.  and  other  ornaments,  merely  to  countenance 
his  calling  this  place  a  farm."  What  Pope  here 
says  of  his  engagements  with  a  painter,  was  shortly 
after  executed ;  the  hall  was  painted  accordingly 
in  black  crayons  only,  so  that  at  first  view  it  brought 
to  mind  the  figures  often  seen  scratched  with  char- 
coal, or  the  smoke  of  a  candle,  upon  the  kitchen 
walls  of  farm-houses.  The  whole,  however,  pro- 
duced a  most  striking  effect,  and  over  the  door  at 
the  entrance  into  it  was  this  motto :  Satis  heatus 
ruris  honorihus.  His  lordship  seemed  to  be  ex- 
tremely happy  in  this  pursuit  of  moral  tranquillity, 
and  in  the  exultation  of  his  heart  could  not  fiiil  of 
communicating  his  satisfaction  to  his  friend  Swift. 
"  I  am  in  my  own  farm,"  says  he,  ''  and  here  I 
shoot  strong  and  tenacious  roots :  I  have  caught 
hold  of  the  earth,  to  use  a  gardener's  phrase,  and 
neither  my  enemies  nor  my  friends  will  find  it  an 
easy  matter  to  transplant  me  again." 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  stronger  instance  in  the 
world  than  his  lordship,  that  an  ambitious  mind  can 
never  be  fairly  subdued,  but  will  still  seek  for  those 
gratifications  which  retirement  can  never  supply. 
AH  this  time  he  was  mistaken  in  his  passion  for 
solitude,  and  supposed  that  to  be  the  child  of  philo- 
sophy, which  was  only  the  effect  of  spleen :  it  was 
in  vain  that  he  attempted  to  take  root  in  the  shade 
of  obscurity;  he  was  originally  bred  in  the  glare 
of  public  occupation,  and  he  secretly  once  more 
wished  for  transplantation.  He  was  only  a  titular 
lordj  he  had  not  been  thoroughly  restored ;  and,  as 
he  was  excluded  from  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Peers, 
he  burned  with  impatience  to  play  a  part  in  that 
conspicuous  theatre.  Impelled  by  this  desire,  he 
could  no  longer  be  restrained  in  obscurity,  but  once 
more  entered  into  the  bustle  of  public  business,  and 
disavowing  all  obligations  to  the  minister,  he  em- 
barked in  the  opposition  against  him,  in  which  he 
had  several  powerful  coadjutors :  but  previously  he 
had  taken  care  to  prefer  a  petition  to  the  House 
of  Commons,  desiring  to  be  reinstated  in  his  former 
emoluments  and  capacities.  This  petition  at  first 
occasioned  very  warm  debates :  Walpole,  who  pre- 


tended to  espouse  his  cause,  alleged  that  it  was 
very  right  to  admit  him  to  his  inheritance ;  and 
when  Lord  William  Pawlet  moved  for  a  clause  to 
disqualify  him  from  sitting  in  either  House,  Wal- 
pole rejected  the  motion,'  secretly  satisfied  with  a 
resolution  which  had  been  settled  in  the  cabinet, 
that  he  should  never  more  be  admitted  into  any 
share  of  power.  To  this  artful  method  of  evading 
his  pretensions,  BoUngbroke  was  no  stranger ;  and 
he  was  now  resolved  to  shake  that  power  which 
thus  endeavoured  to  obstruct  the  increase  of  his 
own :  taking,  therefore,  his  part  in  the  opposition 
with  Pulteney,  while  the  latter  engaged  to  manage 
the  House  of  Commons,  Bolingbroke  undertook  to 
enlighten  the  people.  Accordingly,  he  soon  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  a  multitude  of  pieces,  written 
during  the  latter  part  of  George  the  First's  reign, 
and  likewise  the  beginning  of  that  which  succeed- 
ed. These  were  conceived  with  great  vigour  and 
boldness ;  and  now,  once  more  engaged  in  the  ser- 
vice of  his  country,  though  disarmed,  gagged,  and 
almost  bound,  as  he  declared  himself  to  be,  yet  he 
resolved  not  to  abandon  his  cause,  as  long  as  he 
could  depend  on  the  firmness  and  integrity  of  those 
coadjutors,  Avho  did  riot  labour  under  the  same  dis- 
advantages with  himself.  His  letters,  in  a  paper 
called  the  Craftsman,  were  particularly  distinguish- 
ed in  this  political  contest ;  and  though  several  of 
the  most  expert  politicians  of  the  time  joined  in 
this  paper,  his  essays  were  peculiarly  relished  by 
the  public.  However,  it  is  the  fate  of  things  writ- 
ten to  an  occasion,  seldom  to  survive  thdt  occasion : 
the  Craftsman,  though  written  with  great  spirit 
and  sharpness,  is  now  almost  forgotten,  although, 
when  it  was  pubUshed  as  a  weekly  paper,  it  sold 
much  more  rapidly  than  even  the  Spectator.  Be- 
side this  work  he  published  several  other  separate 
pamphlets,  which  were  afterwards  reprinted  in  the 
second  edition  of  his  works,  and  which'  Were  very 
popular  in  their  day.  This  political  warfare  con- 
tinued for  ten  years,  during  which  time  he  laboured 
with  great  strength  and  perseverance,  and  drew  up 
such  a  system  of  politics,  as  some  have  Apposed  to 
be  the  most  complete  now  existing.  But,  as  upon 
all  other  occasions,  he  had  the  mortification  once 
more  to  See  those  friends  desert  him,  upon  whose 
assistance  he  most  firmly  relied,  and  all  that  web 
of  fine-spun  speculation  actually  destroyed  at  once, 
by  the  ignorance  of  some  and  the  perfidy  of  others. 
He  then  declared  that  he  was  perfectly  cured  of  his 
patriotic  frenzy ;  he  fell  out  not  only  with  Pulteney 
for  his  selfish  views,  but  with  his  old  friends  the 
tories,  for  abandoning  their  cause  as  desperate; 
averring,  that  the  faint  and  unsteady  exercise  of 
parts  on  one  side,  was  a  crime  but  one  degree  infe- 
rior  to  the  iniquitous  misapplication  of  them  on  the 
other.  But  he  could  not  take  leave  of  a  controversy 
in  which  he  had  been  so  many  years  engaged^  with- 
out giving  a  parting  blow,  in  which  he  seemed  to 


420 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


summon  up  all  his  vigour  at  once  :  and  where,  as 
the  poet  says, 

Animam  in  vnlnere  posuit. 

This  inimitable  piece  is  entitled,  '*  A  Dissertation 
on  Parties,"  and  of  all  his  masterly  pieces  it  is  in 
general  esteemed  the  best. 

Having  finished  this,  which  was  received  with 
the  utmost  avidity,  he  resolved  to  take  leave,  not 
only  of  his  enemies  and  friends,  but  even  of  his 
country ;  and  in  this  resolution,  in  the  year  1736, 
he  once  more  retired  to  France,  where  he  looked 
to  his  native  country  with  a  mixture  of  anger  and 
pity,  and  upon  his  former  professing  friends  with 
a  share  of  contempt  and  indignation.  "  I  expect 
little,"  says  he,  "  from  the  principal  actors  that  tread 
the  stage  at  present.  They  are  divided,  not  so 
much  as  it  seemed,  and  as  they  would  have  it  be- 
lieved, about  measures ;  the  true  division  is  about 
their  different  ends.  Whilst  the  minister  was  not 
hard  pushed,  nor  the  prospect  of  succeeding  to  him 
near,  they  appeared  to  have  but  one  end,  the  re- 
formation of  the  government.  The  destruction  of 
the  minister  was  pursued  only  as  a  preliminary,  but 
of  essential  and  indisputable  necessity,  to  that  end; 
but  when  his  destruction  seemed  to  approach,  the 
object  of  his  succession  interposed  to  the  sight  of 
many,  and  the  reformation  of  the  government  was 
no  longer  their  point  of  view.  They  had  divided 
the  skin,  at  least  in  their  thought,  before  they  had 
taken  the  beast.  The  common  fear  of  hastening 
his  downfal  for  others,  made  them  all  faint  in  the 
chase.  It  was  this,  and  this  alone  that  saved  him, 
and  put  off  his  evil  day." 

Such  were  his  cooler  reflections,  after  he  had 
laid  down  his  political  pen,  to  employ  it  in  a  man- 
ner that  was  much  more  agreeable  to  his  usual  pro- 
fessions, and  his  approaching  age.  He  had  long  em- 
ployed the  few  hours  he  could  spare,  on  subjects  of 
a  more  general  and  important  nature  to  the  interests 
of  mankind ;  but  as  he  was  frequently  interrrupted 
by  the  alarms  of  party,  he  made  no  great  proficiency 
in  his  design.  Still,  however,  he  kept  it  in  view, 
and  he  makes  frequent  mention  in  his  letters  to 
Swift,  of  his  intentions  to  give  metaphysics  a  new 
and  useful  turn.  "  I  know,"  says  he,  "  in  one  of 
these,  how  little  regard  you  pay  to  writings  of  this 
kind ;  but  I  imagine,  that  if  you  can  like  any,  it 
must  be  those  that  strip  metaphysics  of  all  their 
bombast,  keep  within  the  sight  of  every  well  con- 
stituted eye,  and  never  bewilder  themselves,  whilst 
they  pretend  to  guide  the  reason  of  others." 

Having  now  arrived  at  the  sixtieth  year  of  his 
age,  and  being  blessed  with  a  very  competent  share 
of  fortune,  he  returned  into  France,  far  from  the 
noise  and  hurry  of  party ;  for  his  seat  at  Dawley 
was  too  near  to  devote  the  rest  of  his  Ufe  to  retire- 
ment and  study.  Upon  his  going  to  that  country, 
ae  it  was  generally  known  that  disdain,  vexation, 


and  disappointment  had  driven  him  there,  many  of 
his  friends  as  well  as  his  enemies  supposed  that  ho 
was  once  again  gone  over  to  the  Pretender.  Among 
the  number  who  entertained  this  suspicion  was 
Swift,  whom  Pope,  in  one  of  his  letters,  very  round- 
ly chides  for  harbouring  such  an  unjust  opinion. 
"You  should  be  cautious,"  says  he,  "of  censuring 
any  motion  or  action  of  Lord  BoUngbroke,  because 
you  hear  it  only  from  a  shallow,  envious,  and  ma- 
licious reporter.  What  you  writ  to  me  about  him, 
I  find,  to  my  great  scandal,  repeated  in  one  of 
your's  to  another.  Whatever  you  might  hint  to 
me,  was  this  for  the  profane  1  The  thing,  if  true, 
should  be  concealed  :  but  it  is,  I  assure  you,  abso- 
lutely untrue  in  every  circumstance.  He  has 
fixed  in  a  very  agreeable  retirement  near  Fontaine- 
bleau,  and  makes  it  his  whole  business  vacare  lit- 
terisy 

This  reproof  from  Pope  was  not  more  friendly 
than  it  was  true :  Lord  Bolingbroke  was  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  forlorn  state  of  that  party,  and 
the  folly  of  its  conductors,  once  more  to  embark  in 
their  desperate  concerns.  He  now  saw  that  he 
had  gone  as  far  towards  reinstating  himself  in  the 
full  possession  of  his  former  honours  as  the  mere 
dint  of  parts  and  application  could  go,  and  was  at 
length  experimentally  convinced,  that  the  decree 
was  absolutely  irreversible,  and  the  door  of  the 
House  of  Lords  finally  shut  against  him.  He 
therefore,  at  Pope's  suggestion,  retired  merely  to 
be  at  leisure  from  the  broils  of  opposition,  for  the 
calmer  pleasures  of  philosophy.  Thus  the  decline 
of  his  life,  though  less  brilliant,  became  more  ami- 
able ;  and  even  his  happiness  was  improved  by  age, 
which  had  rendered  his  passions  more  moderate, 
and  his  wishes  more  attainable.  \ 

But  he  was  far  from  suffering  even  in  solitude  his 
hours  to  glide  away  in  torpid  inactivity.  That  ac- 
tive, restless  disposition  still  continued  to  actuate  his 
pursuits ;  and  having  lost  the  season  for  gaining 
power  over  his  contemporaries,  he  was  now  re- 
solved upon  acquiring  fame  from  posterity.  He 
had  not  been  long  in  his  retreat  near  Fontaine- 
bleau,  when  he  began  a  course  of  "  Letters  on  the 
study  and  use  of  history,  for  the  use  of  a  young 
nobleman."  In  these  he  does  not  follow  the 
methods  of  St.  Real  and  others  who  have  treat- 
ed this  subject,  who  make  history  the  great  foun-" 
tain  of  all  knowledge ;  he  very  wisely  confines  its 
benefits,  and  supposes  them  rather  to  consist  in 
deducing  general  maxims  from  particular  facts, 
than  in  illustrating  maxims  by  the  appUcation  of 
historical  passages.  In  mentioning  ecclesiastical 
history,  he  gives  his  opinion  very  freely  upon  the 
subject  of  the  divine  original  of  the  sacred  books, 
which  he  supposes  to  have  no  such  foundation. 
This  new  system  of  thinking,  which  he  had  always 
propagated  in  conversation,  and  which  he  now  be 
gan  to  adopt  in  his  more  laboured  compositions, 


LIFE  OP  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


421 


seemed  no  way  supported  either  by  his  acuteness 
or  his  learning.  He  began  to  reflect  seriously  on 
these  subjects  too  late  in  life,  and  to  suppose  those 

'  objections  very  new  and  unanswerable  which  had 
been  already  confuted  by  thousaSids^  "  Lord  Bo- 
Ungbroke,"  says  Pope,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  is 
above  trifling ;  when  he  writes  of  any  thing  in  this 
world,  he  is  more  than  mortal.     If  ever  he  trifles,  it 

i     must  be  when  he  turns  divine." 

In  the  mean  time,  as  it  was  evident  that  a  man 
of  his  active  ambition,  in  choosing  retirement  when 
no  longer  able  to  lead  in  public,  must  be  liable  to 
ridicule  in  resuming  a  resigned  philosophical  air,  in 
order  to  obviate  the  censure,  he  addressed  a  letter 
to  Lord  Bathurst  upon  the  true  use  of  retirement 
and  study :  in  which  he  shows  himself  still  able 
and  willing  to  undertake  the  cause  of  his  country, 
whenever  its  distresses  should  require  his  exertion. 
"  I  have,"  says  he,  "renounced  neither  my  coun- 
try nor  my  friends  ;  and  by  my  friends,  I  mean  all 
those,  and  those  alone,  who  are  such  to  their  coun- 
try. In  their  prosperity  they  shall  endeavour  to 
hear  of  me ;  in  their  distress  always.     In  that  re- 

>  treat  wherein  the  remainder  of  my  days  shall  be 
spent,  I  may  be  of  some  use  to  them,  since  even 
thence  I  may  advise,  exhort,  and  warn  them." 
Bent  upon  this  pursuit  only,  and  having  now  ex- 
changed the  gay  statesman  for  the  grave  philoso- 
pher, he  shone  forth  with  distinguished  lustre. 
His  conversation  took  a  different  turn  from  what 
had  been  usual  with  him ;  and  as  we  are  assured 
by  Lord  Orrery,  who  knew  him,  it  united  the 
wisdom  of  Socrates,  the  dignity  and  ease  of  PUny, 
and  the  wit  of  Horace. 

Yet  still  amid  his  resolutions  to  turn  himself 
from  politics,  and  to  give  himself  up  entirely  to  the 
calls  of  philosophy,  he  could  not  resist  embarking 
once  more  in  the  debates  of  his  country ;  and  com- 
ing back  from  France,  settled  at  Battersea,  an  old 
seat  which  was  his  father's  and  had  been  long  in 
the  possession  of  the  family.  He  supposed  he  saw 
an  impending  calamity,  and  though  it  was  not  in 
his  power  to  remove,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  re- 
tard its  fall.  To  redeem  or  save  the  nation  from 
perdition,  he  thought  impossible,  since '  national 
corruptions  were  to  be  purged  by  national  calami- 
ties ;  but  he  was  resolved  to  lend  his  feeble  assist- 
ance to  stem  the  torrent  that  was  pouring  in.  With 
this  spirit  he  wrote  that  excellent  piece,  which  is 
entitled,  "The  Idea  of  a  Patriot  King ;"  in  which 
he  describes  a  monarch  uninfluenced  by  party, 
leaning  to  the ,  suggestions  neither  of  whigs  nor 
toties,  but  equally  the  friend  and  the  father  of  all. 

I        Some  time  after,  in  the  year  1749,  after  the  con- 

!  elusion  of  the  peace  two  years  before,  the  measures 
taken  by  the  administration  seemed  not  to  have 
been  repugnant  to  his  notions  of  political  prudence 
for  that  juncture ;  in  that  year  he  wrote  his  last 
production,  containing  reflections  on  the  then  state 


of  the  nation,  principally  with  the  regard  to  her 
taxes  and  debts,  and  on  the  causes  and  consequen- 
ces of  them.  This  undertaking  was  left  unfinish- 
ed, for  death  snatched  the  pen  from  the  hand  of 
the  writer. 

Having  passed  the  latter  part  of  his  Hfe  in  digni- 
ty and  splendour,  his  rational  faculties  improved  by 
reflection,  and  his  ambition  kept  under  by  disap- 
pointment, his  *whole  aim  seemed  to  have  been  to 
leave  the  stage  of  life,  on  which  he  had  acted  such 
various  parts,  with  applause.  He  had  long  wished 
to  fetch  his  breath  at  Battersea,  the  place  where  he 
was  born;  and  fortune,  that  had  through  life 
seemed  to  trace  all  his  aims,  at  last  indulged  him 
in  this.  He  had  long  been  troubled  with  a  can- 
cer in  his  cheek,  by  which  excruciating  disease  he 
died  on  the  verge  of  fourscore  years  of  age.  He 
was  consonant  with  himself  to  the  last ;  and  those 
principles  which  he  had  all  along  avowed,. he  con- 
firmed with  his  dying  breath,  having  given  orders 
that  none  of  the  clergy  should  be  permitted  to  trou- 
ble him  in  his  latest  moments. 

His  body  was  interred  in  Battersea  church  with 
those  of  his  ancestors ;  and  a  marble  monument 
erected  to  his  memory,  with  the  following  excellent 
inscription : 

HERE  LIES 

HENRY  ST.  JOHN, 

IN  THE  REIGN  OF  aUEEN  ANNE 

SECRETARY  OF  WAR,  SECRETARY  OF  STATE, 

AND  VISCOUNT  BOLINGBROKE  ; 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  KING  GEORGE  I.  AND 

KING  GEORGE  II. 

SOMETHING  MORE  AND  BETTER. 

HIS    ATTACHMENT  TO  dUEEN    ANNE    EXPOSED 

HIM  TO  A  LONG  AND  SEVERE'  PERSECUTION; 

HE  BORE  IT  WITH  FIRMNESS  OF  MIND  ;  HE 

PASSED  THE  LATTER  PART  OP  HIS  TIME  AT  HOME, 

THE  ENEMY  OF  NO  NATIONAL  PARTY, 

THE  FRIEND  OF  NO  FACTION  ; 

DISTINGUISHED  (UNDER   THE  CLOUD  OF  A 

PROSCRIPTION,  WHICH    HAD   NOT    BEEN   ENTIRELY 

TAKEN  off)  BY  ZEAL  TO   MAINTAIN 

THE  LIBERTY,  AND   TO  RESTORE  THE  ANCIENT 

PROSPERITY  OP  GREAT  BRITAIN. 

HE  DIED  THE  12tH  OF  DECEMBER,  1751, 

AGED  79. 

In  this  manner  lived  and  died  Lord  Bolingbroke, 
ever  active,  never  depressed,  ever  pursuing  fortune, 
and  as  constantly  disappointed  by  her.  In  what- 
ever hght  we  view  his  character,  we  shall  find  him 
an  object  rather  properer  for  our  wonder  than  our 
imitation,  more  to  be  feared  than  esteemed,  and 
gaining  our  admiration  without  our  loye.  His  am- 
bition ever  aimed  at  the  summit  of  power,  and  no- 
thing seemed  capable  of  satisfying  his  immoderate 
desires,  but  the  liberty  of  governing  all  things  with- 


423 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


out  a  rival.  With  as  much  ambition,  as  great 
abilities,  and  more  acquired  knowledge  than  Ca?sar, 
he  wanted  only  his  courage  to  be  as  successful  : 
but  the  schemes  his  head  dictated  his  heart  often 
refused  to  execute ;  and  he  lost  the  abiUty  to  per- 
form just  when  the  great  occasion  called  for  all  his 
efforts  to  engage. 

The  same  ambition  that  prompted  him  to  be  a 
politician,  actuated  him  as  a  philosopher.  His 
aims  were  equally  great  and  extensive  in  both  ca 
pacities :  unwiUing  to  submit  to  any  in  the  one,  or 
any  authority  in  the  other,  he  entered  the  fields  of 
science  with  a  thorough  contempt  of  all  that  had 
been  established  before  him,  and  seemed  willing  to 
>  think  every  thing  wrong,  that  he  might  show  his 
faculty  in  the  reformation.  It  might  have  been 
better  for  his  quiet  as  a  man,  if  he  had  been  content 
to  act  a  subordinate  character  in  the  state ;  and  it 
had  certainly  been  better  for  his  memory  as  a  writer, 
if  he  had  aimed  at  doing  less  than  he  attempted. 
Wisdom  in  morals,  like  every  other  art  or  science, 
is  an  accumulation  that  numbers  have  contributed 
to  increase ;  and  it  is  not  for  one  single  man  to  pre- 
tend, that  he  can  add  more  to  the  heap  than  the 
thousands  that  have  gone  before  him.  Such  innova- 
tions more  frequently  retard  than  promote  know- 
ledge; their  maxims  are  more  agreeable  to  the  read- 
er, by  having  the  gloss  of  novelty  to  recommend 
them,  than  those  which  are  trite,  only  because  they 
are  true.  Such  men  are  therefore  followed  at  first 
with  avidity,  nor  is  it  till  some  time  that  their  dis- 
ciples begin  to  find  their  error.  They  often, 
though  too  late,  perceive  that  they  have  been  fol- 
lowing a  speculative  inquiry,  while  they  have  been 
leaving  a  practical  good:  and  while  they  have  been 
practising  the  arts  of  doubting,  they  have  been 
losing  all  firmness  of  principle,  which  might  tend 
to  estabUsh  the  rectitude  of  their  private  conduct. 
As  a  moralist,  therefore.  Lord  Bolingbroke,  by 
having  endeavoured  at  too  much,  seems  to  have 
done  nothing ;  but  as  a  political  writer,  few  can 
equal,  and  none  can  exceed  him.  As  he  was  a 
practical  politician,  his  writings  are  less  filled  with 
those  speculative  illusions,  which  are  the  result  of 
solitude  and  seclusion.  He  wrote  them  with  a 
certainty  of  their  being  opposed,  sifted,  examined, 
and  reviled ;  he  therefore  took  care  to  build  them 
of  such  materials  as  could  not  be  easily  overthrown : 
they  prevailed  at  the  times  in  which  they  were 
written,  they  still  continue  to  the  admiration  of  the 
present  age,  and  will  probably  last  for  ever. 


THE  LAST  WILL  AND  TESTAMENT  OF  THE  LATE 
RIGHT  HON.  HENRY  ST.  JOHN,  LORD  VISCOUNT 
BOLINGBROKE. 

In  the  name  of  God,  whom  I  humbly  adore,  to 
whom  I  offer  up  perpetual  thanksgiving,  and  to  the 
wder  of  whose  providence  I  am  cheerfully  resign- 


ed :  this  is  the  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  me, 
Henry  St.  John,  in  the  reign  of  Clueen  Anne,  and 
by  her  grace  and  favour,  Viscount  Bolingbroke. 
After  more  than  thirty  years'  proscription,  and 
after  the  immense  losses  I  have  sustained  by  un- 
expected events  in  the  course  of  it;  by  the  injustice 
and  treachery  of  persons  nearest  to  me ;  by  the  negli- 
gence of  friends,  and  by  the  infidelity  of  servants ; 
as  my  fortune  is  so  reduced  at  this  time,  that  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  make  such  disposition,  and  to 
give  such  ample  legacies  as  I  always  intended,  I 
content  therefore  to  give  as  follows : 

My  debts,  and  the  expenses  of  my  burial  in  a 
decent  and  private  manner  at  Battersea,  in  the 
vault  where  my  last  wife  lies,  being  first  paid,  I 
give  to  William  Chetwynd,  of  Stafford,  Esq.,  and 
Joseph  Taylor,  of  the  Inner-Temple,  London, 
Esq.,  my  two  assured  friends,  each  of  them  one 
hundred  guineas,  to  be  laid  out  by  them,  as  to  each 
of  them  shall  seem  best,  in  some  memorial,  as  the 
legacy  of  their  departed  friend;  and  I  constitute 
them  executors  of  this  my  will.  The  diamond  ring 
which  I  wear  upon  my  finger,  I  give  to  my  old  and 
long  approved  friend  the  Marquis  of  Matignon, 
and  after  his  decease,  to  his  son  the  Count  de  Gace, 
that  1  may  be  kept  in  the  remembrance  of  a  family 
whom  I  love  and  honour  above  all  others. 

Item,  I  give  to  my  said  executors  the  sum  of  four 
hundred  pounds  in  trust,  to  place  out  the  same  in 
some  of  the  pubUc  funds,  or  government  securities, 
or  any  other  securities,  as  they  shall  think  proper, 
and  to  pay  the  interest  or  income  thereof  to  Fran- 
cis Arboneau,  my  valet  de  chambre,  and  Ann,  his 
wife,  and  the  survivor  of  them;  and  after  the  de- 
cease of  the  survivor  of  them,  if  their  son  John  Ar- 
boneau shall  be  living,  and  under  the  age  of  eighteen 
years,  to  pay  the  said  interest  or  income  to  him, 
until  he  shall  attain  his  said  age,  and  then  to  pay 
the  principal  money,  or  assign  the  securities  for  the 
same,  to  him;  but  if  he  shall  not  be  living  at  the 
decease  of  his  father  and  mother,  or  shall  afterwards 
die  before  his  said  age  of  eighteen  years,  in  either 
of  the  said  cases  the  said  principal  sum  of  four 
hundred  pounds,  and  the  securities  for  the  same, 
shall  sink  into  my  personal  estate,  and  be  accouni- 
ed  part  thereof. 

Item,  I  give  to  my  two  servants,  Marianne  Tri- 
bon,  and  Remi  Charnet,  commonly  calletl  Picard, 
each  one  hundred  pounds ;  and  to  every  other  ser- 
vant living  with  me  at  the  time  of  my  decease,  and 
who  shall  have  lived  with  me  two  years  or  longer, 
I  give  one  year's  wages  more  than  what  shall  be 
due  to  them  at  my  death. 

And  whereas  I  am  the  author  of  theseveral  books 
or  tracts  following,  viz. 

Remarks  on  the  History  of  England,  from  the 
Minutes  of  Humphrey  Oldcastle.  In  twenty-four 
letters. 


LIFE  OF  HENRY  LORD  BOLINGBROKE. 


423 


A  Dissertation  upon  Parties.  In  nineteen  let 
ters  to  Caleb  Danvers,  Esq. 

The  Occasional  Writer.    Numb.  1,  2,  3. 

The  Vision  of  Camilick. 

An  Answer  to  the  London  Journal  of  Decem- 
ber 21,  1728,  by  John  Trot. 

An  Answer  to  the  Defence  of  the  Inquiry  into 
the  Reasons  of  the  Conduct  of  Great  Britain. 

A  final  Answer  to  the  Remarks  on  the  Crafts- 
man's Vindication. 

All  which  books  or  tracts  have  been  printed  and 
published ;  and  I  am  also  the  author  of 

Four  Letters  on  History,  etc. 
which  have  been  privately  printed,  and  not  pub- 
lished ;  but  I  have  not  assigned  to  any  person  or 
persons  whatsoever  the  copy,  or  the  liberty  of  print- 
ing or  reprinting  any  of  the  said  books,  or  tracts, 
or  letters :  Now  I  do  hereby,  as  far  as  by  law  I 
can,  give  and  assign  to  David  Mallet,  of  Putney, 
in  the  county  of  Surrey,  Esquire,  the  copy  and 
copies  of  all  and  each  of  the  before- mentioned  books 
or  tracts,  and  letters,  and  the  liberty  of  reprinting 
the  same.  I  also  give  to  the  said  David  Mallet  the 
copy  and  copies  of  all  the  manuscript  books,  papers, 
and  writings,  which  1  have  written  or  composed, 
or  shall  write  or  compose,  and  leave  at  the  time  of 
my  decease.  And  I  further  give  to  the  said  David 
Mallet,  all  the  books  which,  at  the  time  of  my  de- 
cease, shall  be  in  the  room  called  my  library. 

All  the  rest  and  residue  of  my  personal  estate, 
whatsoever  and  wheresoever,  I  give  to  my  said 
e:3Cecutors ;  and  hereby  revoking  all  former  wills,  I 
declare  this  to  be  my  last  will  and  testament.  In 
witness  whereof,  I  have  hereunto  set  my  hand  and 
seal  the  twenty-second  day  of  November,  in  the 
year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
fifty-one.^ 

Henry  Saint  John,  Bolingbroke. 

Signed,  sealed,  published,  and  declared 
by  the  said  testator,  as  and  for  his  last 
will  and  testament,  in  the  presence  of 
Oliver  Price. 
Thomas  Hall. 

Proved  at  London,  the  fifth  day  of  March,  1752, 
before  the  worshipful  Robert  Chapman,  doctor  of 
laws  and  surrogate,  by  the  oaths  of  "William 
Chetwynd  and  Joseph  Taylor,  Esquires,  the  ex- 
ecutors named  in  the  will,  to  whom  administra- 
tion was  granted,  being  first  sworn  duly  to  ad- 
minister. 


March, 
1752. 


WILLIAN  LEGARD, 
PETER  ST.  ELOY, 
HENRY  STEVENS, 


Deputy  Registers. 


In  Dr.  Matty's  Life  of  Lord  Chesterfield,  he 
mentions  that  the  earl  had  seen  Lord  Bolingbroke 
for  several  months  labouring  under  a  cruel,  and  to 
appearance  incurable  disorder.  A  cancerous  hu- 
mour in  his  face  made  a  daily  progress ;  and  the 
empirical  treatment  he  submitted  to  not  only 
hastened  his  end,  but  also  exposed  him  to  the  most 
excruciating  pain.  He  saw  him,  for  the  last  time, 
the  day  before  his  tortures  began.  Though  the 
unhappy  patient,  as  well  as  his  friend,  did  then  ex- 
pect that  he  should  recover,  and  accordingly  de- 
sired him  not  to  come  again  till  his  cure  was  com- 
pleted, yet  he  still  took  leave  of  him  in  a  manner 
which  showed  how  much  he  was  afl!ected.  He 
embraced  the  earl  with  tenderness,  and  said,  "  God, 
who  placed  me  here,  will  do  what  he  pleases  with 
me  hereafter,  and  he  knows  best  what  to  do.  May 
he  bless  you." — And  in  a  letter  from  Chesterfield 
to  a  lady  of  rank  at  Paris,  he  says,  "  I  frequently 
see  our  friend  Bolingbroke,  but  I  see  him  with 
great  concern.  A  humour  he  has  long  had  in  his 
cheek  proves  to  be  cancerous,  and  has  made  an 
alarming  progress  of  late.  Hitherto  it  is  not  at- 
tended with  pain,  which  is  all  he  wishes,  for  as  to 
the  rest  he  is  resigned.  Truly  a  mind  Uke  his,  so 
far  superior  to  the  generality,  would  have  well  de- 
served that  nature  should  have  made  an  efl!brt  in 
his  favour  as  to  the  body,  and  given  him  an  un- 
common share  of  health  and  duration." 

The  last  scene  is  thus  lamented,  in  a  letter  to 
the  same  lady : — Are  you  not  greatly  shocked,  but 
I  am  sure  you  are,  at  the  dreadful  death  of  our 
friend  BoUngbroke?  The  remedy  has  hastened  his 
death,  against  which  there  was  no  remedy,  for  his 
cancer  was  not  topical,  but  universal,  and  had  so  in- 
fected the  whole  mass  of  his  blood,  as  to  be  incur- 
able. What  I  most  lament  is,  that  the  medicines 
put  him  to  exquisite  pain ;  an  evil  I  dread  much 
more  than  death,  both  for  my  friends  and  myself. 
I  lose  a  warm,  an  amiable,  and  instructive  friend. 
I  saw  him  a  fortnight  before  his  death,  when  he 
depended  upon  a  cure,  and  so  did  I ;  and  he  de- 
sired I  would  not  come  any  more  till  he  was  quite 
well,  which  he  expected  would  be  in  ten  or  twelve 
days.  The  next  day  the  great  pains  came  on,  and 
never  left  him  till  within  two  days  of  his  death, 
during  which  he  lay  insensible.  What  a  man ' 
what  extensive  knowledge !  what  a  memory !  what 
eloquence !  His  passions,  which  were  strong,  were 
injurious  to  the  delicacy  of  his  sentiments ;  they 
were  apt  to  be  confounded  together,  and  often  wil- 
fully. The  world  will  do  him  more  justice  now 
than  in  his  lifetime." 


A 

Select  ©oUettlon  of  3Bmm^ 

ON  THE  MOST  INTERESTING  AND  ENTERTAINING  SUBJECTS. 

[first  printed  in  1759.] 


THE  BEE,  No.  I. 


Saturday,  October  6,  1759. 


,  INTRODUCTION. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  whimsically  dis- 
^mal  figure  in  nature,  than  a  man  of  real  modesty 
who  assumes  an  air  of  impu,dence ;  who,  while  his 
heart  beats  with  anxiety,  studies  ease,  and  affects 
good-humour.  In  this  situation,  however,  a  pe- 
riodical writer  often  finds  himself,  upon  his  first 
attempt  to  address  the  public  in  form.  All  his 
power  of  pleasing  is  damped  by  solicitude,  and  his 
cheerfulness  dashed  with  apprehension.  Impressed 
with  the  terrors  of  the  tribunal  before  which  he  is 
going  to  appear,  his  natural  humour  turns  to  pert- 
ness,  and  for  real  wit  he  is  obliged  to  substitute 
vivacity.  His  first  publication  draws  a  crowd; 
they  part  dissatisfied ;  and  the  author,  never  more 
to  be  indulged  with  a  favourable  hearing,  is  left  to 
condemn  the  indelicacy  of  his  own  address,  or  their 
want  of  discernment. 

For  my  part,  as  I  was  never  distinguished  for 
address,  and  have  often  even  blundered  in  mak- 
ing my  bow,  such  bodings  as  these  had  like  to 
have  totally  repressed  my  ambition.  I  was  at  a 
loss  whether  to  give  the  public  specious  promises, 
or  give  none ;  whether  to  be  merry  or  sad  on  this 
solemn  occasion.  If  I  should  decline  all  merit,  it 
was  too  probable  the  hasty  reader  might  have  taken 
me  at  my  word.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  like  labour 
ers  in  the  magazine  trade,  I  had,  with  modest  im- 
pudence, humbly  presumed  to  promise  an  epitome 
of  all  the  good  things  that  ever  were  said  or  written 
this  might  have  disgusted  those  readers  I  most  desire 
to  please.  Had  I  been  merry,  I  might  have  been 
censured  as  vastly  low  ;  and  had  I  been  sorrowful. 


I  might  have  been  left  to  mourn  in  solitude  and  si- 
lence :  in  short,  whichever  way  I  turned,  nothing 
presented  but  prospects  of  terror,  despair,  chand- 
lers' shops,  and  waste  paper. 

In  the  debate  between  fear  and  ambition,  my 
publisher,  happening  to  arrive,  interrupted  for  a 
while  my  anxiety.  Perceiving  my  embarrassment 
about  making  my  first  appearance,  he  instantly  of- 
fered his  assistance  and  advice.  "  You  must 
know,  sir,"  says  he,  "that  the  republic  of  letters  is 
at  present  divided  into  three  classes.  One  writer 
for  instance,  excels  at  a  plan  or  a  title-page,  another 
works  away  the  body  of  the  book,  and  a  third  is  a 
dab  at  an  index.  Thus  a  magazine  is  not  the  re- 
sult of  any  single  man's  industry,  but  goes  through 
as  many  hands  as  a  new  pin  before  it  is  fit  for  the 
public.  I  fancy,  sir,"  contiliues  he,  "  I  can  pro- 
vide an  eminent  hand,  and  upon  moderate  terms, 
to  draw  up  a  promising  plan  to  smooth  up  our 
readers  a  little,  and  pay  them  as  Colonel  Charteris 
paid  his  seraglio,  at  the  rate  of  three  halfpence  in 
hand,  and  three  shillings  more  in  promises." 

He  was  proceeding  in  his  advice,  which,  how 
ever,  I  thought  proper  to  decline,  by  assuring  him, 
that  as  I  intended  to  pursue  no  fixed  method,  so  it 
was  impossible  to  form  any  regular  plan ;  determin- 
ed never  to  be  tedious  in  order  to  be  logical, 
wherever  pleasure  presented  I  was  resolved  to  fol- 
low. Like  the  Bee,  which  I  had  taken  for  the  title 
of  my  paper,  1  would  rove  from  flower  to  flower, 
with  seeming  inattention,  but .  concealed  choice, 
expatiate  over  all  the  beauties  of  the  season,  and 
make  my  industry  my  amusement. 

This  reply  may  also  serve  as  an  apology  to  the 
reader,  who  expects,  before  he  sits  down,  a  bill  of 
his  future  entertainment.  It  would  be  improper  to 
pall  his  curiosity  by  lessening  his  surprise,  or  anti- 
cipate any  pleasure  I  am  able  to  procure  him,  by 
saying  what  shall  come  next.     Thus  much,  how- 


THE  BEE. 


425 


\ 


ever,  he  may  be  assured  of,  that  neither  war  nor 
Bcandal  shall  make  any  part  of  it.  Homer  finely 
imagines  his  deity  turning  away  with  horror  from 
the  prospect  of  a  field  of  battle,  and  seeking  tran- 
quillity among  a  nation  noted  for  peace  and  sim- 
plicity. Happy,  could  any  effort  of  mine,  but  for 
a  moment,  repress  that  savage  pleasure  some  men 
find  in  the  daily  accounts  of  human  misery !  How 
gladly  would  I  lead  them  from  scenes  of  blood  and 
altercation,  to  prospects  of  innocence  and  ease, 
where  every  breeze  breathes  health,  and  every 
sound  is  but  the  echo  of  tranquilUty ! 

But  whatever  the  merit  of  his  intentions  may 
be,  every  writer  is  now  convinced,  that  he  must  be 
chiefly  indebted  to  good  fortune  for  finding  readers 
willing  to  allow  him  any  degree  of  reputation.  It 
has  been  remarked,  that  almost  every  character, 
which  has  excited  either  attention  or  praise,  has 
owed  part  of  its  success  to  merit,  and  part  to  a 
happy  concurrence  of  circumstances  in  its  favour. 
Had  Csesar  or  Cromwell  exchanged  countries,  the 
one  might  have  been  a  sergeant,  and  the  other  an 
exciseman.  So  it  is  with  wit,  which  generally 
succeeds  more  from  being  happily  addressed,  than 
from  its  native  poignancy.  A  bon  mot,  for  in- 
stance, that  might  be  relished  at  White's,  may 
lose  all  its  flavour  when  delivered  at  the  Cat  and 
Bagpipes  in  St.  Giles's.  A  jest,  calculated  to 
spread  at  a  gaming-table,  may  be  received  with  a 
perfect  neutrality  of  face,  should  it  happen  to  drop 
in  a  mackerel-boat.  We  have  all  seen  dunces 
triumph  in  such  companies,  when  men  of  real  hu- 
mour were  disregarded,  by  a  general  combination 
in  favour  of  stupidity.  To  drive  the  observation 
as  far  as  it  will  go,  should  the  labours  of  a  writer, 
who  designs  his  performances  for  readers  of  a  more 
refined  appetite,  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  devourer 
of  compilations,  what  can  he  expect  but  contempt 
and  confusion*]  If  his  merits  are  to  be  determined 
by  judges,  who  estimate  the  value  of  a  book  from 
its  bulk,  or  its  frontispiece,  every  rival  must  acquire 
an  easy  superiority,  who,  with  persuasive  elo- 
quence, promises  four  extraordinary  pages  of  letter- 
press, or  three  beautiful  prints,  curiously  coloured 
from  nature. 

But  to  proceed :  though  I  can  not  promise  as 
much  entertainment,  or  as  much  elegance,  as 
others  have  done,  yet  the  reader  may  be  assured, 
he  shall  have  as  much  of  both  as  I  can.  He  shall 
at  least,  find  me  alive  while  I  study  his  entertain- 
ment; for  I  solemnly  assure  him,  I  was  never  yet 
possessed  of  the  secret  at  once  of  writing  and 
sleeping. 

During  the  course  of  this  paper,  therefore,  all 
the  wit  and  learning  I  have  are  heartily  at  his  ser- 
vice; which  if,  after  so  candid  a  confession,  he 
should,  notwithstanding,  still  find  intolerably  dull, 


low,  or  sad  stuff,  this  I  protest  is  more  than  I 
know.  I  have  a  clear  conscience,  and  am  entirely 
out  of  the  secret. 

Yet  I  would  not  have  him,  upon  the  perusal  of 
a  single  paper,  pronounce  me  incorrigible ;  he  may 
try  a  second,  which,  as  there  is  a  studied  differ- 
ence in  subject  and  style,  may  be  more  suited  to 
his  taste ;  if  this  also  fails,  I  must  refer  him  to  a 
third,  or  even  to  a  fourth,  in  case  of  extremity. 
If  he  should  still  continue  to  be  refractory,  and 
find  me  dull  to  the  last,  I  must  inform  him,  with 
Bays  in  the  Rehearsal,  that  I  think  him  a  very 
odd  kind  of  a  fellow,  and  desire  no  more  of  his  ac- 
quaintance. 

It  is  with  such  reflections  as  these  I  endeavour 
to  fortify  myself  against  the  future  contempt  or 
neglect  of  some  readers,  and  am  prepared  for  their 
dislike  by  mutual  recrimination.  If  such  should 
impute  dealing  neither  in  battles  nor  scandal  to  me 
as  a  fault,  instead  of  acquiescing  in  their  censure, 
I  must  beg  leave  to  tell  them  a  story. 

A  traveller,  in  his  way  to  Italy,  happening  to 
pass  at  the  foot  of  the  Alps,  found  himself  at  last 
in  a  country  where  the  inhabitants  had  each  a 
large  excrescence  depending  from  the  chin,  like 
the  pouch  of  a  monkey,  '^ip  deformity,  as  it 
was  endemic,  and  the  peopl5BWe  used  to  stran- 
gers, it  had  been  the  custom,  time  immemorial,  to 
look  upon  as  the  greatest  ornament  of  the  human 
visage.  Ladies  grew  toasts  from  the  size  of  their 
chins ;  and  none  were  regarded  as  pretty  fellows, 
but  such  whose  faces  were  broadest  at  the  bottom. 
It  was  Sunday,  a  country  church  was  at  hand, 
and  our  traveller  was  willing  to  perform  the  duties 
of  the  day.  Upon  his  first  appearance  at  the 
church-door,  the  eyes  of  all  were  naturally  fixed 
upon  the  stranger;  but  what  was  their  amazement, 
when  they  found  that  he  actually  wanted  that  em- 
blem of  beauty,  a  pursed  chin !  This  was  a  defect 
that  not  a  single  creature  had  sufficient  gravity 
(though  they  were  noted  for  being  grave)  to  with- 
stand. Stifled  bursts  of  laughter,  winks  and  whis- 
pers, circulated  from  visage  to  visage,  and  the  pris- 
matic figure  of  the  stranger's  face  was  a  fund  of 
infinite  gaiety ;  even  the  parson,  equally  remarka- 
ble for  his  gravity  and  chin,  could  hardly  refrain 
joining  in  the  good-humour.  Our  traveller  could 
no  longer  patiently  con^tinue  an  object  for  defor- 
mity to  point  at.  "  Good  folks,"  said  he,  "  I  per- 
ceive that  I  am  the  unfortunate  cause  of  all  this 
good-humour.  It  is  true,  I  may  have  faults  in 
abundance;  but  I  shall  never  be  induced  to 
reckon  my  want  of  a  swelled  face  among  the 
number."* 


*  Dr.  Goldsmith  inserted  this  Introduction,  with  a  few 
trifling  alterations,  in  the  volume  of  Essays  he  published  in 
the  year  1765. 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ON    A    BEAUTIFUL    YOUTH    STRUCK     BLIND    WITH 
LIGHTNING. 

Imitated  from  the  Spanish. 

LuMiNE  Aeon  dextro,  capta  est  Leonida  sinistro, 
Et  poterat  forma  vincere  uterque  Deos. 

Parve  puer,  lumen  quod  habes  concede  puellae ; 
Sic  tu  csecus  amor,  sic  erit  ilia  Venus.* 


REMARKS  ON  OUR  THEATRES. 

Our  Theatres  are  now  opened,  and  all  Grub- 
street  is  preparing  its  advice  to  the  managers.  We 
shall  undoubtedly  hear  learned  disquisitions  on 
the  structure  of  one  actor's  legs,  and  another's  eye- 
brows. We  shall  be  told  much  of  enunciations, 
tones,  and  attitudes ;  and  shall  have  our  lightest 
pleasures  commented  upon  by  didactic  dulness. 
We  shall,  it  is  feared,  be  told,  that  Garrick  is  a 
fine  actor ;  but  then  as  a  manager,  so  avaricious 
That  Palmer  is  a  most  surprising  genius,  and  Hol- 
land likely  to  do  well  in  a  particular  cast  of  cha- 
racter. We  shall  have  them  giving  Shuter  instruc- 
tions to  amuse  us  by  rule,  and  deploring  over  the 
ruins  of  desolated  majesty  at  Covent-Garden.  As 
I  love  to  be  advising  too,  for  advice  is  easily  given, 
and  bears  a  show  of  wisdom  and  superiority,  I 
must  be  permitted  to  offer  a  few  observations  upon 
our  theatres  and  actors,  without,  on  this  trivial 
occasion,  throwing  my  thoughts  into  the  formality 
of  method. 

There  is  something  in  the  deportment  of  all  our 
players  infinitely  more  stiff  and  formal  than  among 
^  the  actors  of  other  nations.  Their  action  sits  un- 
easy upon  them ;  for,  as  the  English  use  very  little 
gesture  in  ordinary  conversation,  our  English-bred 
actors  are  obliged  to  supply  stage  gestures  by  their 
imagination  alone.  A  French  comedian  finds 
proper  models  of  action  in  every  company  and  irf' 
every  coflfee-house  he  enters.  An  Enghshman  is 
obliged  to  take  his  models  from  the  stage  itself; 
he  is  obliged  to  imitate  nature  from  an  imitation 
of  nature.  I  know  of  no  set  of  men  more  likely 
to  be  improved  by  travelling  than  those  of  the 
theatrica.  profession.  The  inhabitants  of  the  con- 
tinent are  less  reserved  than  here;  they  may  be 
seen  through  upon  a  first  acquaintance ;  such  are 
the  proper  models  to  draw  from;  they  are  at  once 
striking,  and  are  found  in  great  abundance. 

Though  it  would  be  inexcusable  in  a  comedian 
to  add  any  thing  of  his  own  to  the  poet's  dialogue, 
yet,  as  to  action,  he  is  entirely  at  liberty.    By  this 


*  An  English  Epigram,  on  the  same  subject,  is  inserted  in 
the  second  volume,  p.  110. 


he  may  show  the  fertility  of  his  genius,  the  poi^ 
nancy  of  his  humour,  and  the  exactness  of  his 
judgment :  we  scarcely  see  a  coxcomb  or  a  fool  m 
common  life,  that  has  not  some  peculiar  oddity  in 
his  action.     These  peculiarities  it  is  not  in  the 
power  of  words  to  represent,  and  depend  solely 
upon  the  actor.     They  give  a  relish  to  the  humour 
of  the  poet,  and  make  the  appearance  of  nature 
more  illusive.     The  Italians,  it  is  true,  mask  some 
characters,  and  endeavour  to  preserve  the  peculiar 
humour  by  the  make  of  the  mask ;  but  I  have 
seen  others  still  preserve  a  great  fund  of  humour  in 
the  face  without  a  mask ;  one  actor,  particularly, 
by  a  squint  which  he  threw  into  some  characters 
of  low  life,  assumed  a  look  of  infinite  stolidity. 
This,  though  upon  reflection  we  might  condemn, 
yet  immediately  upon  representation  we  could  not 
avoid  being  pleased  with.     To  illustrate  what  I 
have  been  saying  by  the  plays  which  I  have  of 
late  gone  to  see  :  in  the  Miser,  which  was  played 
a  few  nights  ago  at  Covent-Garden,  Lovegold  ap- 
pears through  the  whole  in  circumstances  of  ex- 
aggerated avarice;  all  the  player's  action,  there- 
fore should  conspire  with  the  poet's  design,  and 
represent  him  as  an  epitome  of  penury.     The 
I'rench  comedian,  in  this  character,  in  the  midst 
of  one  of  his  most  violent  passions,  while  he  ap- 
pears in  an  ungovernable  rage,  feels  the  demon  of 
avarice  still  upon  liim,  and  stoops  down  to  pick  up 
a  pin,  which  he  quilts  into  the  flap  of  his  coat- 
pocket  with  great  assiduity.      Two  candles  are 
lighted  up  for  his  wedding;  he  flies,  and  turns  one 
of  them  into  the  socket :  it  is,  however,  lighted  up 
again  ;  he  then  steals  to  it,  and  privately  crams  it 
into  his  pocket.     The  Mock-Doctor  was  lately 
played  at  the  other  house.     Here  again  the  come- 
dian had  an  opportunity  of  heightening  the  ridi- 
cule by  action.     The  French  player  sits  in  a  chair 
with  a  high  back,  and  then  begins  to  show  away 
by  talking  nonsense,  which  he  would  have  thought 
-Lb,tin  by  those  who  he  knows  do  not  understand 
a  syllable  of  the  matter.     At  last  he  grows  enthu- 
siastic, enjoys  the  admiration  of  the  company,  tosses 
his  legs  and  arms  about,  and,  in  the  midst    of 
his  raptures  and  vociferation,  he  and  the  chair  fall 
back  together.    All  this  appears  dull  enough  in 
the  recital,  but  the  gravity  of  Cato  could  not  stand 
it  in  the  representation.     In  short,  there  is  hardly 
a  character  in  comedy  to  which  a  player  of  any 
real  humour  might  not  add  strokes  of  vivacity  that 
could  not  fail  of  applause.     But,  instead  of  this, 
we  too  often  see  our  fine  gentlemen  do  nothing, 
through  a  whole  part,  but  strut  and  open  their 
snuff'-box ;  our  pretty  fellows  sit  indecently  with 
their  legs  across,  and  our  clowns  pull  up  their 
breeches.     These,  if  once,  or  even  twice  repeated, 
might  do  well  enough ;  but  to  see  them  served  up 
in  every  scene,  argues  the  actor  almost  as  barren 
as  the  character  he  would  expose. 


THE  BEE. 


427 


^ 


The  magnificence  of  our  theatres  is  far  superior 
to  any  others  in  Europe,  where  plays  only  are  act- 
ed. The  great  care  our  performers  take  in  painting 
for  a  part,  their  exactness  in  all  the  minutias  of 
dress,  and  other  little  scenical  properties,  have  been 
taken  notice  of  by  Ricoboni,  a  gentleman  of  Italy, 
who  travelled  Europe  with  no  other  design  but  to 
remark  upon  the  stage ;  but  there  are  several  im- 
proprieties still  continued,  or  lately  come  into 
fashion.  As,  for  instance,  spreading  a  carpet 
punctually  at  the  beginning  of  the  death  scence,  in 
order  to  prevent  our  actors  from  spoiling  their 
clothes ;  this  immediately  apprises  us  of  the  tragedy 
to  follow ;  for  laying  the  cloth  is  not  a  more  sure 
indication  of  dinner,  than  laying  the  carpet  of 
bloody  work  at  Drury-Lane.  Our  little  pages  also, 
with  unmeaning  faces,  that  bear  up  the  train  of  a 
weeping  princess,  and  our  awkward  lords  in  wait- 
ing, take  off  much  from  her  distress.  Mutes  of 
every  kind  divide  our  attention,  and  lessen  our 
sensibility;  but  here  it  is  entirely  ridiculous,  as  we 
see  them  seriously  employed  in  doing  nothing.  If 
we  must  have  dirty-shirted  guards  upon  the  thea- 
tres, they  should  be  taught  to  keep  their  eyes  fixed 
on  the  actors,  and  not  roll  them  round  upon  the 
audience,  as  if  they  were  ogling  the  boxes. 

Beauty,  methinks,  seems  a  requisite  qualifica- 
tion in  an  actress.  This  seems  scrupulously  ob- 
served elsewhere,  and,  for  my  part,  I  could  wish 
to  see  it  observed  at  home.  I  can  never  con- 
ceive a  hero  dying  for  love  of  a  lady  totally  destitute 
of  beauty.  I  must  think  the  part  unnatural ;  for  I 
can  not  bear  to  hear  him  call  that  face  angelic, 
where  even  paint  can  not  hide  its  wrinkles.  I  must 
condemn  him  of  stupidity,  and  the  person  whom  I 
can  accuse  for  want  of  taste,  will  seldom  become 
the  object  of  my  affections  or  admiration.  But  if 
this  be  a  defect,  what  must  be  the  entire  perver- 
sion of  scenical  decorum,  when,  for  instance,  we 
see  an  actress,  that  might  act  the  Wapping  land- 
lady without  a  bolster,  pining  in  the  character  of 
Jane  Shore,  and  while  unwieldy  with  fat,  en- 
deavouring to  convince  the  audience  that  she  is 
dying  with  hunger ! 

For  the  future,  then,  I  could  wish  that  the  parts 
of  the  young  or  beautiful  were  given  to  performers 
of  suitable  figures;  for  I  nmst  own,  I  could  rather 
eee  the  stage  filled  with  agreeable  objects,  though 
they  might  sometimes  bungle  a  Httle,  than  see  it 
crowded  with  withered  or  misshapen  figures,  be 
iheir  emphasis,  as  I  think  it  is  called,  ever  so  proper. 
The  first  may  have  the  awkward  appearance  of 
new  raised  troops ;  but  in  viewing  the  last,  I  can- 
not avoid  the  mortification  of  fancying  myself 
placed  in  an  hospital  of  invalids. 


THE  STORY  OF  ALCANDER  AND  SEP 
TIMIUS. 

Translated  from  a  Byzantine  Historian. 

Athens,  even  long  before  the  decline  of  the 
Roman  empire,  still  continued  the  seat  of  learning, 
politeness,  and  wisdom.  The  emperors  and  gene- 
rals, who  in  these  periods  of  approaching  ignorance, 
still  felt  a  passion  for  science,  from  time  to  time  add- 
ed to  its  buildings,  or  increased  its  professorships. 
Theodoric,  the  Ostrogoth,  was  of  the  number;  he 
repaired  those  schools,  which  barbarity  was  suffer- 
ing to  fall  into  decay,  and  continued  those  pensions 
to  men  of  learning,  which  avaricious  governors 
had  monopolized  to  themselves. 

In  this  city,  and  about  this  period,  Alcander 
and  Septimius  were  fellow-students  together.  The 
one  the  most  subtle  reasoner  of  all  the  Lyceum ; 
the  other  the  most  eloquent  speaker  in  the  academic 
grove.  Mutual  admiration  soon  begot  an  ac- 
quaintance, and  a  similitude  of  disposition  made 
them  perfect  friends.  Their  fortunes  were  nearly 
equal,  their  studies  the  same,  and  they  were  na- 
tives of  the  two  most  celebrated  cities  in  the  world ; 
for  Alcander  was  of  Athens,  Septimius  came  from 
Rome. 

In  this  mutual  harmony  they  lived  for  some  time 
together,  when  Alcander,  after  passing  the  first 
part  of  his  youth  in  the  indolence  of  philosophy, 
thought  at  length  of  entering  into  the  busy  world, 
and  as  a  step  previous  to  this,  placed  his  affections 
on  Hypatia,  a  lady  of  exquisite  beauty.  Hypatia 
showed  no  dislike  to  his  addresses.  The  day  of 
their  intended  nuptials  was  fixed,  the  previous  cere- 
monies were  performed,  and  nothing  now  remain- 
ed but  her  being  conducted  in  triumph  to  the  apart- 
ment of  the  intended  bridegroom. 

An  exultation  in  his  own  happiness,  or  his  be- 
ing unable  to  enjoy  any  satisfaction  without  making 
his  friend  Septimius  a  partner,  prevailed  upon  him 
to  introduce  his  mistress  to  his  fellow-student, 
which  he  did  with  all  the  gaiety  of  a  man  who 
found  himself  equally  happy  in  friendship  and  love. 
But  this  was  an  interview  fatal  to  the  peace  of 
both.  Septimius  no  sooner  saw  her,  but  he  was 
smitten  with  an  involuntary  passion.  He  used 
every  effort,  but  in  vain,  to  suppress  desires  at  once 
so  imprudent  and  unjust.  He  retired  to  his  apart- 
ment in  inexpressible  agony ;  and  the  emotions  of 
his  mind  in  a  short  time  became  so  strong,  that 
they  brought  on  a  fever,  which  the  physicians 
judged  incurable. 

During  this  illness,  Alcander  watched  him  with 
all  the  anxiety  of  fondness,  and  brought  his  mis^ 
tress  to  join  in  those  amiable  offices  of  friendship* 


428 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


The  sagacity  of  the  physicians,  by  this  means,  soon 
discovered  the  cause  of  their  patient's  disorder; 
and  Alcander,  being  apprised  of  their  discovery, 
at  length  extorted  a  confession  from  the  reluctant 
dying  lover. 

It  w^ould  but  delay  the  narrative  to  describe  the 
conflict  between  love  and  friendship  in  the  breast 
of  Alcander  on  this  occasion;  it  is  enough  to  say, 
that  the  Athenians  were  at  this  time  arrived  to 
such  refinement  in  morals,  that  every  virtue  was 
carried  to  excess.  In  short,  forgetful  of  his  own 
felicity,  he  gave  up  his  intended  bride,  in  all  her 
charms,  to  the  young  Roman.  They  were  married 
privately  by  his  connivance;  and  this  unlooked-for 
change  of  fortune  wrought  as  unexpected  a  change 
m  the  constitution  of  the  now  happy  Septimius. 
In  a  few  days  he  was  perfectly  recovered,  and  set 
out  with  his  fair  partner  for  Rome.  Here,  by  an 
exertion  of  those  talents  of  which  he  was  so  emi- 
nently possessed,  he  in  a  few  years  arrived  at  the 
highest  dignities  of  the  state,  and  was  constituted 
the  city  judge,  or  prsetor. 

Meanwhile,  Alcander  not  only  felt  the  pain  of 
being  separated  from  his  friend  and  mistress,  but  a 
prosecution  was  also  commenced  against  him  by 
the  relations  of  Hypatia,  for  his  having  basely  given 
her  up,  as  w^as  suggested,  for  money.  Neither  his 
innocence  of  the  crime  laid  to  his  charge,  nor  his 
eloquence  in  his  own  defence,  was  able  to  with- 
stand the  influence  of  a  powerful  party.  He  was 
cast,  and  condemned  to  pay  an  enormous  fine. 
Unable  to  raise  so  large  a  sum  at  the  time  appoint- 
ed, his  possessions  were  confiscated,  himself  strip- 
ped of  the  habit  of  freedom,  exposed  in  the  market- 
place, and  sold  as  a  slave  to  the  highest  bidder. 

A  merchant  of  Thrace  becoming  his  purchaser, 
Alcander,  with  some  other  companions  of  distress, 
was  carried  into  the  region  of  desolation  and  ste- 
rility. His  stated  employment  was  to  follow  the 
herds  of  an  imperious  master;  and  his  skill  in 
hunting  was  all  that  was  allowed  him  to  supply  a 
precarious  subsistence.  Condemned  to  hopeless 
servitude,  every  morning  waked  him  to  a  renewal 
of  famine  or  toil,  and  every  change  of  season  serv- 
ed but  to  aggravate  his  unsheltered  distress.  No- 
thing but  death  or  flight  was  left  him,  and  almost 
certain  death  was  the  consequence  of  his  attempt- 
ing to  fly.  After  some  years  of  bondSge,  however, 
an  opportunity  of  escaping  offered ;  he  embraced  it 
with  ardour,  and  travelling  by  night,  and  lodging 
in  caverns  by  day,  to  shorten  a  long  story,  he  at 
last  arrived  in  Rome.  The  day  of  Alcander's  ar- 
rival, Septimius  sat  in  the  forum  administering 
justice;  and  hither  our  wanderer  came,  expecting 
to  be  instantly  known,  and  publicly  acknowledged. 
Here  he  stood  the  whole  day  among  the  crowd, 
watching  the  eyes  of  the  judge,  and  expecting  to 
betaken  notice  of;  but  so  much  was  he  altered  by 
a  long  succession  of  hardships,  that  he  passed  en- 


tirely without  notice  ;  and  in  the  evening,  when  he 
was  going  up  to  the  prstor's  chair,  he  was  bru- 
tally repulsed  by  the  attending  lictors.  The  at- 
tention of  the  poor  is  generally  driven  from  one 
ungrateful  object  to  another.  Night  coming  on, 
he  now  found  himself  under  a  necessity  of  seeking 
a  place  to  lie  in,  and  yet  knew  not  where  to  ap- 
ply. All  emaciated  and  in  rags  as  he  was,  none 
of  the  citizens  would  harbour  so  much  wretched- 
ness, and  sleeping  in  the  streets  might  be  attend- 
ed with  interruption  or  danger :  in  short,  he  was 
obliged  to  take  up  his  lodging  in  one  of  the  tombs 
without  the  city,  the  usual  retreat  of  guilt,  poverty, 
or  despair. 

In  this  mansion  of  horror,  laying  his  head  upon 
an  inverted  urn,  he  forgot  his  miseries  for  a  while 
in  sleep ;  and  virtue  found,  on  this  flinty  couch, 
more  ease  than  down  can  supply  to  the  guilty. 

It  was  midnight  when  two  robbers  came  to  make 
this  cave  their  retreat,  but  happening  to  disagree 
about  the  division  of  their  plunder,  one  of  them 
stabbed  the  other  to  the  heart,  and  left  him  welter- 
ing in  blood  at  the  entrance.  In  these  circum- 
stances he  was  found  next  morning,  and  this  natu- 
rally induced  a  further  inquiry.  The  alarm  was 
spread,  the  cave  was  examined,  Alcander  was 
found  sleeping,  and  immediately  apprehended  and 
accused  of  robbery  and  murder.  The  circmn- 
stances  against  him  were  strong,  and  the  wretched- 
ness of  his  appearance  confirmed  suspicion.  Mis- 
fortune and  he  were  now  so  long  acquainted,  that 
he  at  last  became  regardless  of  life.  He  detested  a 
world  where  he  had  found  only  ingratitude,  false- 
hood, and  cruelty,  and  was  determined  to  make  no 
defence.  Thus,  lowering  with  resolution,  he  was 
dragged,  bound  with,  cords,  before  the  tribunal  of 
Septimius.  The  proofs  were  positive  against  him, 
and  he  olFered  nothing  in  his  own  vindication ;  the 
judge,  therefore  was  proceeding  to  doom  him  to  a 
most  cruel  and  ignominious  death,  when,  as  if  illu- 
mined by  a  ray  from  Heaven,  he  discovered, 
through  all  his  misery,  the  features,  though  dim  "I 
with  sorrow,  of  his  long-lost,  loved  Alcander.  It  is  ^ 
impossible  to  describe  his  joy  and  his  pain  on  this 
strange  occasion ;  happy  in  once  more  seeing  the 
person  he  most  loved  on  earth,  distressed  at  find- 
ing him  in  such  circumstances.  Thus  agitated  by 
contending  passions,  he  flew  from  his  tribunal,  and 
falling  on  the  neck  of  his  dear  benefactor,  burst  in- 
to an  agony  of  distress.  The  attention  of  the 
multitude  was  soon,  however,  divided  by  another 
object.  The  robber  who  had  been  really  giiilty, 
was  apprehended  selling  his  plunder,  and  struck 
with  a  panic,  confessed  his  crime.  He  was  brought 
bound  to  the  same  tribunal,  and  acquitted  every 
other  person  of  any  partnership  in  his  guilt.  Need 
the  sequel  be  related?  Alcander  was  acquitted, 
shared  the  friendship  and  the  honours  of  his  friend 
Septimius,  lived  afterwards  in  happiness  and  ease, 


THE  BEE. 


429 


HXid  left  it  to  be  engraved  on  his  tomb,  "  That  no  j 
circumstances  are  so  desperate  which  Providence 
may  not  relieve." 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  TRAVELLER. 

Cracow^  Augusts,  1758. 
My  Dear.  Will, 

You  see  by  the  date  of  my  letter  that  I  am  arriv- 
ed in  Poland.  When  will  my  wanderings  be  at 
an  end?  When  will  my  restless  disposition  give  me 
leave  to  enjoy  the  present  hour?  When  at  Lyons, 
I  thought  all  happiness  lay  beyond  the  Alps: 
when  in  Italy,  I  found  myself  still  in  wantof  some- 
•hing,  and  expected  to  leave  solicitude  behind  me 
by  going  into  Romelia;  and  now  you  find  me 
turning  back,  still  expecting  ease  every  where  but 
where  I  am.  It  is  now  seven  years  since  I  saw 
the  face  of  a  single  creature  who  cared  a  farthing 
whether  I  was  dead  or  alive.  Secluded  from  all 
the  comforts  of  confidence,  friendship,  or  society,  I 
feci  the  soUtude  of  a  hermit,  but  not  his  ease. 

The  prince  of  ***  has  taken  me  in  his  train,  so 
that  I  am  in  no  danger  of  starving  for  this  bout. 
The  prince's  governor  is  a  rude  ignorant  pedant, 
and  his  tutor  a  battered  rake ;  thus,  between  two 
such  characters,  you  may  imagine  he  is  finely  in- 
structed. I  made  some  attempts  to  display  all  the 
little  knowledge  I  had  acquired  by  reading  or  ob- 
servation ;  but  I  find  myself  regarded  as  an  igno- 
rant intruder.  The  truth  is,  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  acquire  a  power  of  expressing  myself  with  ease 
in  any  language  but  my  own ;  and,  out  of  my  own 
country,  the  highest  character  I  can  ever  acquire, 
is  that  of  being  a  philosophic  vagabond. 

When  I  consider  myself  in  the  country  which 
was  once  so  formidable  in  war,  and  spread  terror 
and  desolation  over  the  whole  Roman  empire,  I 
can  hardly  account  for  the  present  wretchedness 

tid  pusillanimity  of  its  inhabitants:  a  prey  to 
ery  invader;  their  cities  plundered  without  an 
fcay ;  their  magistrates  seeking  redress  by  com- 
Jts,  and  not  by  vigour.  Every  thing  conspires 
10  raise  my  compassion  for  their  miseries,  were  not 
my  thoughts  too  busily  engaged  by  my  own.  The 
j  whole  kingdom  is  in  a  strange  disorder :  when  our 
equipage,  which  consists  of  the  prince  and  thirteen 
attendants,  had  arrived  at  some  towns,  there  were 
I  no  conveniences  to  be  found,  and  we  were  obUged 
to  have  girls  to  conduct  us  to  the  next.  I  have  seen 
a  woman  travel  thus  on  horseback  before  us  for 
thirty  miles,  and  think  herself  highly  paid,  and 
make  twenty  reverences,  upon  receiving,  with  ec- 
stacy,  about  twopence  for  her  trouble.  In  general, 
we  were  better  served  by  the  women  than  the  men 
on  these  occasions.  The  men  seemed  directed  by 
a  low  sordid  interest  alone :  they  seemed  mere  ma- 
chines, and  all  their  thoughts  were  employed  in 


the  care  of  their  horses.  If  we  gently  desired 
them  to  make  more  speed,  they  took  not  the  least 
notice ;  kind  language  was  what  they  had  by  no 
means  been  used  to.  It  was  proper  to  speak  to 
them  in  the  tones  of  anger,  and  sometinies  it  was 
even  necessary  to  use  blows,  to  excite  them  to  their 
duty.  How  difiTerent  these  from  the  common  peo- 
ple of  England,  whom  a  blow  might  induce  to  re 
turn  the  aflfront  seven  fold!  These  poor  people, 
however,  from  being  brought  up  to  vile  usage,  los« 
all  the  respect  which  they  should  have  for  them- 
selves. They  have  contracted  a  habit  of  regarding 
constraint  as  the  great  rule  of  their  duty.  When 
they  were  treated  with  mildness,  they  no  longer 
continued  to  perceive  a  superiority.  They  fancied 
themselves  our  equals,  and  a  continuance  of  out 
humanity  might  probably  have  rendered  them  in- 
solent: but  the  imperious  tone,  menaces  and 
blows,  at  once  changed  their  sensations  and  their 
ideas ;  their  ears  and  shoulders  taught  their  souls 
to  shrink  back  into  servitude,  from  which  they  had 
for  some  moments  fancied  themselves  disengaged. 

The  enthusiasm  of  liberty  an  EngUshman  feels 
is  never  so  strong,  as  when  presented  by  such 
prospects  as  these.  I  must  own,  in  all  my  indi- 
gence, it  is  one  of  my  comforts  (perhaps,  indeed,  it 
is  my  only  boast,)  that  I  am  of  that  happy  coun- 
try; though  I  scorn  to  starve  there;  though  I  do 
not  choose  to  lead  a  life  of  wretched  dependence, 
or  be  an  object  for  my  former  acquaintance  to  point 
at.  While  you  enjoy  all  the  ease  and  elegance  of 
prudence  and  virtue,  your  old  friend  wanders  over 
the  world,  without  a  single  anchor  to  hold  by,  or  a 
friend  except  you  to  confide  in.* 

Yours,  etc. 


A  SHORT  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LATE 
MR.  MAUPERTUIS. 

Mr.  Maupertdis  lately  deceased,  was  the  first 
to  whom  the  English  philosophers  owed  their  being 
particularly  admired  by  the  rest  of  Europe.  The 
romantic  system  of  Descartes  was  adapted  to  the 
taste  of  the  superficial  and  the  indolent ;  the  foreign 
universities  had  embraced  it  with  ardour,  and  such 
are  seldom  convinced  of  their  errors  till  all  others  give 
up  such  false  opinions  as  untenable.  The  philoso- 
phy of  Newton,  and  the  meta})hysics  of  Locke,  ap- 
peared ;  but,  hke  all  new  truths,  they  were  at  once 
received  with  opposition  and  contempt.  The  En- 
glish, it  is  true,  studied,  understood,  and  cons*- 
quently  admired  them ;  it  was  very  different  on  the 
continent.  Fontenelle,  who  seemed  to  preside  over 


*  Tlie  sequel  of  this  correspondence  to  be  continued  occa- 
sionally, I  shall  alter  nothing  either  in  tlie  style  or  substance 
of  these  letters,  and  the  reader  may  depend  on  their  being 
genuine. 


430 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  republic  of  letters,  unwilling  to  acknowledge 
that  all  his  life  had  been  spent  in  erroneous  philo- 
sophy, joined  in  the  universal  disapprobation,  and 
the  English  philosophers  seemed  entirely  un- 
known. 

Maupertuis,  however,  made  them  his  study;  he 
thought  he  might  oppose  the  physics  of  his  coun- 
try, and  yet  still  be  a  good  citizen ;  he  defended  our 
countrymen,  wrote  in  their  favour,  and  at  last,  as 
he  had  truth  on  his  side,  carried  his  cause.  Almost 
all  the  learning  of  the  English,  till  very  lately,  was 
conveyed  in  the  language  of  France.  The  writings 
of  Maupertuis  spread  the  reputation  of  his  master, 
Newton,  and,  by  a  happy  fortune,  have  united  his 
fame  with  that  of  our  human  prodigy. 

The  first  of  his  performances,  openly,  in  vindica- 
tion of  the  Newtonian  system,  is  his  treatise,  en- 
titled, Sur  la  figure  des  Astres,  if  I  remember 
right;  a  work  at  once  expressive  of  a  deep  geometri- 
cal knowledge,  and  the  most  happy  manner  of  de- 
livering abstruse  science  with  ease.  This  met  with 
violent  opposition  from  a  people,  though  fond  of 
novelty  in  every  thing  else,  yet,  however,  in  mat- 
ters of  science,  attached  to  ancient  opinions  with 
bigotry.  As  the  old  and  obstinate  fell  away,  the 
youth  of  France  embraced  me  new  opinions,  and 
now  seem  more  eager  to  defend  Newton  than  even 
his  countrymen. 

The  oddity  of  character  which  great  men  are 
sometimes  remarkable  for,  Maupertuis  was  not 
entirely  free  from.  If  we  can  believe  Voltaire,  he 
once  attempted  to  castrate  himself;  but  whether 
this  be  true  or  no,  it  is  certain,  he  was  extremely 
whimsical.  Though  born  to  a  large  fortune,  when 
employed  in  mathematical  inquiries,  he  disregarded 
his  person  to  such  a  degree,  and  loved  retirement 
so  much,  that  he  has  been  more  than  once  put  on 
the  list  of  modfest  beggars  by  the  curates  of  Paris, 
when  he  retired  to  some  private  quarter  of  the 
town,  in  order  to  enjoy  his  meditations  without  in- 
terruption. The  character  given  of  him  by  one 
of  Voltaire's  antagonists,  if  it  can  be  depended 
upon,  is  much  to  his  honour.  "You,"'  says  this 
writer  to  Mr.  Voltaire,  "were  entertained  by  the 
King  of  Prussia  as  a  buffoon,  but  Maupertuis  as  a 
philosopher."  It  is  certain,  that  the  preference 
which  this  royal  scholar  gave  to  Maupertuis  was 
the  cause  of  Voltaire's  disagreement  with  him. 
Voltaire  could  not  bear  to  see  a  man  whose  talents 
he  hiul  no  great  opinion  of  preferred  before  him  as 
president  of  the  royal  academy.  His  Micromegas 
was  designed  to  ridicule  Maupertuis ;  and  probably 
it  has  brought  more  disgrace  on  the  author  than 
the  subject.  Whatever  absurdities  men  of  letters 
have  indulged,  and  how  fantastical  soever  the 
modes  of  science  have  been,  their  anger  is  still  more 
subject  to  ridicule. 


THE  BEE,  No.  II. 


Saturday,  October  13,  1759. 

ON  DRESS. 

Foreigners  observe,  that  there  are  no  ladies  in 
the  world  more  beautiful,  or  more  ill-dressed,  than 
those  of  England.  Our  countrywomen  have  been 
compared  to  those  pictures,  where  the  face  is  the 
work  of  a  Raphael,  but  the  draperies  thrown  out 
by  some  empty  pretender,  destitute  of  taste,  and 
entirely  unacquainted  with  design. 

If  I  were  a  poet,  I  migtif  observe,  on  this  occa 
sion,  that  so  much  beauty,  set  off  with  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  dress,  would  be  too  powerful  an  antago- 
nist for  the  opposite  sex,  and  therefore,  it  was  wise- 
ly ordered  that  our  ladies  should  want  taste,  lest 
their  admirers  should  entirely  want  reason. 

But  to  confess  a  truth,  I  do  not  find  they  have  a 
greater  aversion  to  fine  clothes  than  the  women 
of  any  other  country  whatsoever.  I  can  not  fancy, 
that  a  shop-keeper's  wife  in  Cheapside  has  a  greater 
tederness  for  the  fortune  of  her  husband  than  a 
citizen's  wife  in  Paris ;  or  that  miss  in  a  boarding- 
school  is  more  an  economist  in  dress  than  ma- 
demoiselle in  a  nunnery. 

Although  Paris  may  be  accounted  the  soil  in 
which  almost  every  fashion  takes  its  rise,  its  in- 
fluence is  never  so  general  there  as  with  us.  They 
study  there  the  happy  method  of  uniting  grace  and 
fashion,  and  never  excuse  a  woman  for  being  awk- 
wardly dressed,  by  saying  her  clothes  are  made  in 
the  mode.  A  French  woman  is  a  perfect  architect 
in  dress ;  she  never,  with  Gothic  ignorance,  mixes 
the  orders ;  she  iiever  tricks  out  a  squabby  Doric 
shape  with  Corinthian  finery;  or,  to  speak  without 
metaphor,  she  conforms  to  general  fashion,  only 
when  it  happens  not  to  be  repugnant  to  private 
beauty. 

Our  ladies,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have  n<6 
other  standard  for  grace  but  the  run  of  the  town. 
If  fashion  gives  the  word,  every  distinction  of 
beauty,  complexion,  or  stature,  ceases.  Sweeping 
trains,  Prussian  bonnets,  and  trollopees,  as  like 
each  other  as  if  cut  from  the  same  piece,  level  all 
to  one  standard.  The  Mall,  the  gardens,  and  the 
playhouses,  are  filled  with  ladies  in  uniform,  and 
their  whole  appearance  shows  as  little  variety  or 
taste,  as  if  their  clothes  were  bespoke  by  the  colo- 
nel of  a  marching  regiment,  or  fancied  by  the  same 
artist  who  dresses  the  three  battalions  of  guards. 

But  not  only  ladies  of  every  shape  and  com- 
plexion, but  of  every  age  too,  are  possessed  of  this 
unaccountable  passion  of  dressing  in  the  same 
manner.    A  lady  of  no  quality  can  be  distinguished 


THE  BlLiL. 


431 


from  a  lady  of  some  quality,  only  by  the  redness  of 
her  hands;  and  a  woman  of  sixty,  masked,  might 
easily  pass  for  her  grandaughter.  I  remember,  a 
few  days  ago,  to  have  walked  behind  a  damsel, 
tossed  out  in  all  the  gaiety  of  fifteen ;  her  dress  was 
ioose,  unstudied,  and  seemed  the  result  of  conscious 
beauty.  1  called  up  all  my  poetry  on  this  occasion, 
and  fancied  twenty  Cupids  prepared  for  execution 
in  every  folding  of  her  wffite  negligee.  I  had  pre- 
pared my  imagination  for  an  angel's  face ;  but  what 
was  my  mortification  to  find  that  the  imaginary 
goddess  was  no  other  than  my  cousin  Hannah, 
four  years  older  than  myself,  and  I  shall  be  sixty- 
two  the  twelfth  of  next  November. 

After  the  transports  of  our  first  salute  were  over, 
I  could  not  avoid  running  my  eye  over  her  whole 
appearance.  Her  gown  was  of  cambric,  cut  short 
'■■  before,  in  order  to  discover  a  high-heeled  shoe, 
which  was  buckled  almost  at  the  toe.  Her  cap,  if 
cap  it  might  be  called  that  cap  was  none,  consisted 
of  a  few  bits  of  cambric,  and  flowers  of  painted 
^paper  stuck  on  one  side  of  her  head.  Her  bosom, 
that  had  felt  no  hand,  but  the  hand  of  time,  these 
twenty  years,  rose  suing,  but  in  vain,  to  be  press- 
ed. I  could,  indeed,  have  wished  her  more  than  a 
handkerchief  of  Paris  net  to  shade  her  beauties ; 
for,  as  Tasso  says  of  the  rose  bud.  Quanta  si  mos- 
tra  men  tanto  e  pia  bella,  I  should  think  her's 
most  pleasing  when  least  discovered. 

As  my  cousin  had  not  put  on  all  this  finery  for 
nothing,  she  was  at  that  time  sallying  out  to  the 
Park,  when  I  had  overtaken  her.  Perceiving, 
however,  that  I  had  on  my  best  wig,  she  oflfered, 
if  I  would  'squire  her  there,  to  send  home  the  foot- 
man. Though  I  trembled  for  our  reception  in 
public,  yet  I  could  not  with  any  civility  refuse;  so, 
to  be  as  gallant  as  possible,  I  took  her  band  in  my 
arm,  and  thus  we  marched  on  together. 

When  we  made  our  entry  at  the  Park,  two  an- 

S*'"'iated  figures,  so  polite  and  so  tender  as  we  seem- 
to  be,  soon  attracted  the  eyes  of  the  company, 
we  made  our  way  among  crowds  who  were 
to  show  their  finery  as  well  as  we,  wherever 
came,  I  perceived  we  brought  good-humour  in 
our  train.  The  polite  could  not  forbear  smiling, 
and  the  vulgar  burst  out  into  a  horse-laugh  at  our 
grotesque  figures.  Cousin  Hannah,  who  was  per- 
fectly conscious  of  the  rectitude  of  her  own  ap- 
pearance, attributed  all  this  mirth  to  the  oddity  of 
mine ;  while  I  as  cordially  placed  the  whole  to  her 
account.  Thus,  from  being  two  of  the  best  natured 
creatures  alive,  before  we  got  half-way  up  the 
mall,  we  both  began  to  gi'ow  peevish,  and,  like  two 
mice  on  a  string,  endeavoured  to  revenge  the  im- 
pertinence of  others  upon  ourselves.  "  I  am  amazed, 
cousin  Jeffery,"  says  miss,  "  that  I  can  never  get 
you  to  dress  like  a  Christian.  I  knew  we  should 
have  the  eyes  of  the  Park  upon  us,  with  your  great 
wig  so  frizzed,  and  yet  so  beggarly,  and  your  mon- 


strous muff.  1  hate  those  odious  muifs."  I  could 
have  patiently  borne  a  criticism  on  all  the  rest  of 
my  equipage;  but  as  I  had  always  a  peculiar  vene- 
ration for  my  mufiT,  I  could  not  forbear  being  piqued 
a  little ;  and,  throwing  my  eyes  with  a  spiteful  air 
on  her  bosom,  "  I  could  heartily  wish,  madam," 
replied  I,  "that  for  your  sake  my  muff  was  cut  in- 
to a  tippet." 

As  my  cousin,  by  this  time,  was  grown  heartily 
ashamed  of  her  gentleman-usher,  and  as  I  was 
never  very  fond  of  any  kind  of  exhibition  myself, 
it  was  mutually  agreed  to  retire  for  a  while  to  one 
of  the  seats,  and  from  that  retreat  remark  on  others 
as  freely  as  they  had  remarked  on  us. 

When  seated,  we  continued  silent  for  some  time, 
employed  in  very  different  speculations.  I  regard- 
ed the  whole  company,  now  passing  in  review  be- 
fore me,  as  drawn  out  merely  for  my  amusement. 
For  my  entertainment  the  beauty  had  all  that 
morning  been  improving  her  charms,  the  beau  had 
put  on  lace,  and  the  young  doctor  a  big  wig,  mere- 
ly to  please  me.  But  quite  different  were  the  sen- 
timents of  cousin  Hannah;  she  regarded  every 
well-dressed  woman  as  a  victorious  rival,  hated, 
every  face  that  seemed  dressed  in  good-humour,  or 
wore  the  appearance  of  greater  happiness  than  her 
own.  I  perceived  her  uneasiness,  and  attempted 
to  lessen  it,  by  observing,  that  there  was  no  com- 
pany in  the  Park  to-day.  To  this  she  readily  as- 
sented, "and  yet,"  says  she,  "it  is  full  enough  of 
scrubs  of  one  kind  or  another."  My  smiling  at 
this  observation  gave  her  spirits  to  pursue  the  bent 
of  her  inclination,  and  now  she  began  to  exhibit 
her  skill  in  secret  history,  as  she  found  me  disposed 
to  listen.  "Observe,"  says  she  to  me,  "that  old 
woman  in  tawdry  silk,  and  dressed  out  even  be- 
yond the  fashion.  That  is  Miss  Biddy  Evergreen, 
Miss  Biddy,  it  seems,  has  money  and  as  she  con- 
siders that  money  was  never  so  scarce  as  it  is  now, 
she  seems  resolved  to  keep  what  she  has  to  herself. 
She  is  ugly  enough  you  see ;  yet  I  assure  you  she 
has  refused  several  offers  to  my  own  knowledge, 
within  this  twelvemonth.  Let  me  see,  three  gentle- 
men from  Ireland,  who  study  the  law,  two  waiting 
captains,  a  doctor,  and  a  Scotch  preacher,  who  had 
Hke  to  have  carried  her  off.  AH  her  time  is  passed 
between  sickness  and  finery.  Thus  she  spends 
the  whole  week  in  a  close  chamber,  with  no  other 
company  but  her  monkey,  her  apothecary,  and  cat; 
and  comes  dressed  out  to  the  Park  every  Sunday, 
to  show  her  airs,  to  get  new  lovers,  to  catch  a  new 
cold,  and  to  make  new  work  for  the  doctor. 

"  There  goes  Mrs.  Roundabout,  I  mean  the  fat 
lady  in  the  lutestring  troUopee.  Between  you 
and  I,  she  is  but  a  cutler's  wife.  See  how  she's 
dressed,  as  fine  as  hands  and  pins  can  make  her, 
while  her  two  marriageable  daughters,  like  hun- 
ters, in  stuff  gowns,  are  now  taking  sixpenny- 
worth  of  tea  at  the  White-Conduit-House.  Odious 


432 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


puss!  how  she  waddles  along,  with  her  train  two 
yards  behind  her!  She  puts  me  in  mind  of  my 
Lord  Bantam's  Indian  sheep,  which  are  obliged  to 
have  their  monstrous  tails  trundled  along  in  a  go- 
cart.  For  all  her  airs,  it  goes  to  her  husband's 
heart  to  see  four  yards  of  good  lutestring  wearing 
against  the  ground,  like  one  of  his  knives .  on  a 
grindstone.  To  speak  my  mind,  cousin  Jeffery,  I 
never  liked  tails ;  for  suppose  a  young  fellow  should 
be  rude,  and  the  lady  should  offer  to  step  back  in 
a  fright,  instead  of  retiring,  she  treads  upon  her 
train,  and  falls  fairly  on  her  back ;  and  then  you 
know,  cousin, — her  clothes  may  be  spoiled. 

"Ah!  Miss  Mazzard!  I  knew  we  should  not 
miss  her  in  the  Park ;  she  in  the  monstrous  Prus- 
sian bonnet.  Miss,  though  so  very  fme,  was  bred 
a  milliner,  and  might  have  had  some  custom  if  she 
had  minded  her  business;  but  the  girl  was  fond  of 
finery,  and  instead  of  dressing  her  customers,  laid 
out  all  her  goods  in  adorning  herself  Every  new 
gown  she  put  on  impaired  her  credit :  she  still  how- 
ever, went  on  improving  her  appearance,  and  les- 
sening her  little  fortune,  and  is  now,  you  see,  be- 
come a  belle  and  a  bankrupt." 

My  cousin  was  proceeding  in  her  remarks,  which 
were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  the  very  lady 
she  had  been  so  freely  describing.  Miss  had  per- 
ceived her  at  a  distance,  and  approached  to  salute 
her.  I  found,  by  the  warmth  of  the  two  ladies' 
protestations,  that  they  had  been  long  intimate 
esteemed  friends  and  acquaintance.  Both  were  so 
pleased  at  this  happy  rencounter,  that  they  were 
resolved  not  to  part  for  the  day.  So  we  all  crossed 
the  Park  together,  and  I  saw  them  into  a  hackney- 
coach  at  the  gate  of  St.  James's.  I  could  not, 
however,  help  observing,  "That  they  are  generally 
most  ridiculous  themselves,  who  are  apt  to  see  most 
ridicule  in  others." 


SOME  PARTICULARS  RELATIVE  TO 
CHARLES  XII.  NOT  COMMONLY 
KNOWN. 

Stockholm. 
Sir, 

I  CAN  NOT  resist  your  solicitations,  though  it  is 
possible  I  shall  be  unable  to  satisfy  your  curiosity. 
The  polite  of  every  country  seem  to  have  but  one 
character.  A  gentleman  of  Sweden  differs  but 
little,  except  in  trifles,  from  one  of  another  coun- 
try. It  is  among  the  vulgar  we  are  to  find  those 
distinctions  which  characterise  a  people,  and  from 
them  it  is  that  I  take  my  picture  of  the  Swedes. 

Though  the  Swedes,  in  general,  appear  to  lan- 
guish under  oppression,  which  often  renders  others 
wicked,  or  of  malignant  dispositions,  it  has  not,  how- 
ever, the  same  influence  upon  them,  as  they  are 
faithfuls  civil,  and  incapable  of  atrocious  crimes. 
Would  you  beheve  that,  in   Sweden,  highway 


rob]>cries  are  not  so  much  as  heard  of  7  for  my 
part,  I  have  not  in  the  whole  country  seen  a  gib- 
bet or  a  gallows.  They  pay  an  infinite  respect  to 
their  ecclesiastics,  whom  they  suppose  to  be  the 
privy  counsellors  of  Providence,  who,  on  their  part, 
turn  this  creduUty  to  their  own  advantage,  and 
manage  their  parishioners  as  they  please.  In  gene- 
ral, however,  they  seldom  abuse  their  sovereign 
authority.  Hearkened  to  as  oracles,  regarded  as 
the  dispensers  of  eternal  rewards  and  punish- 
ments, they  readily  influence  their  hearers  into 
justice,  and  make  them  practical  philosophers  with- 
out the  pains  of  study. 

As  to  their  persons,  they  are  perfectly  well 
made,  and  the  men  particularly  have  a  very  en- 
gaging air.  The  greatest  part  of  the  boys  which 
I  saw  in  the  country  had  very  white  hair.  They 
were  as  beautiful  as  Cupids,  and  there  was  some- 
thing open  and  entirely  happy  in  their  little  chub- 
by faces.  The  girls,  on  the  contrary,  have  neither 
such  fair,  nor  such  even  complexions,  and  their 
features  are  much  less  delicate,  which  is  a  circum- 
stance different  from  that  of  almost  every  other 
country.  Besides  this,  it  is  observed,  that  the 
women  are  generally  afflicted  with  the  itch,  for 
which  Scania  is  particularly  remarkable.  I  had 
an  instance  of  this  in  one  of  the  inns  on  the  road. 
The  hostess  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
I  have  ever  seen ;  she  had  so  fine  a  complexion, 
that  I  could  not  avoid  admiring  it.  But  what  was 
my  surprise,  when  she  opened  her  bosom  in  order 
to  suckle  her  child,  to  perceive  that  seat  of  delight 
all  covered  with  this  disagreeable  temper.  The 
careless  manner  in  which  she  exposed  to  our  eyes 
so  disgusting  an  object,  sufficiently  testifies  that 
they  regard  it  as  no  extraordinary  malady,  and 
seem  to  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it.  Such  are  the 
remarks,  which  propably  you  may  think  trifling 
enough,  I  have  made  in  my  journey  to  Stockholm, 
which,  to  take  it  all  together,  is  a  large,  beautiful, 
and  even  a  populous  city. 

The  arsenal  appears  to  me  one  of  its  greatest 
riosities;  it  is  a  handsome,  spacious  building, 
however,  scantily  supplied  with  the  implements 
of  war.  To  recompense  this  defect,  they  have  al- 
most filled  it  with  trophies,  and  other  marks  of  their 
former  military  glory.  I  saw  there  several  cham- 
hers  filled  with  Danish,  Saxon,  Polish,  and  Rus- 
sian standards.  There  was  at  least  enough  to, 
suffice  half  a  dozen  armies ;  but  new  standards  are 
more  easily  made  than  new  armies  can  be  enlisted. 

I  saw,  besides,  some  very  rich  furniture,  and 
some  of  the  crown  jewels  of  great  value ;  but  what 
principally  engaged  my  attention,  and  touched  me 
with  passing  melancholy,  were  the  bloody,  yet  pre- 
cious spoils  of  the  two  greatest  heroes  the  North 
ever  produced.  What  I  mean  are  the  clothes  in 
which  the  great  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  the  intre- 
pid Charles  XII.,  died,  by  a  fate  not  unusual  to 


i 


THE  BEE. 


433 


icings.  The  first,  if  I  remember,  is  a  sort  of  a  buff 
waistcoat,  made  antique  fashion,  very  plain,  and 
without  the  least  ornaments;  the  second,  which 
was  even  more  remarkable,  consisted  only  of  a 
coarse  blue  cloth  coat,  a  large  hat  of  less  value,  a 
shirt  of  coarse  linen,  large  boots,  and  buff  gloves 
made  to  cover  a  great  part  of  the  arm.  His  saddle, 
his  pistols,  and  his  sw^ord,  have  nothing  in  them 
remarkable ;  the  meanest  soldier  was  in  this  respect 
no  way  inferior  to  his  gallant  monarch.  I  shall 
use  this  opportunity  to  give  you  some  particulars 
of  the  life  of  a  man  already  so  well  known,  which 
I  had  from  persons  who  knew  him  when  a  child, 
and  who  now,  by  a  fate  not  unusual  to  courtiers, 
spend  a  life  of  poverty  and  retirement,  and  talk 
over  in  raptures  all  the  actions  of  their  old  victo- 
rious king,  companion,  and  master. 

Courage  and  inflexible  constancy  formed  the  ba- 
sis of  this  monarch's  character.  In  his  tendercst 
years  he  gave  instances  of  both.  When  he  was 
yet  scarcely  seven  years  old,  being  at  dinner  with 
the  queen  his  mother,  intending  to  give  a  bit  of 
bread  to  a  great  dog  he  was  fond  of,  this  hungry 
animal  snapped  too  greedily  at  the  morsel,  and  bit 
his  hand  in  a  terrible  manner.  The  wound  bled 
copiously,  but  our  young  hero,  without  offering  to 
cry,  or  taking  the  least  notice  of  his  misfortune, 
endeavoured  to  conceal  what  had  happened,  l^st 
his  dog  should  be  brought  into  trouble,  and  wrap- 
ped his  bloody  hand  in  the  napkin.  The  queen, 
perceiving  that  he  did  not  eat,  asked  him  the  reason. 
He  contented  himself  with  replving,  that  he  thanked 
her,  he  was  not  hungry.  They  thought  he  was  taken 
ill,  and  so  repeated  their  solicitations ;  but  all  was  in 
vain,  though  the  poor  child  was  already  grown 
pale  with  the  loss  of  blood.  An  officer  who  at- 
tended at  table  at  last  perceived  it ;  for  Charles 
would  sooner  have  died  than  betrayed  his  dog,  who 
ne  knew  intended  no  injury. 

At  another  time,  when  in  the  small-pox,  and  his 
case  appeared  dangerous,  he  grew  one  day  very 
uneasy  in  his  bed,  and  a  gentleman  who  watched 
him,  desirous  of  covering  him  up  close,  received 
from  the  patient  a  violent  box  on  his  ear.  Some 
hours  after,  observing  the  prince  more  calm,  he 
entreated  to  know  how  he  had  incurred  his  dis- 
pleasure, or  what  he  had  done  to  have  merited  a 
blow.  A  blow,  replied  Charles,  I  don't  remember 
any  thing  of  it ;  I  remember,  indeed,  that  I  thought 
myself  in  the  battle  of  Arbela,  fighting  for  Darius, 
where  I  gave  Alexander  a  blow  which  brought  him 
to  the  ground. 

What  great  effects  might  not  these  two  qualities 
of  courage  and  constancy  have  produced,  had  they 
at  first  received  a  just  direction.  Charles,  with 
proper  instructions,  thus  naturally  disposed,  would 
have  been  the  delight  and  the  glory  of  his  age 
Happy  those  princes  who  are  educated  by  men 
,  ■'vho  are  at  once  virtuous  and  wise,  and  have  been 
28 


for  some  time  in  the  school  of  affliction;  who 
weigh  happiness  against  glory,  and  teach  their  roy- 
al pupils  the  real  value  of  fame ;  who  are  ever 
showing  the  superior  dignity  of  man  to  that  of 
royalty  :  that  a  peasant  who  does  his  duty  is  a  no- 
bler character  than  a  king  of  even  middling  repu- 
tation. Happy,  I  say,  were  princes,  could  such 
men  be  found  to  instruct  them ;  but  those  to  whom 
such  an  education  is  generally  intrusted,  are  men 
who  themselves  have  acted  in  a  sphere  too  high  to 
know  mankind.  Puffed  up  themselves  with  the 
ideas  of  false  grandeur,  and  measuring  merit  by 
adventitious  circumstances  of  greatness,  they  gene- 
rally communicate  those  fatal  prejudices  to  their 
pupils,  confirm  their  pride  by  adulation,  or  increase 
their  ignorance  by  teaching  them  to  despise  that 
wisdom  which  is  found  among  the  poor. 

But  not  to  moralize  when  I  only  intend  a  story, 
what  is  related  of  the  journeys  of  this  prince  is  no 
less  astonishing.  He  has  sometimes  been  on 
horseback  for  four-and-twenty  hours  successively, 
and  thus  traversed  the  greatest  part  of  his  king- 
dom. At  last  none  of  his  officers  were  found  ca- 
pable of  following  him ;  he  thus  consequently 
rode  the  greatest  part  of  his  journeys  quite  alone, 
without  taking  a  moment's  repose,  and  without 
any  other  subsistence  but  a  bit  of  bread.  In  one 
of  these  rapid  courses  he  underwent  an  adventure 
singular  enough.  Riding  thus  post  one  day,  all 
alone,  he  had  the  misfortune  to  have  his  horse  fall 
dead  under  him.  This  might  have  embarrassed 
an  ordinary  man,  but  it  gave  Charles  no  sort  of 
uneasiness.  Sure  of  finding  another  horse,  but 
not  equally  so  of  meeting  with  a  good  saddle  and 
pistols,  he  ungirds  his  horse,  claps  the  whole  equi- 
page on  his  own  back,  and  thus  accoutred  marches 
on  to  the  next  inn,  which  by  good  fortune  was  not 
far  off.  Entering  the  stable,  he  here  found  a  horse 
entirely  to  his  mind ;  so,  without  further  ceremony, 
he  clapped  on  his  saddle  and  housing  with  great 
composure,  and  was  just  going  to  mount,  when 
the  gentleman  who  owned  the  horse  was  apprised 
of  a  stranger's  going  to  steal  his  property  out  of 
the  stable.  Upon  asking  the  king,  whom  he  had 
never  seen,  bluntly,  how  he  presumed  to  meddle 
with  his  horse,  Charles  coolly  replied,  squeezing  in 
his  lips,  which  was  his  usual  custom,  that  he  took 
the  horse  because  he  wanted  one;  for  you  see, 
continued  he,  if  I  have  none,  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
carry  the  saddle  myself.  This  answer  did  not 
seem  at  all  satisfactory  to  the  gentleman,  who  in- 
stantly drew  his  sword.  In  this  the  king  was  not 
much  behind-hand  with  him,  and  to  it  they  were 
going,  when  the  guards  by  this  time  came  up,  and 
testified  that  surprise  which  was  natural  to  see 
arms  in  the  hand  of  a  subject  against  his  king. 
Imagine  whether  the  gentleman  was  less  surpris- 
ed than  they  at  his  vmpremeditated  disobedience. 
His  astonishment,  however,  was  soon  dissipated  hy 


434 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  king,  who,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  assured 
him  he  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  himself  would 
take  care  he  should  be  provided  for.  This  pro- 
mise was  afterwards  fulfilled,  and  I  have  been  as- 
sured the  king  made  him  a  captain. 


HAPPINESS,  IN  A  GREAT  MEASURE, 
DEPENDENT  ON  CONSTITUTION. 

When  I  reflect  on  the  unambitious  retirement 
in  which  I  passed  the  earlier  part  of  my  Ufe  in  the 
country,  I  can  not  avoid  feeling  some  pain  in  think- 
ing that  those  happy  days  are  never  to  return.  In 
that  retreat  all  nature  seemed  capable  of  affording 
pleasure  :  I  then  made  no  refinements  on  happi- 
ness, but  could  be  pleased  with  the  most  awkward 
efforts  of  rustic  mirth ;  thought  cross-purposes  the 
highest  stretch  of  human  wit,  and  questions  and 
commands  the  most  rational  amusement  for  spend- 
ing the  evening^  Happy  could  so  charming  an 
illusion  still  continue !  I  find  age  and  knowledge 
only  contribute  to  sour  our  dispv)sitions.  My  pre- 
sent enjoyments  may  be  more  refined,  but  they  are 
infinitely  less  pleasing.  The  pleasure  Garrick 
gives  can  no  way  compare  to  that  I  have  received 
from  a  country  wag,  who  imitated  a  quaker's  ser- 
mon. The  music  of  Matei  is  dissonance  to  what 
I  felt  when  our  old  dairy-maid  sung  me  into  tears 
with  Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good  Night,  or 
the  cruelty  of  Barbara  Allen. 

Writers  of  every  age  have  endeavoured  to  show 
that  pleasure  is  in  us,  and  not  in  the  objects  offer- 
ed for  our  amusement.  If  the  soul  be  happily  dis- 
posed, every  thing  becomes  a  subject  of  entertain- 
ment, and  distress  will  almost  want  a  name. 
Every  occurrence  passes  in  review  like  the  figures 
of  a  procession :  some  may  be  awkward,  others 
ill-dressed,  but  none  but  a  fool  is  for  this  enraged 
with  the  master  of  the  ceremonies, 

I  remember  to  have  once  seen  a  slave  in  a  forti- 
fication in  Flanders,  who  appeared  no  way  touch- 
ed with  his  situation.  He  was  maimed,  deformed, 
and  chained ;  obliged  to  toil  from  the  appearance 
of  day  till  nightfall,  and  condemned  to  this  for  life ; 
yet,  with  all  these  circumstances  of  apparent 
wretchedness,  he  sung,  would  have  danced,  but 
that  he  wanted  a  leg,  and  appeared  the  merriest, 
happiest  man  of  all  the  garrison.  What  a  prac- 
tical philosopher  was  here !  a  happy  constitution 
supplied  philosophy,  and  though  seemingly  desti- 
Uite  of  wisdom,  he  was  really  wise.  No  reading 
or  study  had  contributed  to  disenchant  the  fairy 
land  around  him.  Every  thing  furnished  him 
with  an  opportunity  of  mirth ;  and  though  some 
thought  him  from  his  insensibility  a  fool,  he  was 
such  an  idiot  as  philosophers  might  wish  in  vain 
to  imitate. 


They  who,  like  him,  can  place  themselves  on 
that  side  of  the  world,  in  which  every  thing  ap- 
pears in  a  ridiculous  or  pleasing  light,  will  find 
something  in  every  occurrence  to  excite  their  good 
humour.  The  most  calamitous  events,  either  to 
themselves  or  others,  can  bring  no  new  affliction ; 
the  whole  world  is  to  them  a  theatre,  on  which 
comedies  only  are  acted.  All  the  bustle  of  hero- 
ism, or  the  rants  of  ambition,  serve  only  to  height- 
en the  absurdity  of  the  scene,  and  make  the  hu- 
mour more  poignant.  They  feel,  in  short,  as  little 
anguish  at  their  own  distress,  or  the  complaints 
of  others,  as  the  undertaker,  though  dressed  in 
blacky  feels  sorrow  at  a  funeral. 

Of  all  the  men  I  ever  read  of,  the  famous  Car- 
dinal de  Retz  possessed  this  happiness  of  temper 
in  the  highest  degree.  As  he  was  a  man  of  gal- 
lantry, and  despised  all  that  wore  the  pedantic  ap- 
pearance of  philosophy,  wherever  pleasure  was  to 
be  sold  he  was  generally  foremost  to  raise  the  auc- 
tion. Being  a  universal  admirer  of  the  fair  sex, 
when  he  found  one  lady  cruel,  he  generally  fell  in 
love  with  another,  from  whom  he  expected  a  more 
favourable  reception ;  if  she  too  rejected  his  ad- 
dresses, he  never  thought  of  retiring  into  deserts, 
or  pining  in  hopeless  distress  :  he  persuaded  him- 
self, that  instead  of  loving  the  lady,  he  only  fan 
cied  he  had  loved  her,  and  so  all  was  well  again. 
When  fortune  wore  her  angriest  look,  when  he  at 
last  fell  into  the  power  of  his  most  deadly  enemy, 
Cardinal  Mazarine,  and  was  confined  a  close  pri- 
soner in  the  castle  of  Vincennes,  he  never  attempt- 
ed to  support  his  distress  by  wisdom  or  philoso- 
phy, for  he  pretended  to  neither.  He  laughed  at 
himself  and  his  persecutor,  and  seemed  infinitely 
pleased  at  his  new  situation.  In  this  mansion  of 
distress,  though  secluded  from  his  friends,  though 
denied  all  the  amusements,  and  even  the  conve- 
niences of  life,  teased  every  hour  by  the  imperti- 
nence of  wretches  who  were  employed  to  guard 
him,  he  still  retained  his  good-humour,  laughed  at 
all  their  little  spite,  and  carried  the  jest  so  far  as  te 
be  revenged,  by  writing  the  Ufe  of  his  gaoler. 

All  that  philosophy  can  teach,  is  to  be  stubborn 
or  sullen  under  misfortunes.  The  cardinal's  ex- 
ample will  instruct  us  to  be  merry  in  circumstances 
of  the  highest  affliction.  It  matters  not  whether 
our  good-humour  be  construed  by  others  into  in- 
sensibility, or  even  idiotism ;  it  is  happiness  to  our- 
selves, and  none  but  a  fool  would  measure  his  satis- 
faction by  what  the  world  thinks  of  it, 

Dick  Wildgoose  was  one  of  the  happiest  silly 
fellows  I  ever  knew.  He  was  of  the  number  of 
those  good-natured  creatures  that  are  said  to  do  no- 
harm  to  any  but  themselves.  Whenever  Dick  felF 
into  any  misery,  he  usually  called  it  seeing  life. 
If  his  head  was  broke  by  a  chairman,  or  his  pocket 
picked  by  a  sharper,  he  comforted  himself  by  imi- 
tating the  Hibernian  dialect  of  the  one,  or  the 


THE  BEE. 


435 


more  fashionable  cant  of  the  other.  Nothing  came 
amiss  to  Dick,  His  inattention  to  money  matters 
had  incensed  his  father  to  such  a  degree,  that  all 
the  intercession  of  friends  in  his  favour  was  fruit- 
less. The  old  gentleman  was  on  his  death-bed. 
The  whole  family,  and  Dick  among  the  number, 
gathered  round  him.  "  I  leave  my  second  son  An- 
drew," said  the  expiring  miser,  "my  whole  estate, 
and  desire  him  to  be  frugal."  Andrew,  in  a  sor- 
rowful tone,  as  is  usual  on  these  occasions,  "  prayed 
Heaven  to  prolong  his  life  and  health  to  enjoy  it 
himself." — "I  recommend  Simon,  my  third  son, 
to  the  care  of  his  elder  brother,  and  leave  him  be- 
side four  thousand  pounds." — "Ah!  father,"  cried 
Simon  (in  great  affliction  to  be  sure),  "  may  Hea- 
ven give  you  Ufe  and  health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!" 
At  last,  turning  to  poor  Dick,  "  As  for  you,  you 
have  always  been  a  sad  dog,  you'll  never  come  to 
good,  you'll  never  be  rich ;  I'll  leave  you  a  shilling 
to  buy  a  halter." — "  Ah !  father,"  cries  Dick,  with- 
out any  emotion,  "  may  Heaven  give  you  life  and 
health  to  enjoy  it  yourself!"  This  was  all  the 
trouble  the  loss  of  fortune  gave  this  thoughtless 
imprudent  creature.  However,  the  tenderness  of  an 
uncle  recompensed  the  neglect  of  a  father;  and 
Dick  is  not  only  excessively  good-humoured,  but 
competently  rich. 

The  world,  in  short,  may  cry  out  at  a  bankrupt 
who  appears  at  a  ball ;  at  an  author,  who  laughs 
at  the  public  which  pronounces  him  a  dunce  ;  at  a 
general,  who  smiles  at  the  reproach  of  the  vulgar ; 
or  the  lady  who  keeps  her  good- humour  in  spite 
of  scandal ;  but  such  is  the  wisest  behaviour  they 
can  possibly  assume.  It  is  certainly  a  better  way 
to  oppose  calamity  by  dissipation,  than  to  talce  up 
the  arms  of  reason  or  resolution  to  oppose  it :  by 
the  first  method  we  forget  our  miseries,  by  the  last 
we  only  conceal  them  from  others.  By  struggling 
with  misfortunes,  we  are  sure  to  receive  some 
wounds  in  the  conflict :  the  only  method  to  come 
off  victorious,  is  by  running  away. 


ON  OUR  THEATRES. 

Mademoiselle  Claroin,  a  celebrated  actress 
at  Paris,  seems  to  me  the  most  perfect  female  figure 
I  have  ever  seen  upon  any  stage.  Not  perhaps 
that  nature  has  been  more  liberal  of  personal  beauty 
to  her,  than  some  to  be  seen  upon  our  theatres  at 
home.  There  are  actresses  here  who  have  as  much 
of  what  connoisseurs  call  statuary  grace,  by  which 
ts  meant  elegance  unconnected  with  motion,  as 
she ;  but  they  all  fall  infinitely  short  of  her,  when 
ihe  soul  comes  to  give  expression  to  the  limbs,  and 
inimates  every  feature. 

Her  first  appearance  is  excessively  engaging; 
ihe  never  comes  in  staring  round  upon  the  com- 
oany,  as  if  she  intended  to  count  the  benefits  of  the 


house,  or  at  least  to  see,  as  well  as  be  seen.  Her 
eyes  are  always,  at  first,  intently  fixed  upon  the 
persons  of  the  drama,  and  she  lifts  them  by  de- 
grees, with  enchanting  diffidence,  upon  the  spec- 
tators. Her  first  speech,  or  at  least  the  first  part 
of  it,  is  delivered  with  scarcely  any  motion  of 
the  arm ;  her  hands  and  her  tongue  never  set  out 
together;  but  the  one  prepares  us  for  the  other. 
She  sometimes  begins  with  a  mute  eloquent  atti- 
tude; but  never  goes  forward  all  at  once  with  hands, 
eyes,  head,  and  voice.  This  observation,  though 
it  may  appear  of  no  importance,  should  certainly 
be  adverted  to ;  nor  do  I  see  any  one  performer 
(Garrick  only  excepted)  among  us,  that  is  not  in 
this  particular  apt  to  offend.  By  this  simple  be- 
ginning, she  gives  herself  a  power  of  rising  in  the 
passion  of  the  scene.  As  she  proceeds,  every  ges- 
ture, every  look,  acquires  new  violence,  till  at  last 
transported,  she  fills  the  whole  vehemence  of  the 
part,  and  all  the  idea  of  the  poet. 

Her  hands  are  not  alternately  stretched  out,  and 
then  drawn  in  again,  as  with  the  singing  women 
at  Saddler's  Wells ;  they  are  employed  with  grace- 
ful variety,  and  every  moment  please  with  new  and 
unexpected  eloquence.  Add  to  this,  that  their  mo- 
tion is  generally  from  the  shoulder;  she  never 
flourishes  her  hands  while  the  upper  part  of  her 
arm  is  motionless,  nor  has  she  the  ridiculous  ap- 
pearance, as  if  her  elbows  were  pinned  to  her  hips. 

But  of  all  the  cautions  to  be  given  to  our  rising 
actresses,  I  would  particularly  recommend  it  to 
them  never  to  take  notice  of  the  audience,  upon 
any  occasion  whatsoever ;  let  the  spectators  applaud 
never  so  loudly,  their  praises  should  pass,  except 
at  the  end  of  the  epilogue,  with  seeming  inatten- 
tion. I  can  never  pardon  a  lady  on  the  stage,  who, 
when  she  draws  the  admiration  of  the  whole  au- 
dience, turns  about  to  make  them  a  low  courtesy 
for  their  applause.  Such  a  figure  no  longer  con- 
tinues Belvidera,  but  at  once  drops  into  Mrs.  Gib- 
ber. Suppose  a  sober  tradesman,  who  once  a-year 
takes  his  shiUing's- worth  at  Drury-Lane,  in  order 
to  be  delighted  with  the  figure  of  a  queen,  the  queen 
of  Sheba,  for  instance,  or  any  other  queen ;  this 
honest  man  has  no  other  idea  of  the  great  but  from 
their  superior  pride  and  impertinence;  suppose 
such  a  man  placed  among  the  spectators,  the  first 
figure  that  appears  on  the  stage  is  the  queen  her- 
self, courtesy ing  and  cringing  to  all  the  company  ; 
how  can  he  fancy  her  the  haughty  favourite  of  King 
Solomon  the  wise,  who  appears  actually  more  sub- 
missive than  the  wife  of  his  bosom?  We  are  all 
tradesmen  of  a  nicer  reUsh  in  this  respect,  and  such 
conduct  must  disgust  every  spectator,  who  loves  to 
have  the  illusion  of  nature  strong  upon  him. 

Yet,  while  I  recommend  to  our  actresses  a  skilful 
attention  to  gesture,  I  would  not  have  them  study 
it  in  the  looking-glass.  This,  without  some  pre- 
caution, will  render  their  action  formal;  by  too 


436 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


great  an  intimacy  with  this,  they  become  stiff  and 
affected.  People  seldom  improve  when  they  have 
no  other  model  but  themselves  to  copy  after.  I  re- 
member to  have  known  a  notable  performer  of  the 
other  sex,  who  made  great  use  of  this  flattering 
monitor,  and  yet  was  one  of  the  stiflest  figures  I 
ever  saw.  I  am  told  his  apartment  was  hung  round 
with  looking-glasses,  that  he  might  see  his  person 
twenty  times  reflected  upon  entering  the  room ;  and 
I  will  make  bold  to  say,  he  saw  twenty  very  ugly 
fellows  whenever  he  did  so. 


THE  BEE,  No.  III. 


Saturday,  October  20,  1759. 

ON  THE  USE  OF  LANGUAGE. 

The  manrHBr  in  which  most  writers  begin  their 
treatises  on  the  use  of  language,  is  generally  thus : 
"Language  has  been  granted  to  man,  in  order  to 
discover  his  wants  and  necessities,  so  as  to  have 
them  relieved  by  society.  Whatever  we  desire, 
whatever  we  wish,  it  is  but  to  clothe  those  desires  or 
wishes  in  words,  in  order  to  fruition ;  the  principal 
use  of  language,  therefore,"  say  they,  "  is  to  ex- 
press our  wants,  so  as  to  receive  a  speedy  redress." 

Such  an  account  as  this  may  serve  to  satisfy 
grammarians  and  rhetoricians  well  enough,  but 
men  who  know  the  world  maintain  very  contrary 
maxims ;  they  hold,  and  I  think  with  some  show  of 
reason,  that  he  who  best  knows  how  to  conceal  his 
necessity  and  desires,  is  the  most  likely  person  to 
jQnd  redress ;  and  that  the  true  use  of  speech  is  not 
so  much  to  express  our  wants,  as  to  conceal  them. 

When  we  reflect  on  the  manner  in  which  man- 
kind generally  confer  their  favours,  we  shall  find 
that  they  who  seem  to  want  them  least,  are  the 
very  persons  who  most  liberally  share  them.  There 
is  something  so  attractive  in  riches,  that  the  large 
heap  generally  collects  from  the  smaller ;  and  the 
poor  find  as  much  pleasure  in  increasing  the  enor- 
mous mass,  as  the  miser,  who  owns  it,  sees  happi- 
ness in  its  increase.  Nor  is  there  any  thing  in  this 
repugnant  to  the  laws  of  true  morality.  Seneca 
himself  allows,  that  in  conferring  benefits,  the  pre- 
sent should  always  be  suited  to  the  dignity  of  the 
receiver.  Thus  the  rich  receive  large  presents, 
and  are  thanked  for  accepting  them.  Men  of 
middling  stations  are  obliged  to  be  content  with 
presents  something  less ;  while  the  beggar,  who 
may  be  truly  said  to  want  indeed,  is  well  paid  if  a 
farthing  rewards  his  warmest  solicitations. 

Every  man  who  has  seen  the  world,  and  has 
had  his  ups  and  downs  in  life,  as  the  expression 
is,  must  have  frequently  experienced  the  truth  of 
this  doctrine,  and  must  know,  that  to  have  much, !  and  his  father  dying  just  as  he  was  out  of  his  time 


or  to  seem  to  have  it,  is  the  only  way  to  have  more. 
Ovid  finely  compares  a  man  of  broken  fortune  to 
a  falling  column ;  the  lower  it  sinks,  the  greater 
weight  it  is  obliged  to  sustain.  Thus,  when  a 
man  has  no  occasion  to  borrow,  he  finds  numbers 
willing  to  lend  him.  Should  he  ask  his  friend  to 
lend  him  a  hundred  pounds,  it  is  possible,  from 
the  largeness  of  his  demand,  he  may  find  credit  for 
twenty ;  but  should  he  humbly  only  sue  for  a  trifle, 
it  is  two  to  one  whether  he  might  be  trusted  for 
twopence.  A  certain  young  fellow  at  George's, 
whenever  he  had  occasion  to  ask  his  friend  for  a 
guinea,  used  to  prelude  his  request  as  if  he  wanted 
two  hundred,  and  talked  so  familiarly  of  large  sums, 
that  none  could  ever  think  he  wanted  a  small  one. 
The  same  gentleman,  whenever  he  wanted  credit 
for  a  new  suit  from  his  tailor,  always  made  a  pro- 
posal in  laced  clothes;  for  he  found  by  experience, 
that  if  he  appeared  shabby  on  these  occasions,  Mr. 
Lynch  had  taken  an  oath  against  trusting ;  or, 
what  was  every  bit  as  bad,  his  foreman  was  out  of 
the  way,  and  would  not  be  at  home  these  two  days. 

There  can  be  no  inducement  to  reveal  our  wants, 
except  to  find  pity,  and  by  this  means  relief;  but 
before  a  poor  man  opens  his  mind  in  such  circum- 
stances, he  should  first  consider  whether  he  is  con- 
tented to  lose  the  esteem  of  the  person  he  solicits, 
and  whether  he  is  willing  to  give  up  friendship  only 
to  excite  compassion.  Pity  and  friendship  are  pas- 
sions incompatible  with  each  other,  and  it  is  im- 
possible that  both  can  reside  in  any  breast  for 
the  smallest  space,  without  impairing  each  other. 
Friendship  is  made  up  of  esteem  and  pleasure ; 
pity  is  composed  of  sorrow  and  contempt ;  the  mind 
may  for  some  time  fluctuate  between  them,  but 
it  never  can  entertain  both  together. 

Yet,  let  it  not  be  thought  that  I  would  exclude 
pity  from  the  human  mind.  There  are  scarcely 
any  who  are  not,  in  some  degree,  possessed  of  this 
pleasing  softness;  but  it  is  at  best  but  a  short-lived 
passion,  and  seldom  affords  distress  more  than 
transitory  assistance :  with  scane  it  scarcely  lasts 
from  the  first  impulse  till  the  hand  can  be  put  into 
the  pocket ;  with  others  it  may  continue  for  twice 
that  space,  and  on  some  extraordinary  sensibility  I 
have  seen  it  operate  for  half  an  hour.  But,  how- 
ever, last  as  it  will,  it  generally  produces  but  beg- 
garly effects :  and  where,  from  this  motive,  we  givo 
a  halfpenny,  from  others  we  give  always  pounds. 
In  great  distress,  we  sometimes,  it  is  true,  feel  the 
influence  of  tenderness  strongly ;  when  the  same 
distress  solicits  a  second  time,  we  then  feel  vnth 
diminished  sensibility,  but,  like  the  repetition  of  an 
echo,  every  new  impulse  becomes  weaker,  till  at 
last  our  sensations  lose  every  mixture  of  sorrow, 
and  degenerate  into  downright  contempt. 

Jack  Spindle  and  I  were  old  acquaintance ;  but 
he's  gone.    Jack  was  bred  in  a  couniing-house. 


THE  BEE. 


437 


left  him  a  handsome  fortune,  and  many  friends  to 
advise  with.  The  restraint  in  which  he  had  been 
brought  up  had  thrown  a  gloom  upon  his  temper, 
which  some  regarded  as  a  habitual  prudence,  and 
from  such  considerations,  he  had  every  day  re- 
peated offers  of  friendship.  Those  who  had  mo- 
ney were  ready  to  offer  him  their  assistance  that 
way;  and  they  who  had  daughters,  frequently  in 
the  warmth  of  affection  advised  him  to  marry.  Jack, 
however,  was  in  good  circumstances ;  he  wanted 
neither  money,  friends,  nor  a  wife,  and  therefore 
modestly  declined  their  proposals. 

Some  errors  in  the  management  of  his  affairs, 
and  several  losses  in  trade,  soon  brought  Jack  to  a 
different  way  of  thinking ;  and  he  at  last  thought  it 
his  best  way  to  let  his  friends  know,  that  their  offers 
were  at  length  acceptable.  His  first  address  was, 
therefore,  to  a  scrivener,  who  had  formerly  made  him 
frequent  offers  of  money  and  friendship,  at  a  time 
when,  perhaps,  he  knew  those  offers  would  have 
been  refused. 

Jack,  therefore,  thought  he  might  use  his  old 
friend  without  any  ceremony;  and,  as  a  man  con- 
fident of  not  being  refused,  requested  the  use  of  a 
hundred  guineas  for  a  few  days,  as  he  just  then 
had  an  occasion  for  money.  "And  pray,  Mr. 
Spindle,"  replied  the  scrivener,  "  do  you  want  all 
this  money?" — "  Want  it,  sir,"  says  the  other,  "if 
I  did  not  want  it,  I  should  not  have  asked  it." — 
"  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  says  the  friend  ;  "for  those 
who  want  money  when  they  come  to  borrow,  will 
want  money  when  they  should  come  to  pay.  To 
say  the  truth,  Mr.  Spindle,  money  is  money  now- 
a-days.  I  believe  it  is  all  sunk  in  the  bottom  of  the 
sea,  for  my  part ;  and  he  that  has  got  a  little,  is  a 
fool  if  he  does  not  keep  what  he  has  got." 

Not  quite  disconcerted  by  this  refusal,  our  ad- 
venturer was  resolved  to  apply  to  another,  whom 
he  knew  to  be  the  very  best  friend  he  had  in  the 
world.  The  gentleman  whom  he  now  addressed, 
received  his  proposal  with  all  the  affability  that 
could  be  expected  from  generous  friendship. — "  Let 
me  see,  you  want  a  hundred  guineas  ;  and  pray, 
dear  Jack,  would  not  fifty  answer?" — "If  you 
have  but  fifty  to  spare,  sir,  I  must  be  contented." 
— "  Fifty  to  spare !  I  do  not  say  that,  for  I  believe 
I  have  but  twenty  about  me." — "  Then  I  must 
borrow  the  other  thirty  from  some  other  friend." 
— "  And  pray,"  replied  the  friend,  "would  it  not 
1)6  the  best  way  to  borrow  the  whole  money  from 
that  other  friend,  and  then  one  note  will  serve  for 
all,  you  know  ?  Lord,  Mr.  Spindle,  make  no  cere- 
mony with  me  at  any  ti^ne;  you  know  I'm  your 
friend,  when  you  choose  a  bit  of  dinner  or  so. 
You,  Tom,  see  the  gentleman  down.  You  won't 
forget  to  dine  with  us  now  and  then  ?  Your  very 
humble  servant," 

Distressed,  but  not  discouraged  at  this  treat- 
ment, he  was  at  last  resolved  to  find  that  assist- 


ance from  love,  which  he  could  not  have  from 
friendship.  Miss  Jenny  Dismal  had  a  fortune  in 
her  own  hands,  and  she  had  already  made  all  the 
advances  that  her  sex's  modesty  would  permit. 
He  made  his  proposal,  therefore,  with  confidence, 
but  soon  perceived,  "No  bankrupt  ever  found  the 
fair  one  kind."  Miss  Jenny  and  Master  Billy 
Galloon  were  lately  fallen  deeply  in  love  with  eacli 
other,  and  the  whole  neighbourhood  thought  it 
would  soon  be  a  match. 

Every  day  now  began  to  strip  Jack  of  his  for- 
mer finery ;  his  clothes  flew  piece  by  piece  to  the 
pawnbrokers ;  and  he  seemed  at  length  equipped 
in  the  genuine  mourning  of  antiquity.  But  still 
he  thought  himself  secure  from  starving ;  the  num- 
berless invitations  he  had  received  to  dine,  even 
after  his  losses,  were  yet  unanswered ;  he  was, 
therefore,  now  resolved  to  accept  of  a  dinner  be- 
cause he  wanted  one ;  and  in  this  manner  he  ac- 
tually lived  among  his  friends  a  whole  week  with- 
out being  openly  affronted.  The  last  place  I  saw 
poor  Jack  was  at  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gosling's.  He 
had,  as  he  fancied,  just  nicked  the  time,  for  he 
came  in  as  the  cloth  was  laying.  He  took  a  chair 
without  being  desired,  and  talked  for  some  time 
without  being  attended  to.  He  assured  the  com- 
pany, that  nothing  procured  so  good  an  appetite  as 
a  walk  to  White-Conduit-House,  where  he  had 
been  that  morning.  He  looked  at  the  table-cloth, 
and  praised  the  figure  of  the  damask,  talked  of  a 
feast  where  he  had  been  the  day  before,  but  that 
the  venison  was  overdone.  All  this,  however,  pro- 
cured the  poor  creature  no  invitation,  and  he  was 
not  yet  sufiiciently  hardened  to  stay  without  being 
asked;  wherefore,  finding  the  gentleman  of  the 
house  insensible  to  all  his  fetches,  he  thought  pro- 
per, at  last,  to  retire,  and  mend  his  appetite  by  a 
walk  in  the  Park. 

You  then,  O  ye  beggars  of  my  acquaintance, 
whether  in  rags  or  lace ;  whether  in  Kent-street  or 
the  Mall ;  whether  at  Smyrna  or  St.  Giles's ;  might 
I  advise  you  as  a  friend,  never  seem  in  want  of  the 
favour  which  you  solicit.  Apply  to  every  passion 
but  pity  for  redress.  You  may  find  relief  from 
vanity,  from  self-interest,  or  from  avarice,  but  sel- 
dom from  compassion.  The  very  eloquence  of  a 
poor  man  is  disgusting ;  and  that  mouth  which  is 
opened  even  for  flattery,  is  seldom  expected  to  close 
without  a  petition. 

If  then  you  would  ward  off  the  gripe  of  poverty, 
pretend  to  be  a  stranger  to  her,  and  she  will  at  least 
use  you  with  ceremony.  Plear  not  my  advice,  but 
that  of  Offellus.  If  you  be  caught  dining  upon  a 
halfpenny  porringer  of  peas  soup  and  potatoes, 
praise  the  wholesomeness  of  your  frugal  repast. 
You  may  observe,  that  Dr.  Cheyne  has  prescribed 
peas  broth  for  the  gravel ;  hint  that  you  are  not  one 
of  those  who  are  always  making  a  god  of  your  belly. 
If  you  are  obliged  to  wear  a  flimsy  stuff  in  the 


438 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


midst  of  winter,  be  the  first  to  remark  that  stuffs 
are  very  much  worn  at  Paris.  If  there  be  found 
some  irreparable  defects  in  any  part  of  your  equi- 
page, which  can  not  be  concealed  by  all  the  arts 
of  sitting  cross-legged,  coaxing,  or  darning,  say, 
that  neither  you  nor  Sampson  Gideon  were  ever 
very  fond  of  dress.  Or  if  you  be  a  philosopher, 
hint  that  Plato  and  Seneca  are  the  tailors  you 
choose  to  employ;  assure  the  company,  that  men 
ought  to  be  content  with  a  bare  covering,  since 
what  is  now  so  much  the  pride  of  some,  was  for- 
merly our  shame.  Horace  will  give  you  a  Latin 
sentence  fit  for  the  occasion, 

Toga  defendere  frigus, 
Quamvis  crassa,  queat. 

In  short,  however  caught,  do  not  give  up,  but  as- 
cribe to  the  frugality  of  your  disposition,  what 
others  might  be  apt  to  attribute  to  the  narrowness 
of  your  circumstances,  and  appear  rather  to  be  a 
miser  than  a  beggar.  To  be  poor,  and  to  seem 
poor,  is  a  certain  method  never  to  rise.  Pride  in 
the  great  is  hateful,  in  the  wise  it  is  ridiculous ; 
beggarly  pride  is  the  only  sort  of  vanity  I  can  ex- 
cuse. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HYPASIA. 

Man,  when  secluded  from  society,  is  not  a  more 
solitary  being  than  the  woman  who  leaves  the  du- 
ties of  her  own  sex  to  invade  the  privileges  of  ours. 
She  seems,  in  such  circumstances,  like  one  in  ban- 
ishment ;  she  appears  like  a  neutral  being  between 
the  sexes ;  and,  though  she  may  have  the  admira- 
tion of  both,  she  finds  true  happiness  from  neither. 
Of  all  the  ladies  of  antiquity  I  have  read  of,  none 
was  ever  more  justly  celebrated  than  the  beautiful 
Hypasia,  the  daughter  of  Leon,  the  philosopher. 
This  most  accomplished  of  women  was  born  at 
Alexandria,  in  the  reign  of  Theodosius  the  young- 
er. Nature  was  never  more  lavish  of  its  gifts  than 
it  had  been  to  her,  endued  as  she  was  with  the 
most  exalted  understanding,  and  the  happiest  turn 
to  science.  Education  completed  what  nature  had 
begun,  and  made  her  the  prodigy  not  only  of  her 
age,  but  the  glory  of  her  sex. 

From  her  father  she  learned  geometry  and  as 
tronomy;  she  collected  from  the  conversation  and 
schools  of  the  other  philosophers,  for  which  Alex 
andria  was  at  that  time  famous,  the  principles  of 
the  rest  of  the  sciences. 

What  can  not  be  conquered  by  natural  penetra- 
tion, and  a  passion  for  study?  The  boundless 
knowledge  which,  at  that  period  of  time,  was  re- 
quired to  form  the  character  of  a  philosopher,  no 
way  discouraged  her ;  she  deUvered  herself  up  to 
che  study  of  Aristotle  and  Plato,  and  soon  not  one 


in  all  Alexandria  understood  so  perfectly  as  she  all 
the  difficulties  of  these  two  philosophers. 

But  not  their  systems  alone,  but  those  of  every 
other  sect  were  quite  familiar  to  her;  and  to  this 
knowledge  she  added  that  of  polite  learning,  and 
the  art  of  oratory.  All  the  learning  which  it  was 
possible  for  the  human  mind  to  contain,  being  join- 
ed to  a  most  enchanting  eloquence,  rendered  this 
lady  the  wonder  not  only  of  the  populace,  who 
easily  admire,  but  of  philosophers  themselves,  who 
are  seldom  fond  of  admiration. 

The  city  of  Alexandria  was  every  day  crowded 
with  strangers,  who  came  from  all  parts  of  Greece 
and  Asia  to  see  and  hear  ker.  As  for  the  charms 
of  her  person,  they  might  not  probably  have  been 
mentioned,  did  she  not  join  to  a  beauty  the  most 
striking,  a  virtue  that  might  repress  the  most  as- 
suming ;  and  though  in  the  whole  capital,  famed 
for  charms,  there  was  not  one  who  could  equal  her 
in  beauty ;  though  in  a  city,  the  resort  of  all  the 
learning  then  existing  in  the  world,  there  was  not 
one  who  could  eqnal  her  in  knowledge;  yet,  with 
such  accomplishments,  Hypasia  was  the  most 
modest  of  her  sex.  Her  reputation  for  virtue  was 
not  less  than  her  virtues ;  and  though  in  a  city  di- 
vided between  two  factions,  though  visited  by  the 
wits  and  the  philosophers  of  the  age,  calumny  never 
dared  to  suspect  her  morals,  or  attempt  her  charac- 
ter. Both  the  Christians  and  the  Heathens  who 
have  transmitted  her  history  and  her  misfortunes, 
have  but  one  voice,  when  they  speak  of  her  beauty, 
her  knowledge,  and  her  virtue.  Nay,  so  much 
harmony  reigns  in  their  accounts  of  this  prodigy  of 
perfection,  that,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  their 
faith,  we  should  never  have  been  able  to  judge  of 
what  religion  was  Hypasia,  were  we  not  informed, 
from  other  circumstances,  that  she  was  a  heathen. 
Providence  had  taken  so  much  pains  in  forming 
her,  that  we  are  almost  induced  to  complain  of  its 
not  having  endeavoured  to  make  her  a  Christian  ; 
but  from  this  complaint  we  are  deterred  by  a  thou- 
sand contrary  observations,  which  lead  us  to  rever- 
ence its  inscrutable  mysteries. 

This  great  reputation  of  which  she  so  justly  was 
possessed,  was  at  last,  however,  the  occasion  of  her 
ruin. 

The  person  who  then  possessed  the  patriarchate 
of  Alexandria,  was  equally  remarkable  for  his 
violence,  cruelty,  and  pride.  Conducted  by  an  ill- 
grounded  zeal  for  the  CJhristian  religion,  or,  per- 
haps, desirous  of  augmenting  his  authority  in  the 
city,  he  had  long  meditated  the  banishment  of  the 
Jews.  A  difference  arising  between  them  and  the 
Christians  with  respect  to  some  public  games,  seem- 
ed to  him  a  proper  juncture  for  putting  his  ambi- 
tious designs  into  execution.  He  found  no  difficul- 
ty in  exciting,  the  people,  naturally  disposed  to  re- 
volt. The  prefect,  who  at  that  time  commanded 
the  city,  interposed  on  this  occasion,  and  thought 


THE  BEE. 


439 


t  just  to  put  one  of  the  chief  creatures  of  the  patri 
arch  to  the  torture,  in  order  to  discover  the  first 
promoter  of  the  conspiracy.  The  patriarch,  en 
raged  at  the  injustice  he  thought  offered  to  his 
character  and  dignity,  and  piqued  at  the  protection 
which  was  offered  to  the  Jews,  sent  for  the  chiefs 
of  the  synagogue,  and  enjoined  them  to  renounce 
their  designs,  upon  pain  of  incurring  his  highest 
displeasure. 

The  Jews,  far  from  fearing  his  menaces,  excited 
new  tumults,  in  which  several  citizens  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  fall.  The  patriarch  could  no  longer  con- 
tain :  at  the  head  of  a  numerous  body  of  Christians, 
he  flew  to  the  synagogues,  which  he  demolished, 
and  drove  the  Jews  from  a  city,  of  which  they  had 
been  possessed  since  the  times  of  Alexander  the 
Great.  It  may  be  easily  imagined,  that  the  pre- 
fect could  not  behold,  without  pain,  his  jurisdiction 
thus  insulted,  and  the  city  deprived  of  a  number  of 
its  most  industrious  inhabitants. 

The  affair  was  therefore  brought  before  the  em- 
peror. The  patriarch  complained  of  the  excesses 
of  the  Jews,  and  the  prefect  of  the  outrages  of  the 
patriarch.  At  this  very  juncture,  five  hundred 
monks  of  mount  Nitria,  imagining  the  life  of  their 
chief  to  be  in  danger,  and  that  their  religion  was 
threatened  in  his  fall,  flew  into  the  city  with  un- 
governable rage,  attacked  the  prefect  in  the  streets, 
and,  not  content  with  loading  him  with  reproaches, 
wounded  him  in  several  places. 

The  citizens  had,  by  this  time,  notice  of  the  fury 
of  the  monks;  they,  therefore,  assembled  in  a  body, 
put  the  monks  to  flight,  seized  on  him  who  had 
been  found  throwing  a  stone,  and  dehvered  him  to 
the  prefect,  who  caused  him  to  be  put  to  death 
without  further  delay. 

The  patriarch  immediately  ordered  the  dead 
body,  which  had  been  exposed  to  view,  to  be  taken 
down,  procured  for  it  all  the  pomp  and  rites  of 
burial,  and  went  even  so  far  as  himself  to  pronounce 
the  funeral  oration,  in  which  he  classed  a  seditious 
monk  among  the  martyrs.  This  conduct  was  by 
no  means  generally  approved  of;  the  most  moder- 
ate even  among  the  Christians  perceived  and  blamed 
his  indiscretion ;  but  he  was  now  too  far  advanced 
to  retire.  He  had  made  several  overtures  towards  a 
reconciliation  with  the  prefect,  which  not  succeed- 
ing, he  bore  all  those  an  implacable  hatred  whom  he 
imagined  to  have  any  hand  in  traversing  his  de- 
signs ;  but  Hypasia  was  particularly  destined  to 
ruin.  She  could  not  find  pardon,  as  she  was  known 
to  have  a  most  refined  friendship  for  the  prefect ; 
wherefore  the  populace  were  incited  against  her. 
Peter,  a  reader  of  the  principal  church,  one  of  those 
vile  slaves  by  which  men  in  power  are  too  frequent- 
ly attended,  wretches  ever  ready  to  commit  any 
crime  which  they  hope  may  render  them  agreeable 
to  their  employer ;  this  fellow,  I  say,  attended  by  a 
crowd  of  villains,  waited  for  Hypasia,  as  she  was 


returning  from  a  visit,  at  her  own  door,  seized  her 
as  she  was  going  in,  and  dragged  her  to  one  of  the 
churches  called  Cesarea,  where,  stripping  her  in  a 
most  inhuman  manner,  they  exercised  the  most  in- 
human cruelties  upon  her,  cut  her  into  pieces,  and 
burnt  her  remains  to  ashes.  Such  was  the  end  of 
Hypasia,  the  glory  of  her  own  sex,  and  the  aston- 
ishment of  ours. 


ON  JUSTICE  AND  GENEROSITY. 

Lysippus  is  a  man  whose  greatness  of  soul  the 
whole  world  admires.  His  generosity  is  such,  that 
it  prevents  a  demand,  and  saves  the  receiver  the 
trouble  and  the  confusion  of  a  request.  His  liber- 
ality also  does  not  oblige  more  by  its  greatness  than 
by  his  inimitable  grace  in  giving.  Sometimes  he 
even  distributes  his  bounties  to  strangers,  and  has 
been  known  to  do  good  offices  to  those  who  pro- 
fessed themselves  his  enemies.  All  the  world  are 
unanimous  in  the  praise  of  his  generosity  :  there  is 
only  one  sort  of  people  who  complain  of  his  con- 
duct— Lysippus  does  not  pay  his  debts. 

It  is  no  difficult  matter  to  account  for  a  conduct 
so  seemingly  incompatible  with  itself.  There  is 
greatness  in  being  generous,  and  there  is  only 
simple  justice  in  satisfying  his  creditors.  Generosi- 
ty is  the  part  of  a  soul  raised  above  the  vulgar. 
There  is  in  it  something  of  what  we  admire  in  he- 
roes, and  praise  with  a  degree  of  rapture.  Justice, 
on  the  contrary,  is  a  mere  mechanic  virtue,  fit  only 
for  tradesmen,  and  what  is  practised  by  every 
broker  in  Change  Alley. 

In  paying  his  debts,  a  man  barely  does  his  duty, 
and  it  is  an  action  attended  with  no  sort  of  glory. 
Should  Lysippus  satisfy  his  creditors,  who  would 
be  at  the  pains  of  telling  it  to  the  world?  Generosi- 
ty is  a  virtue  of  a  very  different  complexion.  It 
is  raised  above  duty,  and  from  its  elevation  attracts 
the  attention,  and  the  praises,  of  us  httle  mortals 
below. 

In  this  manner  do  men  generally  reason  upon 
justice  and  generosity.  The  first  is  despised, 
though  a  virtue  essential  to  the  good  of  society ; 
and  the  other  attracts  our  esteem,  which  too  fre- 
quently proceeds  from  an  impetuosity  of  temper, 
rather  directed  by  vanity  than  reason.  Lysippus 
is  told  that  his  banker  asks  a  debt  of  forty  pounds, 
and  that  a  distressed  acquaintance  petitions  for  the 
same  sum.  He  gives  it  without  hesitating  to  the 
latter;  for  he  demands  as  a  favour  what  the  former 
requires  as  a  debt. 

Mankind  in  general  are  not  sufficiently  acquaint- 
ed with  the  import  of  the  word  justice :  it  is  com- 
monly believed  to  consist  only  in  a  performance  of 
those  duties  to  which  the  laws  of  society  can  obhge 
us.  This  I  allow  is  sometimes  the  import  of  the 
word,  and  in  this  sense  justice  is  distinguished 


440 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


from  equity ;  but  there  is  a  justice  still  more  exten- 
sive, and  which  can  be  shown  to  embrace  all  the 
virtues  united. 

Justice  may  be  defined  to  be  that  virtue  which 
impels  us  to  give  to  every  person  what  is  his  due. 
In  this  extended  sense  of  the  word,  it  comprehends 
the  practice  of  every  virtue  which  reason  prescribes, 
or  society  should  expect.  Our  duty  to  our  Maker, 
to  each  other,  and  to  ourselves,  are  fully  answered, 
if  we  give  them  what  we  owe  them.  Thus  justice, 
properly  speaking,  is  the  only  virtue,  and  all  the 
rest  have  their  origin  in  it. 

The  qualities  of  candour,  fortitude,  charity,  and 
generosity,  for  instance,  are  not,  in  their  own  na- 
ture, virtues ;  and  if  ever  they  deserve  the  title,  it 
is  owing  only  to  justice,  which  impels  and  directs 
them.  Without  such  a  moderator,  candour  might 
become  indiscretion,  fortitude  obstinacy,  charity 
imprudence,  and  generosity  mistaken  profusion. 

A  disinterested  action,  if  it  be  not  conducted  by 
justice,  is  at  best  indiiferent  in  its  nature,  and  not 
unfrequently  even  turns  to  vice.  The  expenses  of 
society,  of  presents,  of  entertainments,  and  the  other 
helps  to  cheerfulness,  are  actions  merely  indifferent, 
when  not  repugnant  to  a  better  method  of  disposing 
of  our  superfluities ;  but  they  become  vicious  when 
they  obstruct  or  exhaust  our  abilities  from  a  more 
virtuous  disposition  of  our  circumstances. 

True  generosity  is  a  duty  as  indispensably  ne- 
cessary as  those  imposed  upon  us  by  law.  It  is  a 
rule  imposed  upon  us  by  reason,  which  should  be 
the  sovereign  law  of  a  rational  being.  But  this 
generosity  does  not  consist  in  obeying  every  im- 
pulse of  humanity,  in  following  blind  passion  for 
our  guide,  and  impairing  our  circumstances  by 
present  benefactions,  so  as  to  render  us  incapable 
of  future  ones. 

Misers  are  generally  characterized  as  men  with- 
out honour  or  without  humanity,  who  live  only  to 
accumulate,  and  to  this  passion  sacrifice  every  other 
happiness.  They  have  been  described  as  madmen, 
who,  in  the  midst  of  abundance,  banish  every 
pleasure,  and  make  from  imaginary  wants  real  ne- 
cessities. But  few,  very  few,  correspond  to  this 
exaggerated  picture ;  and,  perhaps,  there  is  not  one 
in  whom  all  these  circumstances  are  found  united. 
Instead  of  this,  we  find  the  sober  and  the  industri- 
ous branded  by  the  vain  and  the  idle  with  this 
odious  appellation;  men  who,  by  frugality  and 
labour,  raise  themselves  above  their  equals,  and 
contribute  their  share  of  industry  to  the  common 
stock. 

Whatever  the  vain  or  the  ignorant  may  say,  well 
were  it  for  society  had  we  more  of  this  character 
among  us.  In  general,  these  close  men  are  found 
at  last  the  true  benefactors  of  society-  With  an 
avaricious  man  we  seldom  lose  in  our  dealings 
but  too  frequently  in  our  commerce  with  prodi- 
gality. , 


A  French  priest,  whose  name  was  Godinot,  went 
for  a  long  time  by  the  name  of  the  Griper.  He  re- 
fused to  relieve  the  most  apparent  wretchedness, 
and,  by  a  skilful  management  of  his  vineyard,  had 
the  good  fortune  to  acquire  immense  sums  of  money. 
The  inhabitants  of  Rheims,  who  were  his  fellow- 
citizens,  detested  him,  and  the  populace,  who  sel- 
dom love  a  miser,  wherever  he  went,  received  him 
with  contempt.  He  still,  however,  continued  his 
former  simplicity  of  life,  his  amazing  and  unremit- 
ted frugality.  This  good  man  had  long  perceived 
the  wants  of  the  poor  in  the  city,  particularly  in 
having  no  water  but  what  they  were  obliged  to  buy 
at  an  advanced  price;  wherefore,  that  whole  fortune 
which  he  had  been  amassing,  he  laid  out  in  an 
aqueduct,  by  which  he  did  the  poor  more  useful 
and  lasting  service  than  if  he  had  distributed  his 
whole  income  in  charity  every  day  at  his  door. 

Among  men  long  conversant  with  books,  we  too 
frequently  find  those  misplaced  virtues  of  which  I 
have  been  now  complaining.  We  find  the  studious 
animated  with  a  strong  passion  for  the  great  vir- 
tues, as  they  are  mistakenly  called,  and  utterly  for- 
getful of  the  ordinary  ones.  The  declamations  of 
philosophy  are  generally  rather  exhausted  on  these 
supererogatory  duties,  than  on  such  as  are  indis- 
pensably necessary.  A  man,  therefore,  who  has 
talven  his  ideas  of  mankind  from  study  alone,  gene- 
rally comes  into  the  world  with  a  heart  melting  at 
every  fictitious  distress.  Thus  he  is  induced,  by 
misplaced  liberality,  to  put  himself  into  the  indigent 
circumstances  of  the  persons  he  relieves. 

1  shall  conclude  this  paper  with  the  advice  of 
one  of  the  ancients,  to  a  young  man  whom  he  saw 
giving  jiway  all  his  substance  to  pretended  distress. 
"  It  is  possible  that  the  person  you  relieve  may  be 
an  honest  man;  and  I  know  that  you  who  relieve 
him  are  such.  You  see,  then,  by  your  generosity, 
you  only  rob  a  man  who  is  certainly  deserving,  to 
bestow  it  on  one  who  may  possibly  be  a  rogue ;  and 
while  you  are  unjust  in  rewarding  uncertain  merit, 
you  are  doubly  guilty  by  stripping  youraelf." 


SOME  PARTICULARS  RELATING  TO 
FATHER  FREIJO. 

Primus  mortales  tollere  contra 
Est  oculos  ausaa,  primusque  assurgere  contra, 

Lucr. 

The  Spanish  nation  has,  for  many  centuries* 
past,  been  remarkable  for  the  grossest  ignorance  in 
polite  literature,  especially  in  point  of  natural  phi- 
losophy; a  science  so  useful  to  mankind,  that  her 
neighbours  have  ever  esteemed  it  a  matter  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  endeavour,  by  repeated  ex- 
periments, to  strike  a  light  out  of  the  chaos  in  which 
truth  seemed  to  be  confounded.  Their  curiosity 
in  this  respect  was  so  indifferent,  that  though  tbey 


THE  BEE. 


441 


had  discovered  new  worlds,  they  were  at  a  loss  to 
explain  the  phenomena  of  their  own,  and  their 
pride  so  unaccountable,  that  they  disdained  to  bor- 
row from  othersthat  instruction  which  their  natural 
indolence  permitted  them  not  to  acquire. 

It  gives  me,  however,  a  secret  satisfaction  to  be- 
hold an  e  jttraordinary  genius,  now  existing  in  that 
nation,  whose  studious  endeavours  seem  calcu- 
lated to  undeceive  the  superstitious,  and  instruct 
the  ignorant ;  I  mean  the  celebrated  Padre  Freijo. 
In  unravelling  the  mysteries  of  nature  and  ex- 
plaining physical  experiments,  he  takes  an  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  the  concurrence  of  second 
causes  in  those  very  wonders,  which  the  vulgar  as- 
cribe to  supernatural  influence. 

An  example  of  this  kind  happened  a  few  years 
ago  in  a  small  town  of  the  kingdom  of  Valencia. 
Passing  through,;  at  the  hour  of  mass,  he  alighted 
from  his  mule,  and  proceeded  to  the  parish  church, 
which  he  found  extremely  crowded,  and  there  ap- 
peared on  the  faces  of  the  faithful  a  more  than  usual 
alacrity.  The  sun  it  seems,  which  had  been  for 
some  minutes  under  a  cloud,  had  begun  to  shine 
on  a  large  crucifix,  that  stood' in  the  middle  of  the 
altar,  studded  with  several  precious  stones.  The 
reflection  from  these,  and  from  the  diamond  eyes 
of  some  silver  saints,  so  dazzled  the  multitude,  that 
they  unanimously  cried  out,  A  miracle!  a  miracle ! 
whilst  the  priest  at  the  altar,  with  seeming  con- 
sternation, continued  his  heavenly  conversation. 
Padre  Freijo  soon  dissipated  the  charm,  by  tying 
his  handkerchief  round  the  head  of  one  of  the  stat- 
ues, for  which  he  was  arraigned  by  the  inquisition ; 
whose  flames,  however,  he  has  had  the  goo(^  for- 
tune hitherto  to  escape. 


THE  BEE  No.  IV. 


Saturday,  October  27,  1759. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

Were  I  to  measure  the  merit  of  my  present  un- 
dertaking by  its  success,  or  the  rapidity  of  its  sale, 
I  might  be  led  to  form  conclusions  by  no  means 
favourable  to  the  pride  of  an  author.  Should  I  es- 
timate my  fame  by  its  extent,  every  newspaper  and 
magazine  would  leave  me  far  behind.  Their  fame 
is  diffused  in  a  very  wide  circle,  that  of  some  as  far 
as  Islington,  and  some  yet  farther  still ;  while  mine, 
I  sincerely  believe,  has  hardly  travelled  beyond  the 
sound  of  Bow-bell ;  and  while  the  works  of  others 
fly  Uke  unpinioned  swans,  I  find  my  own  move  as 
heavily  as  a  new  plucked  goose. 

Still,  however,  I  have  as  much  pride  as  they 
who  have  ten  times  as  many  readers.    It  is  im- 


possible to  repeat  all  the  agreeable  delusions  in 
which  a  (3isapix)inted  author  is  apt  to  find  comfort. 
I  conclude,  that  what  my  reputation  wants  in  ex- 
tent, is  made  up  by  its  solidity.  Minus  juvat  Gloria 
lata  quam  magna.  I  have  great  satisfaction  in 
considering  the  delicacy  and  discernment  of  those 
readers  I  have,  and  in  ascribing  my  want  of  popu- 
larity to  the  ignorance  or  inattention  of  those  I 
have  not.  All  the  world  may  forsake  an  author, 
but  vanity  will  never  forsake  him. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  so  sincere  a  confession,  I 
was  once  induced  to  show  my  indignation  against 
the  public,  by  discontinuing  my  endeavours  to 
please;  and  was  bravely  resolved,  like  Raleigh,  to 
vex  them  by  burning  my  manuscript  in  a  passion. 
Upon  recollection,  however,  I  considered  what  set 
or  body  of  people  would  be  displeased  at  my  rash- 
ness. The  sun,  after  so  sad  an  accident,  might 
shine  next  morning  as  bright  as  usual ;  men  might 
laugh  and  sing  the  next  day,  and  transact  business 
as  before,  and  not  a  single  creature  feel  any  regret 
but  myself. 

I  reflected  upon  the  story  of  a  minister,  who,  in 
the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  upon  a  certain  occasion, 
resigned  all  his  posts,  and  retired  into  the  country 
in  a  fit  of  resentment.  But  as  he  had  not  given  the 
world  entirely  up  with  his  ambition,  he  sent  a  mes- 
senger to  town,  to  see  how  the  courtiers  would  bear 
his  resignation.  Upon  the  messenger's  return  he 
was  asked,  whether  there  appeared  any  commotion 
at  court?  To  which  he  replied.  There  were  very 
great  ones.  "Ay,"  says  the  minister,  "I  knew 
my  friends  would  make  a  bustle ;  all  petitioning  the 
king  for  my  restoration,  I  presume."  "  No,  sir," 
replied  the  messenger,  "they  are  only  petitioning 
his  majesty  to  be  put  in  your  place."  In  the  same 
•manner,  should  I  retire  in  indignation,  instead  of 
having  Apollo  in  mourning,  or  the  Muses  in  a  fit 
of  the  spleen ;  instead  of  having  the  learned  world 
apostrophizing  at  my  untimely  decease,  perhaps  all 
Grub-street  might  laugh  at  my  fall,  and  self-ap- 
proving dignity  might  never  be  able  to  shield  me 
from  ridicule.  In  short,  I  am  resolved  to  write  on, 
if  it  were  only  to  spite  them.  If  the  present  gene- 
ration will  not  hear  my  voice,  hearken,  O  posteri- 
ty, to  you  I  call,  and  from  you  I  expect  redress! 
What  rapture  will  it  not  give  to  have  the  Scaligers, 
Daciers,  and  Warburtons  of  future  times  comment- 
ing with  admiration  upon  every  line  I  now  write, 
working  away  those  ignorant  creatures  who  ofler 
to  arraign  my  merit,  with  all  the  virulence  of  learn- 
ed reproach.  Ay,  my  friends,  let  them  feel  it :  call 
names,  never  spare  them;  they  deserve  it  all,  and 
ten  times  more.  I  have  been  told  of  a  critic,  who 
was  crucified  at  the  command  of  another  to  the 
reputation  of  Homer.  That,  no  doubt,  was  more 
than  poetical  justice,  and  I  shall  be  perfectly  con- 
tent if  those  who  criticise  me  are  only  clapped  in 
the  pillory,  kept  fifteen  days  upon  bread  and  water 


443 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


and  obliged  to  run  the  gantlet  through  Paternoster- 
row.  The  truth  is,  I  can  expect  happiness  from 
posterity  either  way.  If  I  write  ill,  happy  in  being 
forgotten ;  if  well,  happy  in  being  remembered  with 
respect 

Yet,  considering  things  in  a  prudential  light, 
perhaps  I  was  mistaken  in  designing  my  paper  as 
an  agreeable  relaxation  to  the  studious,  or  a  help  to 
conversation  among  the  gay;  instead  of  addressing 
it  to  such,  I  should  have  written  down  to  the  taste 
and  apprehension  of  the  many,  and  sought  for  re- 
putation on  the  broad  road.  Literary  fame,  I  now 
find,  like  religious,  generally  begins  among  the  vul- 
gar. As  for  the  polite,  they  are  so  very  polite  as 
never  to  applaud  upon  any  account.  One  of  these, 
with  a  face  screwed  up  into  affectation,  tells  you, 
that  fools  may  admire,  but  men  of  sense  only  ap- 
prove.  Thus,  lest  he  should  rise  in  rapture  at  any 
thing  new,  he  keeps  down  every  passion  but  pride 
and  self-importance ;  approves  with  phlegm ;  and 
the  poor  author  is  damned  in  the  taking  a  pinch  of 
snuff.  Another  has  written  a  book  himself,  and 
being  condemned  for  a  dunce,  he  turns  a  sort  of 
king's  evidence  in  criticism,  and  now  becomes  the 
terror  of  every  ofiender.  A  third,  possessed  of  full- 
grown  reputation,  shades  off  every  beam  of  favour 
from  those  who  endeavour  to  grow  beneath  him, 
and  keeps  down  that  merit,  which,  but  for  his  in- 
fluence, might  rise  tnto  equal  eminence :  while 
others,  still  worse,  peruse  old  books  for  their  amuse- 
ment, and  new  books  only  to  condemn ;  so  that 
the  public  seem  heartily  sick  of  all  but  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day,  and  read  every  thing  now  with  as 
little  attention  as  they  examine  the  faces  of  the 
passing  crowd. 

From  these  considerations,  I  was  once  deter- 
mined to  throw  off  all  connexions  with  taste,  and 
fairly  address  my  countrymen  in  the  same  engag- 
ing style  and  manner  with  other  periodical  pam- 
phlets, much  more  in  vogue  than  probably  mine 
shall  ever  be.  To  effect  this,  I  had  thoughts  of 
changing  the  title  into  that  of  the  Royal  Bee,  the 
Anti-gallican  Bee,  or  the  Bee's  Magazine.  I 
had  laid  in  a  proper  stock  of  popular  topics,  such 
as  encomiums  on  the  King  of  Prussia,  invectives 
against  the  Clueen  of  Hungary  and  the  French, 
the  necessity  of  a  militia,  our  undoubted  sovereignty 
of  the  seas,  reflections  upon  the  present  state  of  af- 
fairs, a  dissertation  upon  liberty,  some  seasonable 
thoughts  upon  the  intended  bridge  of  Blackfriars, 
and  an  address  to  Britons ;  the  history  of  an  old 
woman,  whose  teeth  grew  three  inches  long,  an 
ode  upon  our  victories,  a  rebus,  an  acrostic  upon 
Miss  Peggy  P.,  and  a  journal  of  the  weather.  All 
this,  together  with  four  extraordinary  pages  of  let- 
ter-press, a  beautiful  map  of  England,  and  two 
prints  curiously  coloured  from  nature,  I  fancied 
might  touch  their  very  souls.  I  was  actually  be- 
ginning an  address  to  the  people,  when  my  pride 


at  last  overcame  my  prudence,  and  determined  me 
to  endeavour  to  please  by  the  goodness  of  my  en- 
tertainment, rather  than  by  the  magnificence  of  my 
sign. 

The  Spectator,  and  many  succeeding  essayists, 
frequently  inform  us  of  the  numerous  compliments 
paid  them  in  the  course  of  their  lucubrations ;  of 
the  frequent  encouragements  they  met  to  inspire 
them  with  ardour,  and  increase  their  eagerness  to 
please.  I  have  received  my  letters  as  well  as  they; 
but  alas !  not  congratulatory  ones ;  not  assuring  me 
of  success  and  favour ;  but  pregnant  with  bodings 
that  might  shake  even  fortitude  itself. 

One  gentleman  assures  me,  he  intends  to  throw 
away  no  more  threepences  in  purchasing  the  Bee  ; 
and,  what  is  still  more  dismal,  he  will  not  recom- 
mend me  as  a  poor  author  wanting  encouragement 
to  his  neighbourhood,  which,  it  seems,  is  very  nu- 
merous. Were  my  soul  set  upon  threepences, 
what  anxiety  might  not  such  a  denunciation  pro- 
duce !  But  such  does  not  happen  to  be  the  present 
motive  of  publication ;  I  write  partly  to  show  my 
good-nature,  and  partly  to  show  my  vanity;  nor 
will  I  lay  down  the  pen  till  I  am  satisfied  one  way 
or  another. 

Others  have  disUked  the  title  and  the  motto  of 
my  paper ;  point  out  a  mistake  in  the  one,  and  as- 
sure me  the  other  has  been  consigned  to  dulness 
by  anticipation.  All  this  may  be  true ;  but  what 
is  that  to  me?  Titles  and  mottos  to  books  are  like 
escutcheons  and  dignities  in  the  hands  of  a  king. 
The  wise  sometimes  condescend  to  accept  of  them ; 
but  none  but  a  fool  will  imagine  them  of  any  real 
importance.  We  ought  to  depend  upon  intrinsic 
merit,  and  not  the  slender  helps  of  title.  Nam 
qucB  nonfecimus  ipsi,  vix  ea  nostra  voco. 

For  my  part,  I  am  ever  ready  to  mistrust  a  pro- 
mising title,  and  have,  at  some  expense,  been  in- 
structed not  to  hearken  to  the  voice  of  an  advertise 
ment,  let  it  plead  never  so  loudly,  or  never  so  long. 
A  countryman  coming  one  day  to  Smithfield,  in 
order  to  take  a  slice  of  Bartholomew-fair,  found  a 
perfect  show  before  every  booth.  The  drummer, 
the  fire-eater,  the  wire-walker,  and  the  salt-box, 
were  all  employed  to  invite  him  in.  "  Just  a-going; 
the  court  of  the  king  of  Prussia  in  all  his  glory ; 
pray,  gentlemen,  walk  in  and  see."  From  people 
who  generously  gave  so  much  away,  the  clown  ex- 
pected a  monstrous  bargain  for  his  money  when 
he  got  in.  He  steps  up,  pays  his  sixpence,  the 
curtain  is  drawn ;  when,  too  late,  he  finds  that  he 
had  the  best  part  of  the  show  for  nothing  at  the 
door. 


A  FLEMISH  TRADITION. 

Every  country  has  its  traditions,  which,  either 
too  minute,  or  not  sufficiently  authentic  to  receive 


THE  BEE. 


443 


historical  sanction,  are  handed  down  among  the 
vulgar,  and  serve  at  once  to  instruct  and  amuse 
them.  Of  this  number,  the  adventures  of  Robin 
Hood,  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chase,  and  the  brave- 
ry of  Johnny  Armstrong,  among  the  English; 
of  Kaul  Dereg  among  the  Irish ;  and  Crichton 
among  the  Scots,  are  instances.  Of  all  the  tradi- 
tions, however,  I  remember  to  have  heard,  I  do  not 
recollect  any  more  remarkable  than  one  still  current 
in  Flanders ;  a  story  generally  the  first  the  peasants 
tell  their  children,  when  they  bid  them  behave  like 
Bidderman  the  wise.  It  is  by  no  means,  however, 
a  model  to  be  set  before  a  polite  people  for  imita- 
tion; since  if,  on  the  one  hand,  we  perceive  in  it 
the  steady  influence  of  patriotism,  we  on  the  other 
find  as  strong  a  desire  of  revenge.  But,  to  wave 
introduction,  let  us  to  the  story. 

When  the  Saracens  overran  Europe  with  their 
armies,  and  penetrated  as  far  even  as  Antwerp, 
Bidderman  was  lord  of  a  city,  which  time  has  since 
swept  into  destruction.  As  the  inhabitants  of  this 
country  were  divided  under  separate  leaders,  the 
Saracens  found  an  easy  conquest,  and  the  city  of 
Bidderman,  among  the  rest,  became  a  prey  to  the 
victors. 

Thus  dispossessed  of  his  paternal  city,  our  un- 
fortunate governor  was  obUged  to  seek  refuge  from 
the  neighbouring  princes,  who  were  as  yet  unsub- 
dued, and  he  for  some  time  lived  in  a  state  of  wretch- 
ed dependence  among  them. 

Soon,  however,  his  love  to  his  native  country 
brought  him  back  to  his  own  city,  resolved  to  res- 
cue it  from  the  enemy,  or  fall  in  the  attempt:  thus, 
in  disguise,  he  went  among  the  inhabitants,  and 
endeavoured,  but  in  vain,  to  excite  them  to  revolt. 
Former  misfortunes  lay  so  heavily  on  their  minds, 
that  they  rather  chose  to  suffer  the  most  cruel 
bondage  than  attempt  to  vindicate  their  former 
freedom. 

As  he  was  thus  one  day  employed,  whether  by 
information  or  from  suspicion  is  not  known,  he  was 
apprehended  by  a  Saracen  soldier  as  a  spy,  and 
brought  before  the  very  tribunal  at  which  he  once 
presided.  The  account  he  gave  of  himself  was  by 
no  means  satisfactory.  He  could  produce  no  friends 
to  vindicate  his  character,  wherefore,  as  the  Sara- 
cens knew  not  their  prisoner,  and  as  they  had  no 
direct  proofs  against  him,  they  were  content  with 
condemning  him  to  be  publicly  whipped  as  a  vaga- 
bond. 

The  execution  of  this  sentence  was  accordingly 
performed  with  the  utmost  rigour.  Bidderman 
was  bound  to  the  post,  the  executioner  seeming 
disposed  to  add  to  the  cruelty  of  the  sentence,  as  he 
received  no  bribe  for  lenity.  WheneveinBidderman 
groaned  under  the  scourge,  the  other,  redoubUng 
fais  blows,  cried  out  "Does  the  villain  murmur?" 
If  Bidderman  entreated  but  a  moment's  respite  from 


torture,  the  other  only  repeated  his  former  excla* 
mation,  "  Does  the  villain  murmur?" 

From  this  period,  revenge  as  well  as  patriotism 
took  entire  possession  of  his  soul.  His  fury  stooped 
so  low  as  to  follow  the  executioner  with  unremitting 
resentment.  But  conceiving  that  the  best  method 
to  attain  these  ends  was  to  acquire  some  eminence 
in  the  city,  he  laid  himself  out  to  oblige  its  new 
masters,  studied  every  art,  and  practised  every 
meanness,  that  serve  to  promote  the  needy,  or  ren- 
der the  poor  pleasing;  and  by  these  means,  in  a  few 
years,  he  came  to  be  of  some  note  in  the  city,  which 
justly  belonged  entirely  to  him. 

The  executioner  was  therefore  the  first  object 
of  his  resentment,  and  he  even  practised  the  lowest 
fraud  to  gratify  the  revenge  he  owed  him.  A  piece 
of  plate,  which  Bidderman  had  previously  stolen 
from  the  Saracen  governor,  he  privately  conveyed 
into  the  executioner's  house,  and  then  gave  informa- 
tion of  the  theft.  They  who  are  any  way  acquaint- 
ed with  the  rigour  of  the  Arabian  laws,  know  that 
theft  is  punished  with  immediate  death.  The 
proof  was  direct  in  this  case ;  the  executioner  had 
nothing  to  offer  in  his  own  defence,  and  he  was 
therefore  condemned  to  be  beheaded  upon  a  scaf- 
fold in  the  public  market-place.  As  there  was  no 
executioner  in  the  city  but  the  very  man  who  was 
now  to  suffer,  Bidderman  himself  undertook  this, 
to  him  a  most  agreeable  office.  The  criminal  was 
conducted  from  the  judgment-seat,  bound  with 
cords :  the  scaffold  was  erected,  and  he  placed  in 
such  a  manner  as  he  might  lie  most  convenient  for 
the  blow. 

But  his  death  alone  was  not  sufficient  to  satisfy 
the  resentment  of  this  extraordinary  man,  unless 
it  was  aggravated  with  every  circumstance  of  cru- 
elty. Wherefore,  coming  up  the  scafibld,  and  dis- 
posing every  thing  in  readiness  for  the  intended 
blow,  with  the  sword  in  his  hand  he  approached 
the  criminal,  and  whispering  in  a  low  voice,  assur- 
ed him  that  he  himself  was  the  person  that  had 
once  been  used  with  so  much  cruelty;  that  to  his 
knowledge  he  died  very  innocently,  for  the  plate 
had  been  stolen  by  himself,  and  privately  conveyed 
into  the  house  of  the  other. 

"  O,  my  countrymen,"  cried  the  criminal,  "  do 
you  hear  what  this  man  says?" — "  Does  the  villain 
murmur?"  replied  Bidderman,  and  immediately  at 
one  blow  severed  his  head  from  his  body. 

Still,  however,  he  was  not  content  till  he  had 
ample  vengeance  of  the  governors  of  the  city,  who 
condemned  him.  To  effect  this,  he  hired  a  small 
house  adjoining  to  the  town-wall,  under  which  he 
every  day  dug,  and  carried  out  the  earth  in  a  basket. 
In  this  unremitting  labour  he  continued  several 
years,  every  day  digging  a  little,  and  carrying  the 
earth  unsuspected  away.  By  this  means  he  at  last 
made  a  secret  communication  from  the  country  in- 


444 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


to  the  city,  and  only  wanted  the  appearance  of  an 
enemy  in  order  to  betray  it.  This  opportunity  at 
length  offered;  the  French  army  came  down  into 
the  neighbourhood,  but  had  no  thoughts  of  sitting 
down  before  a  town  which  they  considered  as  im- 
pregnable. Bidderman,  however,  soon  altered  their 
resolutions,  and,  upon  communicating  his  plan  to 
the  general,  he  embraced  it  with  ardour.  Through 
the  private  passage  above  mentioned,  he  introduced 
a  large  body  of  the  most  resolute  soldiers,  who  soon 
opened  the  gates  for  the  rest,  and  the  whole  army 
rushing  in,  put  every  Saracen  that  was  found  to 
the  sword. 


THE  SAGACITY  OF  SOME  INSECTS. 

To  the  author  of  the  Bee. 
Sir, 

Animals  in  general  are  sagacious  in  proportion 
as  they  cultivate  society.  The  elephant  and  the 
beaver  show  the  ^eatest  signs  of  this  when  united ; 
but  when  man  intrudes  into  their  communities, 
they  lose  all  their  spirit  of  industry,  and  testify  but 
a  very  small  share  of  that  sagacity  for  which,  when 
in  a  social  state,  they  are  so  remarkable. 

Among  insects,  the  labours  of  the  bee  and  the 
ant  have  employed  the  attention  and  admiration 
of  the  naturalist  J  but  their  whole  sagacity  is  lost 
upon  separation,  and  a  single  bee  or  ant  seems 
destitute  of  every  degree  of  industry,  is  the  most 
Btupid  insect  imaginable,  languishes  for  a  time  in 
solitude,  and  soon  dies. 

Of  all  the  solitary  insects  I  have  ever  remarked, 
the  spider  is  the  most  sagacious ;  and  its  actions, 
to  me  who  have  attentively  considered  them,  seem 
almost  to  exceed  belief.  This  insect  is  formed  by 
nature  for  a  state  of  war,  not  only  upon  other  in- 
sects, but  upon  each  other.  For  this  state  nature 
seems  perfectly  well  to  have  formed  it.  Its  head 
and  breast  are  covered  with  a  strong  natural  coat 
of  mail,  which  is  impenetrable  to  the  attempts  of 
every  other  insect,  and  its  belly  is  enveloped  in  a 
soft  pliant  skin,  which  eludes  the  sting  even  of  a 
wasp.  Its  legs  arc  terminated  by  strong  claws, 
not  unlike  those  of  a  lobster ;  and  their  vast  length, 
like  spears,  serve  to  keep  every  assailant  at  a 
distance. 

Not  worse  furnished  for  observation  than  for  an 
attack  or  a  defence,  it  has  several  eyes,  large,  trans- 
parent, and  covered  with  ahorny  substance,  which, 
however,  does  not  impede  its  vision.  Besides  this, 
it  is  furnished  with  a  forceps  above  the  mouth, 
which  serves  to  kill  or  secure  the  prey  already 
caught  in  its  claws  or  its  net. 

Such  are  the  implements  of  war  with  which  the 
body  is  immediately  furnished ,  but  its  net  to  en- 
tangle the  enemy  seems  what  it  chiefly  trusts  to, 
and  what  it  takes  most  pains  to  render  as  complete 


as  possible.  Nature  has  furnished  the  body  of  this 
little  creature  with  a  glutinous  liquid,  which, 
proceeding  from  the  anus,  it  spins  into  thread, 
coarser  or  finer,  as  it  chooses  to  contract  or  dilate 
its  sphincter.  In  order  to  fix  its  thread  when  it 
begins  to  weave,  it  emits  a  small  drop  of  its  liquid 
against  the  wall,  which,  hardening  by  degrees, 
serves  to  hold  the  thread  very  firmly.  Then  re- 
ceding from  its  first  point,  as  it  recedes  the  thread 
lengthens ;  and  when  the  spider  has  come  to  the 
place  where  the  other  end  of  the  thread  should 
be  fixed,  gathering  up  with  his  claws  the  thread 
which  would  otherwise  be  too  slack,  it  is  stretched 
tightly,  and  fixed  in  the  same  manner  to  the  wal' 
as  before. 

In  this  manner  it  spins  and  fixes  several  threads 
parallel  to  each  other,  which,  so  to  speak,  serves 
as  the  warp  to  the  intended  web.  To  form  the 
woof,  it  spins  in  the  same  manner  its  thread,  trans- 
versely fixing  one  end  to  the  first  thread  that  was 
spun,  and  which  is  always  the  strongest  of  the 
whole  web,  and  the  other  to  the  wall.  All  these 
threads  being  newly  spun,  are  glutinous  and  there- 
fore stick  to  each  other  wherever  they  happen  to 
touch;  and  in  those  parts  of  the  web  most  expos- 
ed to  be  torn,  our  natural  artist  strengthens  them, 
by  doubling  the  threads  sometimes  six-fold. 

Thus  far  naturaUsts  have  gone  in  the  descrip- 
tion of  this  animal;  what  follows  is  the  result  of 
my  own  observation  upon  that  species  of  the  insect 
called  a  house-spider.  I  perceived  about  four  years 
ago,  a  large  spider  in  one  corner  of  my  room, 
making  its  web ;  and  though  the  maid  frequently 
levelled  her  fatal  broom  against  the  labours  of  the 
little  animal,  I  had  the  good  fortune  then  to  pre- 
vent its  destruction ;  and  I  may  say,  it  more  than 
paid  me  by  the  entertainment  it  afforded. 

In  three  days  the  web  was  with  incredible  dili- 
gence completed ;  nor  could  I  avoid  thinking,  that 
the  insect  seemed  to  exult  in  its  new  abode.  It 
frequently  traversed  it  round,  examined  the  strength 
of  every  part  of  it,  retired  into  its  hole,  and  came 
out  very  frequently.  The  first  enemy,  however, 
it  had  to  encounter,  was  another  and  a  much  lar- 
ger spider,  which,  having  no  web  of  its  own,  and 
having  probably  exhausted  all  its  stock  in  former 
labours  of  this  kmd,  came  to  invade  the  property 
of  its  neighbour.  Soon,  then,  a  terrible  encoun- 
ter ensued,  in  which  the  invader  seemed  to  have 
the  victory,  and  the  laborious  spider  was  obliged  to 
take  refuge  in  its  hole.  Upon  this  I  perceived  the 
victor  using  every  art  to  draw  the  enemy  from  his 
strong  hold.  He  seemed  to  go  off,  but  quickly  re- 
turned ;  and  when  he  found  all  arts  vain,  began  io 
demolish  the  new  web  without  mercy.  This 
brought  on  another  battle,  and,  contrary  to  my  ex- 
pectations, the  laborious  spider  became  conqueror, 
and  fairly  killed  his  antagonist. 

Now,  then,  it  peaceable  possession  of  what  was 


THE  BEE. 


445 


justly  its  own,  it  waited  three  days  with  the  ut- 
most impatience,  repairing  the  breaches  of  its  web, 
and  taking  no  sustenance  that  I  could  perceive. 
At  last,  however,  a  large  blue  fly  fell  into  the  snare, 
and  struggled  hard  to  get  loose.  The  spider  gave 
it  leave  to  entangle  itself  as  much  as  possible,  but 
it  seemed  to  be  too  strong  for  the  cobweb.  I  must 
own  I  was  greatly  surprised  when  I  saw  the  spider 
immediately  sally  out,  and  in  less  than  a  minute 
weave  a  new  net  round  its  captive,  by  which  the 
motion  of  its  wings  was  stopped ;  and,  when  it  was 
fairly  hampered  in  this  manner,  it  was  seized,  and 
dragged  into  the  hole. 

In  this  manner  it  lived,  in  a  precarious  state ; 
and  nature  seemed  to  have  fitted  it  for  such  a  Ufe, 
for  upon  a  single  fly  it  subsisted  for  more  than  a 
week.  I  once  put  a  wasp  into  the  net ;  but  when 
the  spider  came  out  in  order  to  seize  it  as  usual, 
upon  perceiving  what  kind  of  an  enemy  it  had  to 
deal  with,  it  instantly  broke  all  the  bands  that  held 
it  fast,  and  contributed  all  that  lay  in  its  power  to 
to  disengage  so  formidable  an  antagonist.  When 
the  wasp  was  at  liberty,  I  expected  the  spider 
would  have  set  about  repairing  the  breaches  that 
were  made  in  its  net,  but  those  it  seems  were  irre- 
parable :  wherefore  the  cobweb  was  now  entirely 
forsaken,  and  a  new  one  begun,  which  was  com- 
pleted in  the  usual  time. 

I  had  now  a  mind  to  try  how  many  cobwebs  a 
single  spider  could  furnish ;  wherefore  I  destroyed 
this,  and  the  insect  set  about  another.  When  I 
destroyed  the  other  also,  its  whole  stock  seemed  en- 
tirely exhausted,  and  it  could  spin  no  more.  The 
arts  it  made  use  of  to  support  itself,  now  deprived 
of  its  great  means  of  subsistence,  were  indeed  sur- 
prising. I  have  seen  it  roll  up  its  legs  like  a  ball, 
and  lie  motionless  for  hours  together,  but  cautious- 
ly watching  all  the  time :  when  a  fly  happened  to 
approach  sufliiciently  near,  it  would  dart  out  all  at 
once,  and  often  seize  its  prey. 

Of  this  life,  however,  it  soon  began  to  grow 
weary,  and  resolved  to  invade  the  possession  of 
some  other  spider,  since  it  could  not  make  a  web 
of  its  own.  It  formed  an  attack  upon  a  neighbour- 
ing fortification  with  great  vigour,  and  at  first  was 
as  vigorously  repulsed.  Not  daunted,  howeverj 
with  one  defeat,  in  this  manner  it  continued  to  lay 
siege  to  another's  web  for  three  days,  and  at  length, 
having  killed  the  defendant,  actually  took  posses- 
sion. When  smaller  flies  happen  to  fall  into  the 
snare,  the  spider  does  not  sally  out  at  once,  but 
very  patiently  waits  till  it  is  sure  of  them;  for  upon 
his  immediately  approaching,  the  terror  of  his  ap- 
pearance might  give  the  captive  strength  sufficient 
to  get  loose :  the  manner  then  is  to  wait  patiently, 
till  by  ineffectual  and  impotent  struggles,  the  cap- 
tive has  wasted  all  its  strength,  and  then  he  be- 
comes a  certain  and  easy  conquest. 


The  insect  I  am  now  describing  lived  three 
years ;  every  year  it  changed  its  skin,  and  got  a 
new  set  of  legs.  I  have  sometimes  plucked  off  a 
leg,  which  grew  again  in  two  or  three  days.  At 
first  it  dreaded  my  approach  to  its  web,  but  at  last 
it  became  so  familiar  as  to  take  a  fly  out  of  my 
hand ;  and  upon  my  touching  any  part  of  the  web, 
would  immediately  leave  its  hole,  prepared  either 
for  a  defence  or  an  attack. 

To  complete  this  description,  it  may  be  observed, 
that  the  male  spiders  are  much  less  than  the  female, 
and  that  the  latter  are  oviparous.  When  they  come 
to  lay,  they  spread  a  part  of  their  web  under  the 
eggs,  and  then  roll  them  up  carefully,  as  we  roll  up 
things  in  a  cloth,  and  thus  hatch  them  in  their  hole. 
If  disturbed  in  their  holes,  they  never  attempt  to 
escape  without  carrying  this  young  brood  in  their 
forceps,  away  with  them,  and  thus  frequently  are 
sacrificed  to  their  paternal  affection. 

As  soon  as  ever  the  young  ones  leave  their  ar- 
tificial covering,  they  begin  to  spin,  and  almost  sen- 
sibly seem  to  grow  bigger.  If  they  have  the  good 
fortune,  when  even  but  a  day  old,  to  catch  a  fly, 
they  fall  too  with  good  appetites:  but  they  live 
sometimes  three  or  four  days  without  any  sort  of 
sustenance,  and  yet  still  continue  to  grow  larger, 
so  as  every  day  to  double  their  former  size.  As 
they  grow  old,  however,  they  do  not  still  continue 
to  increase,  but  their  legs  only  continue  to  grow 
longer ;  and  when  a  spider  becomes  entirely  stiff 
with  age  and  unable  to  seize  its  prey,  it  dies  at 
length  of  hunger. 

THE  CHARACTERISTICS  OP  GREAT- 
NESS. 

In  every  duty,  in  every  science  in  which  we 
would  wish  to  arrive  at  perfection,  we  should  pro- 
pose for  the  object  of  our  pursuit  some  certain  sta- 
tion even  beyond  our  abilities ;  some  imaginary  ex- 
cellence, which  may  amuse  and  serve  to  animate 
our  inquiry.  In  deviating  from  others,  in  follow- 
ing an  unbeaten  road,  though  we  perhaps  may 
never  arrive  at  the  wished-for  object,  yet  it  is  possible 
we  may  meet  several  discoveries  by  the  way ;  and 
the  certainty  of  small  advantages,  even  while  we 
travel  with  security,  is  not  so  amusing  as  the  hopes 
of  great  rewards,  which  inspire  the  adventurer. 
Evenit  nonnunquam,  says  Q,uintilian,  ut  aliquid 
grande  inveniat  qui  semper  qucerit  quod  nimium 
est. 

This  enterprising  spiritis,  however,  by  no  means 
the  character  of  the  present  age  :  every  person  who 
should  now  leave  received  opinions,  who  should 
attempt  to  be  more  than  a  commentator  upon  phi- 
losophy, or  an  imitator  in  polite  learning,  might  be 
regarded  as  a  chimerical  projector.  Hundreds 
would  be  ready  not  only  to  point  out  his  errors, 


146 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


but  to  load  him  with  reproach.  Our  probable  opin- 
ions are  now  regarded  as  certainties ;  the  difficul- 
ties hitherto  undiscovered  as  utterly  inscrutable ; 
and  the  last  age  inimitable,  and  therefore  the  pro- 
perest  models  of  imitation. 

One  might  be  almost  induced  to  deplore  the  phi- 
losophic spirit  of  the  age,  which,  in  proportion  as 
it  enlightens  the  mind,  increases  its  timidity,  and 
represses^the  vigour  of  every  undertaking.  Men 
are  now  content  with  being  prudently  in  the  right; 
which,  though  not  the  way  to  make  new  acquisi- 
tions, it  must  be  owned,  is  the  best  method  of  se- 
curing what  we  have.  Yet  this  is  certain,  that  the 
writer  who  never  deviates,  who  never  hazards  a  new 
thought,  or  a  new  expression,  though  his  friends 
may  compliment  him  upon  his  sagacity,  though 
criticism  lifts  her  feeble  voice  in  his  praise,  will 
seldom  arrive  at  any  degree  of  perfection.  The 
way  to  acquire  lasting  esteem,  is  not  by  the  few- 
ness of  a  writer's  faults,  but  the  greatness  of  his 
beauties;  and  our  noblest  works  are  generally  most 
replete  with  both. 

An  author  who  would  be  sublime,  often  runs 
his  thought  into  burlesque ;  yet  I  can  readily  par- 
don his  mistaking  ten  times  for  once  succeeding. 
True  genius  walks  along  a  Une;  and  perhaps  our 
greatest  pleasure  is  in  seeing  it  so  often  near  fall- 
ing, without  being  ever  actually  down. 

Every  science  has  its  hitherto  undiscovered  mys- 
teries, after  which  men  should  travel  undiscouraged 
by  the  failure  of  former  adventurers.  Every  new 
attempt  serves  perhaps  to  facilitate  its  future  in- 
vention. We  may  not  find  the  philosoplier's 
stone,  but  we  shall  probably  hit  upon  new  inven- 
tions in  pursuing  it.  We  shall  perhaps  never  be 
able  to  discover  the  longitude,  yet  perhaps  we  may 
arrive  at  new  truths  in  the  investigation. 

Were  any  of  those  sagacious  minds  among  us 
(and  surely  no  nation,  or  no  person,  could  ever 
compare  with  us  in  this  particular) ;  were  any  of 
those  minds,  I  say,  who  now  sit  down  contented 
with  exploring  the  intricacies  of  another's  system, 
bravely  to  shake  off  admiration,  and,  undazzled 
with  the  splendour  of  another's  reputation,  to 
chalk  out  a  path  to  fame  for  themselves,  and  boldly 
cultivate  untried  experiment,  what  might  not  be 
the  result  of  their  inquiries,  should  the  same  study 
that  has  made  them  wise  make  them  enterprising 
also  7  What  could  not  such  qualities  united  pro- 
duce 7  But  such  is  not  the  character  of  the  Eng- 
lish :  while  our  neighbours  of  the  continent  launch 
out  into  the  ocean  of  science,  without  proper  store 
for  the  voyage,  we  fear  shipwreck  in  every  breeze, 
and  consume  in  port  those  powers  which  might 
probably  have  weathered  every  storm. 
Proiectors  in  a  state  are  generally  rewarded 


above  their  deserts ;  projectors  in  the  republic  of 
letters,  never.  If  wrong,  every  inferior  dunce 
thinks  hunself  entitled  to  laugh  at  their  disap- 
pointment; if  right,  men  of  superior  talents  think 
their  honour  engaged  to  oppose,  since  every  new 
discovery  is  a  tacit  diminution  of  their  own  pre- 
eminence. 

To  aim  at  excellence,  our  reputation,  our  friends, 
and  our  all  must  be  ventured ;  by  aiming  only  at 
mediocrity,  we  run  no  risk,  and  we  do  little  service. 
Prudence  and  greatness  are  ever  persuading  us  to 
contrary  pursuits.  The  one  instructs  us  to  be 
content  with  our  station,  and  to  find  happiness  in 
bounding  every  wish  :  the  other  impels  us  to  su- 
periority, and  calls  nothing  happiness  but  rapture. 
The  one  directs  to  follow  mankind,  and  to  act  and 
think  with  the  rest  of  the  world  :  the  other  drives 
us  from  the  crowd,  and  exposes  us  as  a  mark  to  all 
the  shafts  of  envy  or  ignorance. 

Nee  minus  periculum  ex  magna  fama  quam  ex  mala. 

TadU 

The  rewards  of  mediocrity  are  immediately 
paid,  those  attending  excellence  generally  paid  in 
reversion.  In  a  word,  the  little  mind  who  loves 
itself,  will  write  and  think  with  the  vulgar,  but  the 
great  mind  will  be  bravely  eccentric,  and  scorn  the 
beaten  road,  from  universal  benevolence. 

***  In  this  place  our  author  introduces  a  paper, 
entitled  a  City  Night  Piece,  with  the  following 
motto  from  Martied. 

Ille  dolet  vere,  qui  sine  teste  dolet 

This  beautiful  Essay  forms  the  117th  letter  in 
the  Citizen  of  the  World ;  but  Dr.  Goldsmith  has 
there  omitted  the  concluding  paragraph,  which,  on 
account  of  its  singular  merit,  we  shall  here  pre- 
serve. 

But  let  me  turn  from  a  scene  of  such  distress  to 
the  sanctified  hypocrite,  who  has  been  talking  of 
virtue  till  the  time  of  bed,  and  now  steals  out  to 
give  a  loose  to  his  vices  under  the  protection  of 
midnight:  vices  more  atrocious  because  he  at- 
tempts to  conceal  them.  See  how  he  pants  down 
the  da-rk  alley ;  and,  with  hastening  steps,  fears  an  • 
acquaintance  in  every  face.  He  has  passed  the 
whole  day  in  company  he  hates,  and  now  goes  to 
prolong  the  night  among  company  that  as  heartily 
hate  him.  May  his  vices  be  detected  !  may  the 
morning  rise  upon  his  shame!  Yet  I  wish  to  no 
purpose ;  villany,  when  detected,  never  gives  up, 
but  boldly  adds  impudence  to. imposture. 


THE  BEE. 


447 


THE  BEE,  No.  V, 


Saturday,  November  3,  1759. 


UPON  POLITICAL  FRUGALITY. 

Frugality  has  ever  been  esteemed  a  virtue  as 
well  among  Pagans  as  Christians :  there  have  been 
even  heroes  who  have  practised  it.  Hov^rever,  we 
must  acknowledge,  that  it  is  too  modest  a  virtue, 
or,  if  you  will,  too  obscure  a  one,  to  be  essential  to 
heroism ;  few  heroes  have  been  able  to  attain  to 
such  a  height.  Frugality  agrees  much  better  with 
politics ;  it  seems  to  be  the  base,  the  support,  and, 
in  a  word,  seems  to  be  the  inseparable  companion 
of  a  just  administration. 

However  this  be,  there  is  not  perhaps  in  the 
world  a  people  less  fond  of  this  virtue  than  the 
English ;  and  of  consequence,  there  is  not  a  na- 
tion more  restless,  more  exposed  to  the  uneasiness 
of  life,  or  less  capable  of  providing  for  particular 
happiness.  We  are  taught  to  despise  this  virtue 
from  our  childhood,  our  education  is  improperly 
directed,  and  a  man  who  has  gone  through  the  po- 
litest institutions,  is  generally  the  person  who  is 
least  acquainted  with  the  wholesome  precepts  of 
frugality.  We  every  day  hear  the  elegance  of 
taste,  the  magnificence  of  some,  and  the  generosity 
of  others,  made  the  subject  of  our  admiration  and 
applause.  All  this  we  see  represented,  not  as  the 
end  and  recompense  of  labour  and  desert,  but  as 
the  actual  result  of  genius,  as  the  mark  of  a  noble 
and  exalted  mind. 

In  the  midst  of  these  praises  bestowed  on  luxury, 
for  which  elegance  and  taste  are  but  another  name, 
perhaps  it  may  be  thought  improper  to  plead  the 
cause  of  frugality.  It  may  be  thought  low,  or 
vainly  declamatory,  to  exhort  our  youth  from  the 
folHes  of  dress,  and  of  every  other  superfluity ;  to 
accustom  themselves,  even  with  mechanic  mean- 
ness, to  the  simple  necessaries  of  life.  Such  sort 
of  instructions  may  appear  antiquated ;  yet,  how- 
ever, they  seem  the  foundations  of  all  our  virtues, 
and  the  most  efficacious  method  of  making  man- 
kind useful  members  of  society.  Unhappily,  how- 
ever, such  discourses  are  not  fashionable  among 
us,  and  the  fashion  seems  every  day  growing  still 
more  obsolete,  since  the  press,  and  every  other 
method  of  exhortation,  seems  disposed  to  talk  of 
the  luxuries  of  life  as  harmless  enjoyments.  I  re- 
member, when  a  boy,  to  have  remarked,  that  those 
who  in  school  wore  the  finest  clothes,  were  pointed 
at  as  being  conceited  and  proud.  At  present,  our 
little  masters  are  taught  to  consider  dress  betimes, 
and  they  are  regarded,  even  at  school,  with  con- 
tempt, who  do  not  appear  as  genteel  as  the  rest. 
Education  should  teach  u»  to  become  useful,  sober, 


disinterested,  and  laborious  members  of  society ; 
but  does  it  not  at  present  point  out  a  different  path  1 
It  teaches  us  to  multiply  our  wants,  by  which 
means  we  become  more  eager  to  possess,  in  order 
to  dissipate,  a  greater  charge  to  ourselves,  and 
more  useless  or  obnoxious  to  society. 

If  a  youth  happens  to  be  possessed  of  more  ge- 
nius than  fortune,  he  is  early  informed,  that  he 
ought  to  think  of  his  advancement  in  the  world ; 
that  he  should  labour  to  make  himself  pleasing  to 
his  superiors ;  that  he  should  shun  low  company 
(by  which  is  meant  the  company  of  his  equals) ; 
that  he  should  rather  live  a  little  above  than  below 
his  fortune;  that  he  should  think  of  becoming 
great :  but  he  finds  none  to  admonish  him  to  be- 
come frugal,  to  persevere  in  one  single  design,  ta 
avoid  every  pleasure  and  all  flattery  which,  how- 
ever seeming  to  conciliate  the  favour  of  his  supe- 
riors, never  conciliate  their  esteem.  There  are 
none  to  teach  him,  that  the  best  way  of  becoming; 
happy  in  himself,  and  useful  to  others,  is  to  con- 
tinue in  the  state  in  which  fortune  at  first  placed 
him,  without  making  too  hasty  strides  to  advance- 
ment ;  that  greatness  may  be  attained,  but  should 
not  be  expected ;  and  that  they  who  most  impa- 
tiently expect  advancement,  are  seldom  possessed 
of  their  wishes.  He  has  few,  I  say,  to  teach  him 
this  lesson,  or  to  moderate  his  youthful  passions ; 
yet  this  experience  may  say,  that  a  young  man, 
who,  but  for  six  years  of  the  early  part  of  his  life, 
could  seem  divested  of  all  his  passions,  would 
certainly  make,  or  considerably  increase  his  for- 
tune, and  might  indulge  several  of  his  favour- 
ite incUnations  in  manhood  with  the  utmost  se- 
curity. 

The  efficaciousness  of  these  means  is  sufficiently 
known  and  acknowledged ;  but  as  we  are  apt  to 
connect  a  low  idea  with  all  our  notions  of  frugality, 
the  person  who  would  persuade  us  to  it  might  be 
accused  of  preaching  up  avarice. 

Of  all  vices,  however,  against  which  morality 
dissuades,  there  is  not  one  more  undetermined 
than  this  of  avarice.  Misers  are  described  by 
some,  as  men  divested  of  honour,  sentiment,  or  hu- 
manity; but  this  is  only  an  ideal  picture,  or  the  re- 
semblance at  least  is  found  but  in  a  few.  In  truth, 
they  who  are  generally  called  misers,  are  some  of 
the  very  best  members  of  society.  The  sober, 
the  laborious,  the  attentive,  the  frugal,  are  thus 
styled  by  the  gay,  giddy,  thoughtless,  and  extra- 
vagant. The  first  set  of  men  do  society  all  the 
good,  and  the  latter  all  the  evil  that  is  felt.  Even 
the  excesses  of  the  first  no  way  injure  the  com- 
monwealth ;  those  of  the  latter  are  the  most  in- 
jurious that  can  be  conceived. 

The  ancient  Romans,  more  rational  than  we  in 
this  particular,  were  very  far  from  thus  misplacing 
their  admiration  or  praise ;  instead  of  regarding 
the  practice  of  parsimony  as  low  or  vicious,  they 


448 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


made  it  synonymous  even  with  probity.  They  es- 
teemed those  virtues  so  inseparable,  that  the  known 
expression  of  Vir  Frugi  signified,  at  one  and  the 
same  titoe,  a  sober  and  managing  man,  an  honest 
man,  and  a  man  of  substance. 

The  Scriptures,  in  a  thousand  places,  praise 
economy;  and  it  is  every  where  distinguished  from 
avarice.  But  in  spite  of  all  its  sacred  dictates,  a 
taste  for  vain  pleasures  and  foolish  expense  is  the 
ruling  passion  of  the  present  times.  Passion,  did 
I  call  it?  rather  the  madness  which  at  once  possesses 
the  great  and  the  little,  the  rich  and  the  poor :  even 
some  are  so  intent  upon  acquiring  the  superfluities 
of  life  that  they  sacrifice  its  necessaries  in  this  fool- 
ish pursuit. 

To  attempt  the  entire  abolition  of  luxury,  as  it 
would  be  impossible,  so  it  is  not  my  intent.  The 
generality  of  mankind  are  too  weak,  too  much 
slaves  to  custom  and  opinion,  to  resist  the  torrent 
of  bad  example.  But  if  it  be  impossible  to  convert 
the  multitude,  those  who  have  received  a  more  ex- 
tended education,  who  are  enlightened  and  judi- 
cious, may  find  some  hints  on  this  subject  usefal. 
They  may  see  some  abuses,  the  suppression  of 
which  would  by  no  means  endanger  public  liberty ; 
they  may  be  directed  to  the  abolition  of  some  un- 
necessary expenses,  which  have  no  tendency  to 
promote  happiness  or  virtue,  and  which  might  be 
directed  to  better  purposes.  Our  fire-works,  our 
public  feasts  and  entertainments,  our  entries  of  am 
bassadors,  etc.;  what  mummery  all  this!  what 
childish  pageants  I  what  miUions  are  sacrificed  in 
paying  tribute  to  custom!  what  an  unnecessary 
charge  at  times  when  we  are  pressed  with  real 
want,  which  can  not  be  satisfied  without  burdening 
the  poor ! 

Were  such  suppressed  entirely,  not  a  single 
creature  in  the  state  would  have  the  least  cause  to 
mourn  their  suppression,  and  many  might  be  eased 
of  a  load  they  now  feel  lying  heavily  upon  them. 
If  this  were  put  in  practice,  it  would  agree  with  the 
advice  of  a  sensible  writer  of  Sweden,  who,  in  the 
Gazette  de  France,  1753,  thus  expressed  himself 
on  that  subject.  "  It  were  sincerely  to  be  wished," 
says  he,  "  that  the  custom  were  established  amongst 
us,  that  in  all  events  which  cause  a  public  joy,  we 
made  our  exultations  conspicuous  only  by  acts  use- 
ful to  society.  We  should  then  quickly  see  many 
useful  monuments  of  our  reason,  which  would 
much  better  perpetuate  the  memory  of  things  worthy 
of  being  transmitted  to  posterity,  and  would  be 
much  more  glorious  to  humanity,  than  all  those 
tumultuous  preparations  of  feasts,  entertainments, 
and  other  rejoicings  used  upon  such  occasions.'' 

The  same  proposal  was  long  before  confirmed  by 
a  Chinese  emperor,  who  lived  in  the  last  century, 
who,  upon  an  occasion  of  extraordinary  joy,  forbade 
his  subjects  to  make  the  usual  illuminations,  either 
with  a  design  of  sparing  their  substance,  or  of 


turning  them  to  some  more  durable  indications  of 
joy,  more  glorious  for  him,  and  more  advantageous 
to  his  people. 

After  such  instances  of  political  frugality,  can 
we  then  continue  to  blame  the  Dutch  ambassador 
at  a  certain  court,  who,  receiving  at  his  departure 
the  portrait  of  the  king,  enriched  with  diamonds, 
asked  what  this  fine  thing  might  be  worth?  Being 
told  that  it  might  amount  to  about  two  thousand 
pounds,  "And  why,"  cries  he,  "cannot  his  majes- 
ty keep  the  picture  and  give  the  money?  "  The 
simpUcity  may  be  ridiculed  at  first ;  but  when  we 
come  to  examine  it  more  closely,  men  of  sense  will 
at  once  confess  that  he  had  reason  in  what  he  said, 
and  that  a  purse  of  two  thousand  guineas  is  much 
more  serviceable  than  a  picture. 

Should  we  follow  the  same  method  of  state  fru- 
gality in  other  respects,  what  numberless  savings 
might  not  be  the  result!  How  many  possibiUties 
of  saving  in  the  administration  of  justice,  which 
now  burdens  the  subject,  and  enriches  some  mem- 
bers of  society,  who  are  useful  only  from  its  cor- 
ruption ! 

It  were  to  be  wished,  that  they  who  govern  king- 
doms would  imitate  artisans.  When  at  London  a 
new  stuff  has  been  invented,  it  is  immediately 
counterfeited  in  France.  How  happy  were  it  for 
society,  if  a  first  minister  would  be  equally  solicit- 
ous to  transplant  the  useful  laws  of  other  countries 
into  his  own.  We  are  arrived  at  a  perfect  imita- 
tion of  porcelain ;  let  us  endeavour  to  imitate  the 
good  to  society  that  our  neighbours  are  found  to 
practise,  and  let  our  neighbours  also  imitate  those 
parts  of  duty  in  which  we  excel. 

There  are  some  men,  who  in  their  garden  at- 
tempt to  raise  those  fruits  which  nature  has  adapt- 
ed only  to  the  sultry  climates  beneath  the  line.  We 
have  at  our  very  doors  a  thousand  laws  and  cus- 
toms infinitely  useful :  these  are  the  fruits  we  should 
endeavour  to  transplant;  these  the  exotics  that 
would  speedily  become  naturalized  to  the  soil.  They 
might  grow  in  every  climate,  and  benefit  every  pos- 


The  best  and  the  most  useful  laws  I  have  ever 
seen,  are  generally  practised  in  Holland.  When 
two  men  are  determined  to  go  to  law  with  each 
other,  they  are  first  obliged  to  go  before  the  recon- 
ciling judges,  called  the  peace-makers.  If  the 
parties  come  attended  with  an  advocate,  or  a  so- 
licitor, they  are  obliged  to  retire,  as  we  take  fuel 
from  the  fire  we  are  desirous  of  extinguishing. 

The  peace- makers  then  begin  advising  the  par- 
ties, by  assuring  them,  that  it  is  the  height  of  folly 
to  waste  their  substance,  and  make  themselves 
mutually  miserable,  by  having  recourse  to  the  tri- 
bunals of  justice;  follow  but  our  direction,  and  we 
will  accommodate  matters  without  any  expense  to 
either.  If  the  rage  of  debate  is  too  strong  upon 
either  party,  they  are  remitted  back  for  another 


THE  BEE. 


449 


day,  in  order  that  time  may  soften  tlieir  tempers, 
and  produce  a  reconciliation.  They  are  thus  sent 
tor  twice  or  thrice :  if  their  folly  happens  to  be  in- 
curable, they  are  permitted  to  go  to  law,  and  as 
we  give  up  to  amputation  such  members  as  can 
not  be  cured  by  art,  justice  is  permitted  to  take  its 
course. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  make  here  long  declamations, 
or  calculate  what  society  would  save,  were  this  law 
adopted.  I  am  sensible,  that  the  man  who  advises 
any  reformation,  only  serves  to  make  himself  ridi- 
culous. What !  mankind  will  be  apt  to  say,  adopt 
the  customs  of  countries  that  have  not  so  much  real 
liberty  as  our  own !  our  present  customs,  what  are 
they  to  any  man?  we  are  very  happy  under  them : 
this  must  be  a  very  pleasant  fellow,  who  attempts 
to  make  us  happier  than  we  already  are !  Does  he 
not  know  that  abuses  are  the  patrimony  of  a  great 
part  of  the  nation?  Why  deprive  us  of  a  malady 
by  which  such  numbers  find  their  account?  This, 
I  must  own,  is  an  argrment  to  which  I  have  no- 
thing to  reply. 

What  numberless  savings  might  there  not  be 
made  in  both  arts  and  commerce,  particularly  in 
the  liberty  of  exercising  trade,  without  the  neces- 
sary prerequisites  of  freedom !  Such  useless  ob- 
structions have  crept  into  every  state,  from  a  spirit 
of  monopoly,  a  narrow  selfish  spirit  of  gain,  with- 
out the  least  attention  to  general  society.  Such  a 
clog  upon  industry  frequently  drives  the  poor  from 
labour,  and  reduces  them  by  degrees  to  a  state  of 
hopeless  indigence.  We  have  already  a  more  than 
sufficient  repugnance  to  labour ;  we  should  by  no 
means  increase  the  obstacles,  or  make  excuses  in  a 
state  for  idleness.  Such  faults  have  ever  crept 
into  a  state,  under  wrong  or  needy  administra- 
tions. 

Exclusive  of  the  masters,  there  are  numberless 
faulty  expenses  among  the  workmen ;  clubs,  garn- 
ishes, freedoms,  and  such  hke  impositions,  which 
are  not  too  minute  even  for  law  to  take  notice  of, 
;  and  which  should  be  abolished  without  mercy, 
since  they  are  ever  the  inlets  to  excess  and  idle- 
:  ness,  and  are  the  parent  of  all  those  outrages  which 
naturally  fall  upon  the  more  useful  part  of  society. 
In  the  towns  and  countries  I  have  seen,  I  never 
saw  a  city  or  village  yet,  whose  miseries  were  not 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  its  public-houses. 
In  Rotterdam,  you  may  go  through  eight  or  ten 
streets  without  finding  a  public-house.  In  Ant- 
werp, almost  every  second  house  seems  an  ale- 
house. In  the  one  city,  all  wears  the  appearance 
of  happiness  and  warm  affluence ;  in  the  other,  the 
young  fellows  walk  about  the  streets  in  shabby 
finery,  their  fathers  sit  at  the  door  darning  or  knit- 
ting stockings,  while  their  ports  are  filled  with 
dunghills. 

Alehouses  are  ever  an  occasion  of  debauchery 
29 


and  excess,  and,  either  in  a  religious  or  political 
light,  it  would  be  our  highest  interest  to  have  the 
greatest  part  of  them  suppressed.  They  should  be 
put  under  laws  of  not  continuing  open  beyond  a 
certain  hour,  and  harbouring  only  proper  persons. 
These  rules,  it  may  be  said,  will  diminish  the  ne- 
cessary taxes;  but  this  is  false  reasoning,  since  what 
was  consumed  in  debauchery  abroad,  would,  if 
such  a  regulation  took  place,  be  more  justly,  and 
perhaps  more  equitably  for  the  workman's  family, 
spent  at  home ;  and  this  cheaper  to  them,  and  with- 
out loss  of  time.  On  the  other  hand,  our  alehouses 
being  ever  open,  interrupt  business ;  the  workman 
is  never  certain  who  frequents  them,  nor  can  the 
master  be  sure  of  having  what  was  begun,  finished 
at  the  convenient  time. 

A  habit  of  frugality  among  the  lower  orders  of 
mankind,  is  much  more  beneficial  to  society  than 
the  unreflecting  might  imagine.  The  pawnbroker, 
the  attorney,  and  othej*  pests  of  society,  might,  by 
proper  management,  be  turned  into  serviceable 
members ;  and,  were  their  trades  abolished,  it  is 
possible  the  same  avarice  that  conducts  the  one,  or 
the  same  chicanery  that  characterizes  the  other, 
might,  by  proper  regulations,  be  converted  intt» 
frugality  and  commendable  prudence. 

But  some,  who  have  made  the  eulogium  of  lux- 
ury, have  represented  it  as  the  natural  consequence 
of  every  country  that  is  become  rich.  Did  we  not 
employ  our  extraordinary  wealth  in  superfluities, 
say  they,  what  other  means  would  there  be  to  em- 
ploy it  in?  To  which  it  may  be  answered,  if  fru- 
gality were  established  in  the  state,  if  our  expenses 
were  laid  out  rather  in  the  necessaries  than  the 
superfluities  of  hfe,  there  might  be  fewer  wants, 
and  even  fewer  pleeisures,  but  infinitely  more  hap- 
piness. The  rich  and  the  great  would  be  better 
able  to  satisfy  their  creditors;  they  would  be  better 
able  to  marry  their  children,  and,  instead  of  one 
marriage  at  present,  there  might  be  two,  if  such 
regulations  took  place. 

The  imaginary  calls  of  vanity,  which  in  reality 
contribute  nothing  to  our  real  felicity,  would  not 
then  be  attended  to,  while  the  real  calls  of  nature 
might  be  always  and  universally  supplied.  The 
difl[erence  of  employment  in  the  subject  is  ^vhat,  in 
reality,  produces  the  good  of  society.  If  tne  sub- 
ject be  engaged  in  providing  only  the  luxuries,  the 
necessaries  must  be  deficient  in  proportion.  If, 
neglecting  the  produce  of  our  own  country,  our 
minds  are  set  upon  the  productions  of  another,  we 
increase  our  wants,  but  not  our  means ;  and  every 
'new  imported  delicacy  for  our  tables,  or  ornament 
in  our  equipage,  is  a  tax  upon  the  poor. 

The  true  interest  of  every  government  is  to  cul- 
tivate the  necessaries,  by  which  is  always  meant 
every  happiness  our  own  country  can  produce ; 
and  suppress  all  the  luxuries,  by  which  is  meant, 


450 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


on  the  other  hand,  every  happiness  imported  from 
abroad.  Commerce  has  therefore  its  bounds ;  and 
every  new  import,  instead  of  receiving  encourage- 
ment, should  be  first  examined  whether  it  be  con- 
ducive to  the  interest  of  society. 

Among  the  many  pubUcations  with  which  the 
press  is  every  day  burdened,  I  have  often  wondered 
why  we  never  had,  as  in  other  countries,  an 
Economical  Journal,  which  might  at  once  direct  to 
all  the  useful  discoveries  in  other  countries,  and 
spread  those  of  our  own.  As  other  journals  serve 
to  amuse  the  learned,  or,  what  is  more  often  the 
case,  to  make  them  quarrel,  while  they  only  serve 
to  give  us  the  history  of  the  mischievous  world,  for 
so  1  call  our  warriors;  or  the  idle  world,  for  so  may 
the  learned  be  called;  they  never  trouble  their 
heads  about  the  most  useful  part  of  mankind,  our 
peasants  and  our  artisans ; — were  such  a  work  car- 
ried into  execution,  with  proper  management,  and 
just  direction,  it  might  serve  as  a  repository  for 
every  useful  improvement,  and  increase  that  know- 
ledge which  learning  often  serves  to  confound. 

Sweden  seems  the  only  country  where  the  sci- 
ence of  economy  seems  to  have  fixed  its  empire. 
In  other  countries,  it  is  cultivated  only  by  a  few 
admirers,  or  by  societies  which  have  not  received 
sufficient  sanction  to  become  completely  useful; 
but  here  there  is  founded  a  royal  academy  destined 
to  this  purpose  only,  composed  of  the  most  learned 
and  powerful  members  of  the  state ;  an  academy 
which  declines  every  thing  which  only  terminates 
in  amusement,  erudition,  or  curiosity ;  and  admits 
only  of  observations  tending  to  illustrate  husbandry, 
agriculture,  and  every  real  physical  improvement. 
In  this  country  nothing  is  left  to  private  rapacity ; 
but  every  improvement  is  immediately  diffused, 
and  its  inventor  immediately  recompensed  by  the 
state.  Happy  were  it  so  in  other  countries;  by 
this  means,  every  impostor  would  be  prevented  from 
ruining  or  deceiving  the  public  with  pretended  dis- 
coveries or  nostrums,  and  every  real  inventor  would 
not,  by  this  means,  suffer  the  inconveniencies  of 
suspicion. 

In  short,  the  economy  equally  unknown  to  the 
prodigal  and  avaricious,  seems  to  be  a  just  mean 
between  both  extremes ;  and  to  a  transgression  of 
this  at  present  decried  virtue  it  is  that  we  are  to  at- 
tribute a  great  part  of  the  evils  which  infest  society. 
A  taste  for  superfluity,  amusement,  and  pleasure, 
bring  effeminacy,  idleness,  and  expense  in  their 
train.  But  a  thirst  of  riches  is  always  proportion- 
ed to  our  debauchery,  and  the  greatest  prodigal  is 
too  frequently  found  to  be  the  greatest  miser;  so 
mat  the  vices  which  seem  the  most  opposite,  are 
frequently  found  to  produce  each  other;  and  to 
avoid  both,  it  is  only  necessary  to  be  frugal. 

Virtus  est  medium  Tiliorum  cl  utrinque  reductum.— JETor. 


A  REVERIE. 

Scarcely  a  day  passes  in  which  we  do  not  hear 
compliments  paid  to  Dryden,  Pope,  and  other 
writers  of  the  last  age,  while  not  a  mouth  comes 
forward  that  is  not  loaded  with  invectives  against 
the  writers  of  this.  Strange,  that  our  critics  should 
be  fond  of  giving  their  favours  to  those  who  are 
insensible  of  the  obligation,  and  their  dislike  to 
those,  who,  of  all  mankind,  are  most  apt  to  retaliate 
the  injury. 

Even  though  our  present  writers  had  not  equal 
merit  with  their  predecessors,  it  would  be  politic  to 
use  them  with  ceremony.  Every  compliment  paid 
them  would  be  more  agreeable,  in  proportion  as 
they  least  deserved  it.  Tell  a  lady  with  a  hand- 
some face  that  she  is  pretty,  she  only  thinks  it  her 
due ;  it  is  what  she  has  heard  a  thousand  times  be- 
fore from  others,  and  disregards  the  compliment : 
but  assure  a  lady,  the  cut  of  whose  visage  is  some- 
thing more  plain,  that  she  looks  killing  to-day,  she 
instantly  bridles  up,  and  feels  the  force  of  the  well- 
timed  flattery  the  whole  day  after.  Compliments 
which  we  think  are  deserved,  we  accept  only  as 
debts,  with  indifference;  but  those  which  con- 
science informs  us  we  do  not  merit,  we  receive  with 
the  same  gratitude  that  we  do  favours  given  away. 

Our  gentlemen,  however,  who  preside  at  the  dis- 
tribution of  literary  fame,  seem  resolved  to  part  with 
praise  neither  from  motives  of  justice  nor  generosi- 
ty: one  would  think,  when  they  take  pen  in  hand, 
that  it  was  only  to  blot  reputations,  and  to  put 
their  seals  to  the  packet  which  consigns  every  new- 
born effort  to  oblivion. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  republic  of  letters 
hangs  at  present  so  feebly  together ;  though  those 
friendships  which  once  promoted  literary  fame  seem 
now  to  be  discontinued ;  though  every  writer  who 
now  draws  the  quill  seems  to  aim  at  profit,  as  well 
as  applause;  many  among  them  are  probably  laying 
in  stores  for  immortality,  and  are  provided  with  a 
sufficient  stock  of  reputation  to  last  the  whole 
journey. 

As  I  was  indulging  these  reflections,  in  order  to 
eke  out  the  present  page,  I  could  not  avoid  pur- 
suing the  metaphor  of  going  a  journey  in  my  ima- 
gination, and  formed  the  following  Reverie,  too 
wild  for  allegory  and  too  regular  for  a  dream. 

I  fancied  myself  placed  in  the  yard  of  a  large 
mn,  in  which  there  were  an  infinite  number  of 
wagons  and  stage-coaches,  attended  by  fellows  who 
either  invited  the  company  to  take  their  places,  or 
were  busied  in  packing  their  baggage.  Each  vehicle 
had  its  inscription,  showing  the  place  of  its  desti- 
nation. On  one  I  could  read.  The  pleasure  stuge- 
coach;  on  another,  The  wagon  of  industry ;  on  a 
third,  The  vanity  whim ;  and  on  a  fourth,   The 


THE  BEE. 


451 


landau  of  riches.  I  had  some  inclination  to  step 
inx)  each  of  these,  one  after  another;  but  I  know 
not  by  what  means,  I  passed  them  by,  and  at  last 
fixed  my  eye  upon  a  small  carriage,  Berlin  fashion, 
which  seemed  the  most  convenient  vehicle  at  a  dis- 
tance in  the  world ;  and  upon  my  nearer  approach 
found  it  to  be  The  fame  machine. 

I  instantly  made  up  to  the  coachman,  whom  I 
found  to  be  an  affable  and  seemingly  good-natured 
fellow.  He  informed  me,  that  he  had  but  a  few 
days  ago  returned  from  the  Temple  of  Fame,  to 
■which  he  had  been  carrying  Addison,  Swift,  Pope, 
Steele,  Congreve,  and  Colley  Gibber.  That  they 
made  but  indifferent  company  by  the  way,  that  he 
once  or  twice  was  going  to  empty  his  berlin  of  the 
whole  cargo :  however,  says  he,  I  got  them  all 
safe  home,  with  no  other  damage  than  a  black  eye, 
which  Colley  gave  Mr.  Pope,  and  am  now  return- 
ed for  another  coachful.  "  If  that  be  all,  friend," 
said  I,  "and  if  you  are  in  want  of  company,  I'll 
make  one  with  all  my  heart.  Open  the  door ;  I 
hope  the  machine  rides  easy."  "  Oh,  for  that,  sir, 
extremely  easy."  But  still  keeping  the  door  shut, 
and  measuring  me  with  his  eye,  "  Pray,  sir,  have 
you  no  luggage?  You  seem  to  be  a  good-natured 
sort  of  a  gentleman ;  but  I  don't  find  you  have  got 
any  luggage,  and  I  never  permit  any  to  travel  with 
me  but  such  as  have  something  valuable  to  pay  for 
coach-hire."  Examining  my  pockets,  I  own  I  was 
not  a  little  disconcerted  at  this  unexpected  rebuff; 
but  considering  that  I  carried  a  number  of  the  Bee 
under  my  arm,  I  was  resolved  to  open  it  in  his 
eyes,  and  dazzle  him  with  the  splendour  of  the 
page.  He  read  the  title  and  contents,  however, 
without  any  emotion,  and  assured  me  he  had 
never  heard  of  it  before.  "  In  short,  friend,"  said 
he,  now  losing  all  his  former  respect,  "  you  must 
not  come  in :  I  expect  better  passengers ;  but  as 
you  seem  a  harmless  creature,  perhaps,  if  there  be 
room  left,  I  may  let  you  ride  a  while  for  charity." 

1  now  took  my  stand  by  the  coachman  at  the 
door;  and  since  I  could  not  command  a  seat,  was 
resolved  to  be  as  useful  as  possible,  and  earn  by  my 
assiduity  what  I  could  not  by  my  merit. 

The  next  that  presented  for  a  place  was  a  most 
whimsical  figure  indeed.  He  was  hung  round 
with  papers  of  his  own  composing,  not  unlike  those 
who  sing  ballads  in  the  streets,  and  came  dancing 
up  to  the  door  with  all  the  confidence  of  instant 
admittance.  The  volubility  of  his  motion  and  ad- 
dress prevented  my  being  able  to  read  more  of  his 
cargo  than  the  word  Inspector,  which  was  written 
in  great  letters  at  the  top  of  some  of  the  papers.  He 
opened  the  coach-door  himself  without  any  cere- 
mony, and  was  just  slipping  in,  when  the  coach- 
man, with  as  little  ceremony,  pulled  him  back.  Our 
figure  seemed  perfectly  angry  at  this  repulse,  and 
demanded  gentleman's  satisfaction.  "Lord,  sir!" 
replied  the  coachman,  "instead  of  proper  luggage. 


by  your  bulk  you  seem  loaded  for  a  West  India^ 
voyage.  You  are  big  enough  with  all  your  papers 
to  crack  twenty  stage-coaches.  Excuse  me,  in- 
deed, sir,  for  you  must  not  enter."  Our  figure  now 
began  to  expostulate:  he  assured  the  coachman, 
that  though  his  baggage  seemed  so  bulky,  it  was 
perfectly  light,  and  that  he  would  be  contented 
with  the  smallest  corner  of  room.  But  Jehu  was 
inflexible,  and  the  carrier  of  the  Inspectors  was 
sent  to  dance  back  again  with  all  his  papers  flut- 
tering in  the  wind.  We  expected  to  have  no  more 
trouble  from  this  quarter,  when  in  a  few  minutes 
the  same  figure  changed  his  appearance,  like  har- 
lequin upon  the  stage,  and  with  the  same  confi- 
dence again  made  his  approaches,  dressed  in  lace, 
and  carrying  nothing  but  a  nosegay.  Upon  com- 
ing nearer,  he  thrust  the  nosegay  to  the  coach- 
man's nose,  grasped  the  brass,  and  seemed  now  re- 
solved to  enter  by  violence.  I  found  the  struggle 
soon  begin  to  grow  hot,  and  the  coachman,  who 
was  a  httle  old,  unable  to  continue  the  contest ;  so, 
in  order  to  ingratiate  myself,  I  stepped  in  to  his 
assistance,  and  our  united  efforts  sent  our  literary 
Proteus,  though  worsted,  unconquered  still,  clear 
off,  dancing  a  rigadoon,  and  smelling  to  his  own 
nosegay. 

The  person  who  after  him  appeared  as  candidate 
for  a  place  in  the  stage,  came  up  with  an  air  not  quite 
so  confident,  but  somewhat  however  theatrical ; 
and,  instead  of  entering,  made  the  coachman  a  very 
low  bow,  which  the  other  returned  and  desired  to 
see  his  baggage ;  upon  which  he  instantly  produced 
some  farces,  a  tragedy,  and  other  miscellany  pro- 
ductions. The  coachman,  casting  his  eye  upon 
the  cargo,  assured  him  at  present  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  a  place,  but  hoped  in  time  he  might  as- 
pire to  one,  as  he  seemed  to  have  read  in  the  book 
of  nature,  without  a  careful  perusal  of  which,  none 
ever  found  entrace  at  the  Temple  of  Fame. 
"What!"  replied  the  disappointed  poet,  "shall 
my  tragedy,  in  which  I  have  vindicated  the  cause 
of  liberty  and  virtue — " "Follow  nature,"  re- 
turned the  other,  "and  never  expect  to  find  lasting 
fame  by  topics  which  only  please  from,  their  popu- 
larity. Had  you  been  first  in  the  cause  of  freedom 
or  praised  in  virtue  more  than  an  empty  name,  it 
is  possible  you  might  have  gained  admittance; 
but  at  present  I  beg  sir,  you  will  stand  aside  for 
another  gentleman  whom  I  see  approaching." 

This  was  a  very  grave  personage,  whom  at  some 
distance  I  took  for  one  of  the  most  reserved,  and 
even  disagreeable  figures  I  had  seen ;  but  as  he 
approached,  his  appearance  improved,  and  when  I 
could  distinguish  him  thoroughly,  I  perceived  that, 
in  spite  of  the  severity  of  his  brow,  he  had  one  of 
the  most  good-natured  countenances  that  could  be 
imagined.  Upon  coming  to  open  the  stage  door, 
he  Ufted  a  parcel  of  folios  into  the  seat  before  him, 
hut  our  inquisitorial  coachman  at  once  shoved  them 


452 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


out  again.  "  What !  not  take  in  my  Dictionary?" 
exclaimed  the  other  in  a  rage.  "  Be  patient,  sir," 
replied  the  coachman,  "  I  have  drove  a  coach,  man 
and  boy,  these  two  thousand  years ;  but  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  carried  above  one  dictionary 
during  the  whole  time.  That  little  book  which  I 
perceive  peeping  from  one  of  your  pockets,  may 
I  presume  to  ask  what  it  contains?"  "A  mere 
trifle,"  replied  the  author ;  "  it  is  called  The  Ram- 
bler." "  The  Rambler !"  says  the  coachman,  "  I 
beg,  sir,  you  will  take  your  place;  I  have  heard  our 
ladies  in  the  court  of  Apollo  frequently  mention 
it  with  rapture :  and  Clio,  who  happens  to  be  a 
little  grave,  has  been  heard  to  prefer  it  to  the  Spec- 
tator; though  others  have  observed,  that  the  re- 
flections, by  being  refined,  sometimes  become  mi- 
nute." 

This  grave  gentleman  was  scarcely  seated,  when 
another,  whose  appearance  was  something  more 
modern,  seemed  willing  to  enter,  yet  afraid  to  ask. 
He  carried  in  his  hand  a  bundle  of  essays,  of 
which  the  coachman  was  curious  enough  to  inquire 
the  contents,  "  These,"  replied  the  gentleman, 
"  are  rhapsodies  against  the  religion  of  my  coun- 
try." And  how  can  you  expect  to  come  into  my 
coach,  after  thus  choosing  the  wrong  side  of  the 
question?"  "Ay,  but  I  am  right,"  replied  the 
other;  "  and  if  you  give  me  leave  I  shall  in  a  few 
minutes  state  the  argument."  ' '  Right  or  wrong," 
said  the  coachman,  "he  who  disturbs  religion  is  a 
blockhead,  and  he  shall  never  travel  in  a  coach  of 
mine."  "  If,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  mustering 
up  all  his  courage,  "if  I  am  not  to  have  admit- 
tance as  an  essayist,  1  hope  I  shall  not  be  repulsed 
as  an  historian ;  the  last  volume  of  my  history  met 
with  applause."  "Yes,"  replied  the  coachman, 
"  but  I  have  heard  only  the  first  approved  at  the 
Temple  of  Fame ;  and  as  I  see  you  have  it  about 
you,  enter  without  further  ceremony."  My  atten- 
tion was  now  diverted  to  a  crowd  who  were  push- 
ing forward  a  person  that  seemed  more  inclined  to 
the  stage-coach  of  riches ;  but  by  their  means  he 
was  driven  forward  to  the  same  machine,  which  he, 
however,  seemed  heartily  to  despise.  Impelled, 
however,  by  their  solicitations,  he  steps  up,  flourish- 
ing a  voluminous  history,  and  demanding  admit- 
tance. "Sir,  I  have  formerly  heard  your  name 
mentioned,"  says  the  coachman,  "  but  never  as  an 
historian.  Is  there  no  other  work  upon  which  you 
may  claim  a  place  ?"  "  None,"  replied  the  other, 
"  except  a  romance ;  but  this  is  a  work  of  too  tri- 
fling a  nature  to  claim  future  attention.  "  You 
mistake,"  says  the  inquisitor,  "  a  well- written  ro- 
mance is  no  such  easy  task  as  is  generally  imagin- 
ed. I  remember  formerly  to  have  carried  Cervan- 
tes and  Segrais ;  and,  if  you  think  fit,  you  may 
enter." 

Upon  our  three  literary  travellers  coming  into 
the  same  coach,  I  listened  attentively  to  hear  what 


might  be  the  conversation  that  passed  upon  this  ex- 
traordinary occasion ;  when,  instead  nf  agreeable 
or  entertaining  dialogue,  I  found  them  grumbling 
at  each  other,  and  each  seemed  discontented  with 
his  companions.  Strange!  thought  I  to  myself, 
that  they  who  are  thus  born  to  enlighten  the  worldj 
should  still  preserve  the  narrow  prejudices  of  child- 
hood, and,  by  disagreeing,  make  even  the  highest 
merit  ridiculous.  Were  the  learned  and  the  wise 
to  unite  against  the  dunces  of  society,  instead  of 
sometimes  siding  into  opposite  parties  with  them, 
they  might  throw  a  lustre  upon  each  other's  repu- 
tation, and  teach  every  rank  of  subordination  me- 
rit, if  not  to  admire,  at  least  not  to  avow  dislike. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  I  perceived  the 
coachman,  unmindful  of  me,  had  now  mounted 
the  box.  Several  were  approaching  to  be  taken  in, 
whose  pretensions,  I  was  sensible,  were  very  just ; 
I  therefore  desired  him  to  stop,  and  take  in  more 
passengers  ;  but  he  replied,  as  he  had  now  mount- 
ed the  box,  it  would  be  improper  to  come  down ; 
but  that  he  should  take  them  all,  one  after  the 
other,  when  he  should  return.  So  he  Brove 
away ;  and  for  myself,  as  I  could  not  get  in,  I 
mounted  behind,  in  order  to  hear  the  conversation 
on  the  way. 

(To  be  continued) 


A  WORD  OR  TWO  ON  THE  LATE 
FARCE,  CALLED  "HIGH  LIFE  BE- 
LOW STAIRS." 

Just  as  I  had  expected,  before  I  saw  this  farce, 
I  found  it  formed  on  too  narrow  apian  to  afford  a 
pleasing  variety.  The  sameness  of  the  humour  in 
every  scene  could  not  but  at  last  fail  of  being  disa- 
greeable. The  poor,  affecting  the  manners  of  the 
rich,  might  be  carried  on  through  one  character,  or 
two  at  the  most,  with  great  propriety :  but  to  have 
almost  every  personage  on  the  scene  almost  of  the 
same  character,  and  reflecting  the  follies  of  each 
other,  was  unartful  in  the  poet  to  the  last  degree. 

The  scene  was  almost  a  continuation  of  the 
same  absurdity,  and  my  Lord  Duke  and  Sir  Har- 
ry (two  footmen  who  assume  these  characters) 
have  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  talk  like  their  mas- 
ters, and  are  only  introduced  to  speak,  and  to  show 
themselves.  Thus,  as  there  is  a  sameness  of  cha- 
racter, there  is  a  barrenness  of  incident,  which,  by 
a  very  small  share  of  address,  the  poet  might  have 
easily  avoided. 

From  a  conformity  to  critic  rules,  which  per- 
haps on  the  whole  have  done  more  harm  than 
good,  our  author  has  sacrificed  all  the  vivacity  of 
the  dialogue  to  nature  ;  and  though  he  makes  his 
characters  talk  like  servants,  they  are  seldom  ab- 
surd enough,  or  lively  enough  to  make  us  merry. 
Though  he  is  always  natural,  he  happens  seldom 
to  be  humorous. 


THE  BEE. 


453 


The  satire  was  well  intended,  if  we  regard  it  as 
being  masters  ourselves ;  but  probably  a  philoso- 
pher would  rejoice  in  that  liberty  which  English 
men  give  their  domestics ;  and,  for  my  own  part,  I 
can  not  avoid  being  pleased  at  the  happiness  of  those 
poor  creatures,  who  in  some  measure  contribute  to 
mine.  The  Athenians,  the  politest  and  best-na 
tured  people  upon  earth,  were  the  kindest  to  their 
slaves ;  and  if  a  person  may  judge,  who  has  seen 
the  world,  our  English  servants  are  the  best  treated, 
because  the  generality  of  our  English  gentlemen 
are  the  politest  under  the  sun. 

But  not  to  lift  my  feeble  voice  among  the  pack 
of  critics,  who  probably  have  no  other  occupation 
but  that  of  cutting  up  every  thing  new,  I  must 
own,  there  are  one  or  two  scenes  that  are  fine  satire, 
and  sufficiently  humorous;  particularly  the  first  in- 
terview between  the  two  footmen,  which  at  once 
ridicules  the  manners  of  the  great,  and  the  ab- 
surdity of  their  imitators. 

Whatever  defects  there  might  be  in  the  composi- 
tion, there  were  none  in  the  action :  in  this  the  per- 
jprmers  showed  more  humour  than  I  had  fancied 
them  capable  of.  Mr.  Palmer  and  Mr.  King  were 
entirely  what  they  desired  to  represent ;  and  Mrs. 
(Dlive  (but  what  need  I  talk  of  her,  since,  without 
the  least  exaggeration,  she  has  more  true  humour 
than  any  actor  or  actress  upon  the  English  or  any 
other  stage  I  have  seen) — she,  I  say,  did  the  part 
all  the  justice  it  was  capable  of;  and,  upon  the 
whole,  a  farce,  which  has  only  this  to  recommend 
it,  that  the  author  took  his  plan  from  the  volume 
of  nature,  by  the  sprightly  manner  in  which  it  was 
performed,  was  for  one  night  a  tolerable  entertain- 
ment. This  much  may  be  said  in  its  vindication, 
that  people  of  fashion  seemed  more  pleased  in  the 
representation  than  the  subordinate  ranks  of  people. 


UPON  UNFORTUNATE  MERIT. 

Every  age  seems  to  have  its  favourite  pursuits, 
which  serve  to  amuse  the  idle,  and  to  relieve  the 
attention  of  the  industrious.  Happy  the  man  who 
is  born  excellent  in  the  pursuit  in  vogue,  and  whose 
genius  seems  adapted  to  the  times  in  which  he 
lives.  How  many  do  we  see,  who  might  have  ex- 
celled in  arts  or  sciences,  and  who  seem  furnished 
with  talents  equal  to  the  greatest  discoveries,  had 
the  road  not  been  already  beaten  by  their  prede- 
cessors, and  nothing  left  for  them  except  trifles  to 
discover,  while  others  of  very  moderate  abilities  be- 
come famous,  because  happening  to  be  first  in  the 
reigning  pursuit. 

Thus,  at  the  renewal  of  letters  in  Europe,  the 
taste  was  not  to  compose  new  books,  but  to  com- 
ment on  the  old  ones.  It  was  not  to  be  expected 
that  new  books  should  be  written,  when  there  were 


so  many  of  the  ancients  either  not  known  or  not 
understood.  It  was  not  reasonable  to  attempt  new 
conquests,  while  they  had  such  an  extensive  region 
lying  waste  for  want  of  cultivation.  At  that  pe- 
riod, criticism  and  erudition  were  the  reigning  stu- 
dies of  the  times ;  and  he  who  had  only  an  inven- 
tive genius,  might  have  languished  in  hopeless  ob- 
scurity.  When  the  writers  of  antiquity  were  suffi- 
ciently explained  and  known,  the  learned  set  about 
imitating  them :  hence  proceeded  the  number  of 
Latin  orators,  poets,  and  historians,  in  the  reigns 
of  Clement  the  Seventh  and  Alexander  the  Sixth. 
This  passion  for  antiquity  lasted  for  many  years, 
to  the  utter  exclusion  of  every  other  pursuit,  till 
some  began  to  find,  that  those  works  which  were 
imitated  from  nature,  were  more  like  the  writings 
of  antiquity,  than  even  those  written  in  express 
imitation.  It  was  then  modern  language  began  to 
be  cultivated  with  assiduity,  and  our  poets  and  ora- 
tors poured  forth  their  wonders  upon  the  world. 

As  writers  become  more  numerous,  it  is  natural 
for  readers  to  become  more  indolent ;  whence  must 
necessarily  arise  a  desire  of  attaining  knowledge 
with  the  greatest  possible  ease.  No  science  or  art 
oflfers  its  instruction  and  amusement  in  so  obvious 
a  manner  as  statuary  and  painting.  Hence  we 
see,  that  a  desire  of  cultivating  those  arts  generally 
attends  the  decline  of  science.  Thus  the  finest 
statues  and  the  most  beautiful  paintings  of  an- 
tiquity, preceded  but  a  little  the  absolute  decay  of 
every  other  science.  The  statues  of  Antoninus, 
Commodus,  and  their  contemporaries,  are  the  finest 
productions  of  the  chisel,  and  appeared  but  just  be- 
fore learning  was  destroyed  by  comment,  criticism, 
and  barbarous  invasions. 

What  happened  in  Rome  may  probably  be  the 
case  with  us  at  home.  Our  nobility  are  now  more 
solicitous  in  patronizing  painters  and  sculptors  than 
those  of  any  other  polite  profession  ;  and  from  the 
lord,  who  has  his  gallery,  down  to  the  'prentice, 
who  has  his  twopenny  copper-plate,  all  are  ad- 
mirers of  this  art.  The  great,  by  their  caresses, 
seem  insensible  to  all  other  merit  but  that  of  the 
pencil ;  and  the  vulgar  buy  every  book  rather  from 
the  excellence  of  the  sculptor  than  the  writer. 

How  happy  were  it  now,  if  men  of  real  excel- 
lence in  that  profession  were  to  arise !  Were  the 
painters  of  Italy  now  to  appear,  who  once  wander- 
ed like  beggars  from  one  city  to  another,  and  pro- 
duce their  almost  breathing  figures,  what  rewards 
might  they  not  expect !  But  many  of  them  lived 
without  rewards,  and  therefore  rewards  alone  will 
never  produce  their  equals.  We  have  often  found 
the  great  exert  themselves  not  only  without  pro- 
motion, but  in  spite  of  opposition.  We  have  often 
found  them  flourishing,  like  medicinal  plants,  in  a 
region  of  savageness  and  barbarity,  their  excellence 
unknown,  and  their  virtues  unheeded. 

They  who  have  seen  the  paintings  of  Caravagio 


454 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


are  sensible  of  the  surprising  impression  they  make; 
bold,  swelling,  terrible  to  the  last  degree ;  all  seems 
animated,  and  speaks  him  among  the  foremost  of 
his  profession ;  yet  this  man's  fortune  and  his  fame 
seemed  ever  in  opposition  to  each  other. 

Unknowing  how  to  flatter  the  great,  he  was 
driven  from  city  to  city  in  the  utmost  indigence, 
and  might  truly  be  said  to  paint  for  his  bread. 

Having  one  day  insulted  a  person  of  distinction, 
who  refused  to  pay  him  all  the  respect  which  he 
thought  his  due,  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Rome, 
and  travel  on  foot,  his  usual  method  of  going  his 
journeys  down  into  the  country,  without  either 
money  or  friends  to  subsist  him. 

After  he  had  travelled  in  this  manner  as  long  as 
his  strength  would  permit,  faint  with  famine  and 
fatigue,  he  at  last  called  at  an  obscure  inn  by  the 
•way -side.  The  host  knew,  by  the  appearance  of 
his  guest,  his  indifierent  circumstances,  and  refused 
to  furnish  him  a  dinner  without  previous  payment. 

As  Caravagio  was  entirely  destitute  of  money, 
he  took  down  the  innkeeper's  sign,  and  painted  it 
anew  for  his  dinner. 

Thus  refreshed,  he  proceeded  on  his  journey, 
and  left  the  innkeeper  not  quite  satisfied  with  this 
method  of  payment.  Some  company  of  distinc- 
tion, however,  coming  soon  after,  and  struck  with 
the  beauty  of  the  new  sign,  bought  it  at  an  ad- 
vanced price,  and  astonished  the  innkeeper  with 
their  generosity:  he  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  get 
as  many  signs  as  possible  drawn  by  the  same  artist, 
as  he  found  he  could  sell  them  to  good  advantage ; 
and  accordingly  set  out  after  Caravagio,  in  order 
to  bring  him  back.  It  was  nightfall  before  he  came 
up  to  the  place  where  the  unfortunate  Caravagio 
lay  dead  by  the  roadside,  overcome  by  fatigue,  re- 
sentment, and  despair. 


THE  BEE,  No.  VI. 


Saturday,  November  10,  1759. 
ON  EDUCATION. 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  BEE. 

Sir, 

As  few  subjects  are  more  interesting  to  society, 
30  few  have  been  more  frequently  written  upon  than 
the  education  of  youth.  Yet  is  it  not  a  little  sur- 
prising, that  it  should  have  been  treated  almost  by 
all  in  a  declamatory  manner?  They  have  insisted 
largely  on  the  advantages  that  result  from  it,  both 
to  the  individual  and  to  society,  and  have  expatiated 
in  the  praise  of  what  none  have  ever  been  so  hardy 
as  to  call  in  question. 

Instead  of  giving  us  fine  but  empty  harangues 


upon  this  subject,  instead  of  indulging  each  hig 
particular  and  whimsical  system,  it  had  been  much 
better  if  the  writers  on  this  subject  had  treated  it 
in  a  more  scientific  manner,  repressed  all  the  sal- 
lies of  imagination,  and  given  us  the  result  of 
their  observations  with  didactic  simplicity.  Upon 
this  subject  the  smallest  errors  are  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous consequence ;  and  the  author  should  ven- 
ture the  imputation  of  stupidity  upon  a  topic, 
where  his  slightest  deviations  may  tend  to  injure 
the  rising  generation. 

I  shall  therefore  throw  out  a  few  thoughts  upon 
this  sul>ject,  which  have  not  been  attended  to  by 
others,  and  shall  dismiss  all  attempts  to  please, 
while  I  study  only  instruction. 

The  manner  in  which  our  youth  of  London  are 
at  present  educated  is,  some  in  free-schools  in  the 
city,  but  the  far  greater  number  in  boarding-schools 
about  town.  The  parent  justly  consults  the 
health  of  his  child,  and  finds  an  education  in  the 
country  tends  to  promote  this  much  more  than  a 
continuance  in  the  town.  Thus  far  they  are 
right :  if  there  were  a  possibility  of  having  even 
our  free-schools  kept  a  little  out  of  town,  it  would 
certainly  conduce  to  the  health  and  vigour  of  per- 
haps the  mind,  as  well  as  of  the  body.  It  may  be 
thought  whimsical,  but  it  is  truth ;  I  have  found 
by  experience,  that  they  who  have  spent  all  their 
lives  in  cities,  contract  not  only  an  effeminacy  of 
habit,  but  even  of  thinking. 

But  when  I  have  said,  that  the  boarding-schools* 
are  preferable  to  free-schools,  as  being  in  the  coun- 
try, this  is  certainly  the  only  advantage  I  can  allow 
them,  otherwise  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  the 
ignorance  of  those  who  take  upon  them  the  im- 
portant trust  of  education.  Is  any  man  unfit  for 
any  of  the  professions  1  he  finds  his  last  resource 
in  setting  up  school.  Do  any  become  bankrupts  in 
trade?  they  still  set  up  a  boarding-school,  and  drive 
a  trade  this  way,  when  all  others  fail :  nay,  I  have 
been  told  of  butchers  and  barbers,  who  have  turn- 
ed schoolmasters ;  and,  more  surprising  still,  made 
fortunes  in  their  new  profession. 

Could  we  think  ourselves  in  a  country  of  civil- 
ized people ;  could  it  be  conceived  that  we  have 
any  regard  for  posterity,  when  such  are  permitted 
to  take  the  charge  of  the  morals,  genius,  and  health 
of  those  dear  little  pledges,  who  may  one  day  be 
the  guardians  of  the  liberties  of  Europe,  and  who 
may  serve  as  the  honour  and  bulwark  of  their  aged 
parents  1  The  care  of  our  children,  is  it  below  the 
state  1  is  it  fit  to  indulge  the  caprice  of  the  igno- 
rant with  the  disposal  of  their  children  in  this  par- 
ticular 1  For  the  state  to  take  the  charge  of  all  its 
children,  as  in  Persia  and  Sparta,  might  at  present 
be  inconvenient;  but  surely  with  great  ease  it 
might  cast  an  eye  to  their  instructors.  Of  all 
members  of  society,  I  do  not  know  a  more  useful, 
or  a  more  honourable  one,  than  a  schoolmaster , 


THE  BEE. 


455 


at  the  same  time  that  I  do  not  see  any  more  ge- 
nerally despised,  or  whose  talents  are  so  ill  re- 
warded. 

Were  the  salaries  of  schoolmasters  to  be  aug- 
mented from  a  diminution  of  useless  sinecures, 
how  might  it  turn  to  the  advantage  of  this  people ; 
a  people  whom,  without  flattery,  I  may  in  other 
respects  term  the  wisest  and  greatest  upon  earth ! 
But  while  I  would  reward  the  deserving,  I  would 
dismiss  those  utterly  unqualified  for  their  employ- 
ment :  in  short,  I  would  make  the  business  of  a 
schoolmaster  every  way  more  respectable,  by  in- 
creasing their  salaries,  and  admitting  only  men  of 
proper  abilities. 

There  are  already  schoolmasters  appointed,  and 
they  have  some  small  salaries ;  but  where  at  pre- 
sent there  is  but  one  schoolmaster  appointed,  there 
should  at  least  be  two ;  and  wherever  the  salary  is 
at  present  twenty  pounds,  it  should  be  a  hundred. 
Do  we  give  immoderate  benefices  to  those  who 
instruct  ourselves,  and  shall  we  deny  even  subsist- 
ence to  those  who  instruct  our  children  1  Every 
member  of  society  should  be  paid  in  proportion  as 
he  is  necessary !  and  I  will  be  bold  enough  to  say, 
that  schoolmasters  in  a  state  are  more  necessary 
than  clergymen,  as  children  stand  in  more  need  of 
instruction  than  their  parents. 

But  instead  of  this,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
we  send  them  to  board  in  the  country  to  the  most 
ignorant  set  of  men  that  can  be  imagined.  But 
lest  the  ignorance  of  the  master  be  not  sufficient, 
the  child  is  generally  consigned  to  the  usher. 
This  is  generally  some  poor  needy  animal,  little 
superior  to  a  footman  either  in  learning  or  spirit, 
mvited  to  his  place  by  an  advertisement,  and  kept 
there  merely  from  his  being  of  a  complying  dispo- 
sition, and  making  the  children  fond  of  him. 
"  You  give  your  child  to  be  educated  to  a  slave," 
says  a  philosopher  to  a  rich  man  ;  "  instead  of  one 
slave,  you  will  then  have  two." 

It  were  well,  however,  if  parents,  upon  fixing 
their  children  in  one  of  these  houses,  would  ex- 
amine the  abiUties  of  the  usher  as  well  as  of  the 
master  :  for,  whatever  they  are  told  to  the  contrary, 
the  usher  is  generally  the  person  most  employed  in 
their  education.  If,  then,  a  gentleman,  upon  put- 
ting out  his  son  to  one  of  these  houses,  sees  the 
usher  disregarded  by  the  master,  he  may  depend 
upon  it,  that  he  is  equally  disregarded  by  the  boys ; 
the  truth  is,  in  spite  of  all  their  endeavours  to 
please,  they  are  generally  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  school.  Every  trick  is  played  upon  the  usher ; 
the  oddity  of  his  manners,  his  dress,  or  his  lan- 
guage, is  a  fund  of  eternal  ridicule ;  the  master 
himself  now  and  then  cannot  avoid  joining  in  the 
laugh,  and  the  poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting 
this  ill-usage,  seems  to  live  in  a  state  of  war  with 
all  the  family.     Tliis  is  a  very  proper  person,  is  it 


not,  to  give  children  a  relish  for  learning  7  They 
must  esteem  learning  very  much,  when  they  see 
its  professors  used  with  such  ceremony !  If  the 
usher  be  despised,  the  father  may  be  assured  his 
child  will  never  be  properly  instructed. 

But  let  me  suppose,  that  there  are  some  schools 
without  these  inconveniences ;  where  the  master 
and  ushers  are  men  of  learning,  reputation,  and 
assiduity.  If  there  are  to  be  found  such,  they 
cannot  be  prized  in  a  state  sufficiently.  A  boy 
will  learn  more  true  wisdom  in  a  public  school  in 
a  year,  than  by  a  private  education  in  five.  It  is  not 
from  masters,  but  from  their  equals,  youth  learn 
a  knowledge  of  the  world ;  the  Uttle  tricks  they 
play  each  other,  the  punishment  that  frequently 
attends  the  commission,  is  a  just  picture  of  the 
great  world,  and  all  the  ways  of  men  are  practised 
in  a  public  school  in  miniature.  It  is  true,  a  child 
is  early  made  acquainted  with  some  vices  in  a  school, 
but  it  is  better  to  know  these  when  a  boy,  than  be 
first  taught  them  when  a  man,  for  their  novelty 
then  may  have  irresistible  charms. 

In  a  public  education  boys  early  learn  tempe- 
rance ;  and  if  the  parents  and  friends  would  give 
them  less  money  upon  their  usual  visits,  it  would 
be  much  to  their  advantage,  since  it  may  justly  be 
said,  that  a  great  part  of  their  disorders  arise  from 
surfeit,  plus  occidit  gula  quam  gladius.  And 
now  I  am  come  to  the  article  of  health,  it  may  not 
be  amiss  to  observe,  that  Mr.  Locke  and  some 
others  have  advised,  that  children  should  be  inured 
to  cold,  to  fatigue,  and  hardship,  from  their  youth ; 
but  Mr.  Locke  was  but  an  indifferent  physician. 
Habit,  I  grant,  has  gre&t  influence  over  our  con- 
stitutions, but  we  have  ^ot  precise  ideas  upon  this 
subject. 

We  know  that  among  savages,  and  even  among 
our  peasants,  there  are  found  children  born  with 
such  constitutions,  that  they  cross  rivers  by  swim- 
ming, endure  cold,  thirst,  hunger,  and  want  of 
sleep,  to  a  surprising  degree ;  that  when  they  hap- 
pen to  fall  sick,  they  are  cured  without  the  help 
of  medicine,  by  nature  alone.  Such  examples  are 
adduced  to  persuade  us  to  imitate  their  manner  of 
education,  and  accustom  ourselves  betimes  to  sup- 
port the  same  fatigues.  But  had  these  gentlemen 
considered  first,  that  those  savages  and  peasants 
are  generally  not  so  long-lived  as  they  who  have 
led  a  more  indolent  life  ;  secondly,  that  the  more 
laborious  the  hfe  is,  the  less  populous  is  the  coun- 
try :  had  they  considered,  that  what  physicians 
call  the  stamina  viice,  by  fatigue  and  labour  l>ecome 
rigid,  and  thus  anticipate  old  age  :  that  the  number 
who  survive  those  rude  trials,  bears  no  proportion 
to  those  who  die  in  the  experiment:  had  these 
things  been  properly  consideted,  they  would  not 
have  thus  extolled  an  education  begun  in  fatigue 
and  hardships.    Peter  the  Great,  willing  to  inure 


4b6 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Ihe  children  of  his  seamen  to  a  hfe  of  hardship, 
ordered  that  they  should  drink  only  sea-water,  but 
they  unfortunately  all  died  under  the  experiment. 

But  while  I  would  exclude  all  unnecessary  la- 
Dours,  yet  still  I  would  recommend  temperance  in 
.  he  highest  degree.  No  luxurious  dishes  with  high 
seasoning,  nothing  given  children  to  force  an  ap- 
petite, as  little  sugared  or  salted  provisions  as  pos- 
sible, though  never  so  pleasing ;  but  milk,  morning 
iand  night,  should  be  their  constant  food.  This  diet 
would  make  them  more  healthy  than  any  of  those 
slops  that  are  usually  cooked  by  the  mistress  of  a 
boarding-school ;  besides,  it  correx^ts  any  consump- 
tive habits,  not  unfrequently  found  amongst  the 
children  of  city  parents. 

As  boys  should  be  educated  with  temperance, 
60  the  first  greatest  lesson  that  should  be  taught 
them  is,  to  admire  frugality.  It  is  by  the  exercise 
of  this  virtue  alone,  they  can  ever  expect  to  be  use- 
ful members  of  societ3^  It  is  true,  lectures  con- 
tinually repeated  upon  this  subject  may  make  some 
boys,  when  they  grow  up,  run  into  an  extreme, 
and  become  misers ;  but  it  were  well,  had  we  more 
misers  than  we  have  among  us.  I  know  few- 
characters  more  useful  in  society;  for  a  man's 
having  a  larger  or  smaller  share  of  money  lying 
useless  by  him  no  way  injures  the  commonwealth ; 
since,  should  every  miser  now  exhaust  his  stores, 
this  might  make  gold  more  plenty,  but  it  would  not 
increase  the  commodities  or  pleasures  of  life ;  they 
would  still  remain  as  they  are  at  present :  it  mat- 
ters not,  therefore,  whether  men  are  misers  or  not, 
if  they  be  only  frugal,  laborious,  and  fill  the  station 
they  have  chosen.  If  they  deny  themselves  the 
necessaries  of  life,  society  is  no  way  injured  by  their 
folly. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  romances,  which  praise 
young  men  of  spirit,  who  go  through  a  variety  of 
adventures,  and  at  last  conclude  a  life  of  dissipa- 
tion, folly,  and  extravagance,  in  riches  and  matri- 
mony, there  should  be  some  men  of  wit  employed 
to  compose  books  that  might  equally  interest  the 
passions  of  our  youth ;  where  such  a  one  might  Ire 
praised  for  having  resisted  allurements  when  young, 
and  how  he  at  last  became  lord  mayor ;  how  he 
was  married  to  a  lady  of  great  sense,  fortune,  and 
beauty :  to  be  as  explicit  as  possible,  the  old  story 
of  Whittington,  were  his  cat  left  out,  might  be 
more  serviceable  to  the  tender  mind,  than  either 
Tom  Jones,  Joseph  Andrews,  or  a  hundred  others, 
where  frugality  is  the  only  good  quality  the  hero 
is  not  possessed  of.  Were  our  schoolmasters,  if 
any  of  them  had  sense  enough  to  draw  up  such  a 
work,  thus  employed,  it  would  be  much  more 
serviceable  to  their  pupils  than  all  the  grammars 
and  dictionaries  they  may  publish  these  ten  years. 

Children  should  early  be  instructed  in  the  arts, 
from  which  they  would  afterwards  draw  the  great- 
est advantages.    When  the  wonders  of  nature  are 


never  exposed  to  our  view,  we  have  no  great  de- 
sire to  become  acquainted  with  those  parts  of  learn- 
ing which  pretend  to  account  for  the  phenomena. 
One  of  the  ancients  complains,  that  as  soon  as 
young  men  have  left  school,  and  are  obliged  to  con- 
verse in  the  world,  they  fancy  themselves  transport- 
ed into  a  new  region.  Ut  cum  in  forum  tenerint 
existiment  se  in  aliam  terrarum  orbem  delatos. 
We  should  early  therefore  instruct  them  in  the  ex- 
periments, if  1  may  so  express  it,  of  knowledge, 
and  leave  to  maturer  age  the  accounting  for  the 
causes.  But,  instead  of  that,  when  boys  begin 
natural  philosophy  in  colleges,  they  have  not  the 
least  curiosity  for  those  parts  of  the  science  which 
are  proposed  for  their  instruction ;  they  have  never 
before  seen  the  phenomena,  and  consequently  have 
no  curiosity  to  learn  the  reasons.  Might  natural 
philosophy  therefore  be  made  their  pastime  in 
school,  by  this  means  it  would  in  college  become 
their  amusement. 

In  several  of  the  machines  now  in  use,  there 
would  be  ample  field  both  for  instruction  and 
amusement :  the  different  sorts  of  the  phosphorus, 
the  artificial  pyrites,  magnetism,  electricity,  the  ex- 
periments upon  the  rarefaction  and  weight  of  the 
air,  and  those  upon  elastic  bodies,  might  employ 
their  idle  hours,  and  none  should  be  called  from 
play  to  see  such  experiments  but  such  as  thought 
proper.  At  first  then  it  would  be  sufficient  if  the 
instruments,  and  the  effects  of  their  combination, 
were  only  shown ;  the  causes  should  be  deferred  to 
a  maturer  age,  or  to  those  times  when  natural  curi- 
osity prompts  us  to  discover  the  wonders  of  nature. 
Man  is  placed  in  this  world  as  a  spectator ;  when 
he  is  tired  with  wondering  at  all  the  novelties  about 
him,  and  not  till  then,  does  he  desire  to  be  made 
acquainted  with  the  causes  that  create  those  won- 
ders. 

What  I  have  observed  with  regard  to  natural 
philosophy,  I  would  extend  to  every  other  science 
whatsoever.  We  should  teach  them  as  many  of 
the  facts  as  were  possible,  and  defer  the  causes  un- 
til they  seemed  of  themselves  desirous  of  knowing 
them.  A  mind  thus  leaving  school  stored  with  all 
the  simple  experiences  of  science,  would  be  the 
fittest  in  the  world  for  the  college  course;  and 
though  such  a  youth  might  not  appear  so  bright, 
or  so  talkative,  as  those  who  had  learned  the  real 
principles  and  causes  of  some  of  the  sciences,  yet 
he  would  make  a  wiser  man,  and  would  retain  a 
more  lasting  passion  for  letters,  than  he  who  was 
early  burdened  with  the  disagreeable  institution  of 
effect  and  cause. 

In  history,  such  stories  alone  should  be  laid  be- 
fore them  as  might  catch  the  imagination :  instead 
of  this,  they  are  too  frequently  obliged  to  toil  through 
the  four  empires,  as  they  are  called,  where  their 
memories  are  burdened  by  a  number  of  disgusting 
names,  that  destroy  all  their  future  relish  for  our 


THE  BEE. 


457 


best  historians,  who  may  be  termed  the  truest 
teachers  of  wisdom. 

Every  species  of  flattery  should  be  carefully 
avoided ;  a  boy,  who  happens  to  say  a  sprightly 
thing,  is  generally  applauded  so  much,  that  he  hap- 
pens to  continue  a  coxcomb  sometimes  all  his  life 
after.  He  is  reputed  a  wit  at  fourteen,  and  be- 
comes a  blockhead  at  twenty.  Nurses,  footmen, 
and  such,  should  therefore  be  driven  away  as  much 
as  possible.  I  was  even  going  to  add,  that  the 
mother  herself  should  stifle  her  pleasure,  or  her 
vanity,  when  little  master  happens  to  say  a  good 
or  smart  thing.  Those  modest  lubberly  boys  who 
seem  to  want  spirit,  generally  go  through  their 
business  with  more  ease  to  themselves,  and  more 
satisfaction  to  their  instructors. 

There  has  of  late  a  gentleman  appeared,  who 
thinks  the  study  of  rhetoric  essential  to  a  perfect 
education.  That  bold  male  eloquence,  which  often 
without  pleasing  convinces,  is  generally  destroyed 
by  such  institutions.  Convincing  eloquence,  how- 
ever, is  infinitely  more  serviceable  to  its  possessor 
than  the  most  florid  harangue  or  the  most  pathetic 
tones  that  can  be  imagined;  and  the  man  who  is 
thoroughly  convinced  himself,  who  understands  his 
subject,  and  the  language  he  speaks  in,  will  be 
more  apt  to  silence  opposition,  than  he  who  studies 
the  force  of  his  periods,  and  fills  our  ears  with 
sounds,  while  our  minds  are  destitute  of  convic- 
tion. 

It  was  reckoned  the  fault  of  the  orators  at  the 
decline  of  the  Roman  empire,  when  they  had  been 
long  instructed  by  rhetoricians,  that  their  periods 
were  so  harmonious,  as  that  they  could  be  sung  as 
well  as  spoken.  What  a  ridiculous  figure  must 
one  of  these  gentlemen  cut,  thus  measuring  syl- 
lables, and  weighing  words,  when  he  should  plead 
the  cause  of  his  client !  Two  architects  were  once 
candidates  for  the  building  a  certain  temple  at 
Athens ;  the  first  harangued  the  crowd  very  learn- 
edly upon  the  different  orders  of  architecture,  and 
showed  them  in  what  manner  the  temple  should 
be  built ;  the  other,  who  got  up  to  speak  after  him, 
only  observed,  that  what  his  brother  had  spoken 
he  could  do ;  and  thus  he  at  once  gained  his  cause. 

To  teach  men  to  be  orators,  is  little  less  than  to 
teach  them  to  be  poets ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  should 
have  too  great  a  regard  for  my  child,  to  wish  him 
a  manor  only  in  a  bookseller's  shop. 

Another  passion  which  the  present  age  is  apt  to 
run  into,  is  to  make  children  learn  all  things ;  the 
languages,  the  sciences,  music,  the  exercises,  and 
painting.  Thus  the  child  soon  becomes  a  talker 
in  all,  but  a  master  in  none.  He  thus  acquires  a 
superficial  fondness  for  every  thing,  and  only 
'*hows  his  ignorance  when  he  attempts  to  exhibit 
his  skill. 

As  I  deliver  my  thoughts  without  method  or 
connexion,  so  the  reader  must  not  be  surprised  to 


find  me  once  more  addressing  schoolmasters  on  the 
present  method  of  teaching  the  learned  languages, 
which  is  commonly  by  literal  translations.  1  would 
ask  such,  if  they  were  to  travel  a  journey,  whether 
those  parts  of  the  road  in  which  they  found  the 
greatest  diflUculties  would  not  be  most  strongly  re- 
membered? Boys  who,  if  I  may  continue  the  al- 
lusion, gallop  through  one  of  the  ancients  with  the 
assistance  of  a  translation,  can  have  but  a  very 
slight  acquaintance  either  with  the  author  or  his 
language.  It  is  by  the  exercise  of  the  nrind  alone 
that  a  language  is  learned  ;  but  a  literal  translation 
on  the  opposite  page  leaves  no  exercise  for  the 
memory  at  all.  The  boy  will  not  be  at  the  fatigue- 
of  remembering,  when  his  doubts  are  at  once  satis- 
fied by  a  glance  of  the  eye ;  whereas,  were  every 
word  to  be  sought  from  a  dictionary,  the  learner 
would  atttempt  to  remember,  in  order  to  save  him 
the  trouble  of  looking  out  for  it  for  the  future. 

To  continue  in  the  same  pedantic  strain,  though 
no  schoolmaster,  of  all  the  various  grammars  now 
taught  in  the  schools  about  town,  1  would  recom- 
mend only  the  old  common  one;  I  have  forgot 
whether  Lily's,  or  an  emendation  of  him.  The 
others  may  be  improvements ;  but  such  improve- 
ments seem  to  me  only  mere  grammatical  niceties, 
no  way  influencing  the  learner,  but  perhaps  load- 
ing him  with  trifling  subtleties,  which  at  a  proper 
age  he  must  be  at  some  pains  to  forget. 

Whatever  pains  a  master  may  take  to  make  the 
learning  of  the  languages  agreeable  to  his  pupil,  he 
may  depend  upon  it,  it  will  be  at  first  extremely 
unpleasant.  The  rudiments  of  every  language, 
therefore,  must  be  given  as  a  task,  not  as  an  amuse- 
ment. Attempting  to  deceive  children  into  in- 
struction of  this  kind,  is  only  deceiving  ourselves ; 
and  I  know  no  passion  capable  of  conquering  a 
child's  natural  laziness  but  fear.  Solomon  has  said 
it  before  me ;  nor  is  there  any  more  certain,  though 
perhaps  more  disagreeable  truth,  than  the  proverb 
in  verse,  too  well  known  to  repeat  on  the  present 
occasion.  It  is  very  probable  that  parents  are  told 
of  some  masters  who  never  use  the  rod,  and  conse- 
quently are  thought  the  properest  instructors  for 
their  children ;  but  though  tenderness  is  a  requisite 
quality  in  an  instructor,  yet  there  is  too  often  the 
truest  tenderness  in  well-timed  correction. 

Some  have  justly  observed,  that  all  passion 
should  be  banished  on  this  terrible  occasion ;  but,  I 
know  not  how,  there  is  a  frailty  attending  human 
nature,  that  few  masters  are  able  to  keep  their 
temper  whilst  they  correct.  I  knew  a  good-hatur- 
ed  man,  who  was  sensible  of  his  own  weakness  in 
this  respect,  and  consequently  had  recourse  to  the 
following  expedient  to  prevent  his  passions  from  be- 
ing engaged,  yet  at  the  same  time  administer  jus- 
tice with  impartiality.  Whenever  any  of  his  pu- 
pils committed  a  fault,  he  summoned  a  jury  of  his 
peers,  I  mean  of  the  boys  of  his  own  or  the  next 


458 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


classes  to  him;  his  accusers  stood  forth;  he  had  a 
liberty  of  pleading  in  his  own  defence,  and  one  or 
two  more  had  a  liberty  of  pleading  against  him : 
when  found  guilty  by  the  panel,  he  was  consigned 
to  the  footman  who  attended  in  the  house,  who  had 
previous  orders  to  punish,  but  with  lenity.  By 
this  means  the  nfiaster  took  off  the  odium  of  pun- 
ishment from  himself;  and  the  footman,  between 
whom  and  the  boys  there  could  not  be  even  the 
slightest  intimacy,  was  placed  in  such  a  hght  as  to 
be  shunned  by  every  boy  in  the  school.* 

And  now  I  have  gone  thus  ftir,  perhaps  you  will 
think  me  some  pedagogue,  willing,  by  a  well-timed 
puff,  to  increase  the  reputation  of  his  own  school ; 
but  such  is  not  the  case.  The  regard  I  have  for 
society,  for  those  tender  minds  who  are  the  objects 
of  the  present  essay,  is  the  only  motive  I  have  for 
offering  those  thoughts,  calculated  not  to  surprise 
by  their  novelty,  or  the  elegance  of  composition,  but 
merely  to  remedy  some  defects  which  have  crept 
into  the  present  system  of  school-education.  If 
this  letter  should  be  inserted,  perhaps  I  may  trouble 
you  in  my  next  with  some  thoughts  upon  a  uni- 
versity education,  not  with  an  intent  to  exhaust 
the  subject,  but  to  amend  some  few  abuses.  I  am, 
etc. 


ON  THE  INSTABILITY  OF  WORLDLY 
GRANDEUR. 

An  alehouse-keeper  near  Islington,  who  had 
long  lived  at  the  sign  of  the  French  King,  upon 
the  commencement  of  the  last  war  with  France 
pulled  down  his  old  sign,  and  put  up  the  Glueen 
of  Hungary.  Under  the  influence  of  her  red  face 
and  golden  sceptre,  he  continued  to  sell  ale  till  she 
was  no  longer  the  favourite  of  his  customers;  he 
changed  her,  therefore,  some  time  ago,  for  the 
King  of  Prussia,  who  may  probably  be  changed  in 
turn  for  the  next  great  man  that  shall  be  set  up  for 
vulgar  admiration. 

Our  publican  in  this  imitates  the  great  exactly, 
who  deal  out  their  figures  one  after  the  other  to 
the  gaping  crowd  beneath  them.  When  we  have 
sufficiently  wondered  at  one,  that  is  taken  in,  and 
another  exhibited  in  its  room,  which  seldom  holds 
its  station  long;  for  the  mob  are  ever  pleased  with 
variety. 

I  must  own  I  have  such  an  indifferent  opinion 
of  the  vulgar,  that  I  am  ever  led  to  suspect  that 
meriPwhich  raises  their  shout;  at  least  I  am  cer- 
tain to  find  those  great,  and  sometimes  good,  men, 

This  dissertation  was  thus  far  introduced  into  the  volume 
of  Essays,  afterwards  published  by  Dr.  Goldsmith,  with  the 
following  observation : 

"This  treatise  was  published  before  Rousseau's  Emilius: 
if  there  be  a  similitude  in  any  one  instance,  it  is  hoped  the  au- 
thor of  the  present  essay  will  not  be  termed  a  plagiarist." 


who  find  satisfaction  in  such  acclamations,  made 
worse  by  it;  and  history  has  too  frequently  taught 
me,  that  the  head  which  has  grown  this  day  giddy 
with  the  roar  of  the  million,  has  the  very  next  been 
fixed  upon  a  pole. 

As  Alexander  VI.  was  entering  a  little  town  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Rome,  which  had  been  just 
evacuated  by  the  enemy,  he  perceived  the  townsmen 
busy  in  the  market-place  in  pulling  down  from  a 
gibbet  a  figure,  which  had  been  designed  to  repre- 
sent himself.  There  were  also  some  knocking  down 
a  neighbouring  statue  of  one  of  the  Orsini  family, 
with  whom  he  was  at  war,  in  order  to  put  Alexan- 
der's effigy,  when  taken  down,  in  its  place.  It  is  pos- 
sible a  man  who  knew  less  of  the  world  would  have 
condemned  the  adulation  of  those  bare-faced  flat- 
terers; but  Alexander  seemed  pleased  at  their 
zeal,  and  turning  to  Borgia  his  son,  said  with  a 
smile,  Vides,  mijili,  quam  leve  discrimen  patibu- 
lum  inter  et  statuam.  "You  see,  my  son,  the 
small  difference  between  a  gibbet  and  a  statue." 
If  the  great  could  be  taught  any  lesson,  this  might 
serve  to  teach  them  upon  how  weak  a  foundation 
their  glory  stands,  which  is  built  upon  popular  ap- 
plause, for  as  such  praise  what  seems  like  merit, 
they  as  quickly  condemn  what  has  only  the  ap- 
pearance of  guilt. 

Popular  glory  is  a  perfect  coquette;  her  lovers 
must  toil,  feel  every  inquietude,  indulge  every  ca- 
price, and  perhaps  at  last  be  jilted  into  the  bargain. 
True  glory,  on  the  other  hand,  resembles  a  woman 
of  sense;  her  admirers  must  play  no  tricks;  they 
feel  no  great  anxiety ;  for  they  are  sure  in  the  end 
of  being  rewarded  in  proportion  to  their  merit. 
When  Swift  used  to  appear  in  public,  he  general- 
ly had  the  mob  shouting  in  his  train.  "  Pox  take 
these  fools,"  he  would  say,  "  how  much  joy  might 
all  this  bawling  give  my  Lord  Mayor!" 

We  have  seen  those  virtues  which  have,  while 
living,  retired  from  the  public  eye,  generally  trans- 
mitted to  posterity  as  the  truest  objects  of  admira- 
tion and  praise.  Perhaps  the  character  of  the  late 
Duke  of  Marlborough  may  one  day  be  set  up,  even 
above  that  of  his  more  talked-of  predecessor ;  since 
an  assemblage  of  all  the  mild  and  amiable  virtues 
is  far  superior  to  those  vulgarly  called  the  great 
ones.  I  must  be  pardoned  for  this  short  tribute  to 
the  memory  of  a  man,  who,  while  living,  would  as 
much  detest  to  receive  any  thing  that  wore  the  ap- 
pearance of  flattery,  as  I  should  to  offer  it. 

I  know  not  how  to  turn  so  trite  a  subject  out  of 
the  beaten  road  of  common-place,  except  by  illus- 
trating it,  rather  by  the  assistance  of  my  memory 
than  my  judgment,  and  instead  of  making  refleq;^ 
tions,  by  telling  a  story. 

A  Chinese,  who  had  long  studied  the  works 
of  Confucius,  who  knew  the  characters  of  fourteen 
thousand  words,  and  could  read  a  great  part  ot 
every  book  that  came  in  his  way,  once  took  it  iiit» 


THE  BEE. 


4S9 


his  head  to  travel  into  Europe,  and  observe  the 
customs  of  a  people  whom  he  thought  not  very 
much  inferior  even  to  his  own  countrymen,  in  the 
arts  of  refining  upon  every  pleasure.  Upon  his  ar- 
rival at  Amsterdam,  hi^passion  for  letters  naturally 
led  him  to  a  bookseller's  shop ;  and,  as  he  could 
speak  a  Httle  Dutch,  he  civilly  asked  the  bookseller 
for  the  works  of  the  immortal  Ilixofou.  The  book- 
seller assured  him  he  had  never  heard  the  book 
mentioned  before.  "  What !  have  you  never  heard 
of  that  immortal  poet  7"  returned  the  other,  much 
surprised ;  that  light  of  the  eyes,  that  favourite  of 
kings,  that  rose  of  perfection!  I  suppose  you 
know  nothing  of  the  immortal  Fipsihihi,  second 
cousin  to  the  moon?" — "Nothing  at  all,  indeed, 
sir,"  returned  the  other.  "  Alas !"  cries  our  tra- 
veller, *'  to  what  purpose,  then,  has  one  of  these 
fested  to  death,  and  the  other  offered  himself  up  as 
sacrifice  to  the  Tartarean  enemy,  to  gain  a  renown 
which  has  never  travelled  beyond  the  precincts  of 
China !" 

There  is  scarcely  a  village  in  Europe,  and  not 
one  university,  that  is  not  thus  furnished  with  its 
little  great  men.  The  head  of  a  petty  corporation, 
who  opposes  the  designs  of  a  prince  who  would 
tyrannically  force  his  subjects  to  save  their  best 
clothes  for  Sundays;  the  puny  pedant  who  finds 
one  undiscovered  property  in  the  polype,  describes 
an  unheeded  process  in  the  skeleton  of  a  mole,  and 
whose  mind,  like  his  microscope,  perceives  nature 
only  in  detail ;  the  rhymer  who  makes  smooth 
verses,  and  paints  to  our  imagination  when  he 
should  only  speak  to  our  hearts  ;  all  equally  fancy 
themselves  walking  forward  to  immortality,  and 
desire  the  crowd  behind  them  to  look  on.  The 
crowd  takes  them  at  their  word.  Patriot,  philoso- 
pher, and  poet,  are  shouted  in  their  train.  Where 
was  there  ever  so  much  merit  seen  7  no  times  so 
important  as  our  own !  ages  yet  unborn  shall  gaze 
with  wonder  and  applause !  To  such  music  the 
important  pygmy  moves  forward,  bustling  and 
swelling,  and  aptly  compared  to  a  puddle  in  a 
storm. 

I  have  lived  to  see  generals,  who  once  had  crowds 
hallooing  after  them  wherever  they  went,  who 
were  bepraised  by  newspapers  and  magazines, 
those  echoes  of  the  voice  of  the  vulgar,  and  yet  they 
have  long  sunk  into  merited  obscurity,  with  scarce- 
ly even  an  epitaph  left  to  flatter.  A  few  years  ago, 
the  herring  fishery  employed  all  Grub-street ;  it 
was  the  topic  in  every  coffee-house,  and  the  burden 
of  ever>  ballad.  We  were  to  drag  up  oceans  of 
gold  fiom  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  we  were  to  sup- 
ply all  Europe  with  herrings  upon  our  own  terms. 
At  present  we  hear  no  more  of  all  this.  We 
have  fished  up  very  little  gold  that  I  can  learn ;  nor 
-do  we  furnish  the  world  with  herrings  as  was  ex- 
|)ected.  Let  us  wait  but  a  few  years  longer,  and 
we  shall Jind  all  our  expectations  a  herring  fishery. 


SOME   ACCOUNT  OF  THE  ACADE- 
MIES OF  ITALY. 

There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  country  in  Europe,  ir. 
which  learning  is  so  fast  upon  the  decline  as  in 
Italy ;  yet  not  one  in  which  there  are  such  a  num- 
ber of  academies  instituted  for  its  support.  There  is 
scarcely  a  considerable  town  in  the  whole  country, 
wliich  has  not  one  or  two  institutions  of  this  na- 
ture, where  the  learned,  as  they  are  pleased  to  call 
themselves,  meet  to  harangue,  to  compliment  each 
other,  and  praise  the  utility  of  their  institution. 

Jarchius  has  taken  the  trouble  to  give  us  a  list 
of  those  clubs  or  academies,  which  amount  to  five 
hundred  and  fifty,  each  distinguished  by  somewhat 
whimsical  in  the  name.  The  academies  of  Bo- 
logna, for  instance,  are  divided  into  the  Abbando- 
nati,  the  Ausiosi,  Ociosio,  Arcadi,  Confusi.  Dubbi- 
osi,  etc.  There  are  few  of  these  who  have  not 
published  their  transactions,  and  scarcely  a  member 
who  is  not  looked  upon  as  the  most  famous  man  in 
the  world,  at  home. 

Of  all  those  societies,  I  know  of  none  whose 
works  are  worth  being  known  out  of  the  precincts 
of  the  city  in  which  they  were  written,  except  the 
Cicalata  Academia  (or,  as  we  might  express  it, 
the  Tickling  Society)  of  Florence.  I  have  just 
now  before  me  a  manuscript  oration,  spoken  by  the 
late  Tomaso  Crudeli  at  that  society,  which  wiU  at 
once  serve  lo  give  a  better  picture  of  the  manner 
in  which  men  of  wit  amuse  themselves  in  that 
country,  than  any  thing  I  could  say  upon  the  occa- 
sion.   The  oration  is  this : 

"  The  younger  the  nymph,  my  dear  companions, 
the  more  happy  the  lover.  From  fourteen  to  seven- 
teen, you  are  sure  of  finding  love  for  love  ;  from 
seventeen  to  twenty -one,  there  is  always  a  mixture 
of  interest  and  affection.  But  when  that  period  is 
past,  no  longer  expect  to  receive,  but  to  buy  :  no 
longer  expect  a  nymph  who  gives,  but  who  sells 
her  favours.  At  this  age,  every  glance  is  taught  its 
duty ;  not  a  look,  not  a  sigh  without  design ;  the 
lady,  like  a  skilful  warrior,  aims  at  the  heart  of 
another,  while  she  shields  her  own  from  danger. 

"  On  the  contrary,  at  fifteen  you  may  expect 
nothing  but  simplicity,  innocence,  and  nature. 
The  passions  are  then  sincere;  the  soul  seems 
seated  in  the  lips ;  the  dear  object  feels  present  hap- 
piness, without  being  anxious  for  the  future  ;  her 
eyes  brighten  if  her  lover  approaches ;  her  smiles 
are  borrowed  from  the  Graces,  and  her  very  mis- 
takes seem  to  complete  her  desires. 

"  Lucretia  was  just  sixteen.  The  rose  and  lily 
took  possession  of  her  face,  and  her  bosom,  by  its 
hue  and  its  coldness,  seemed  covered  with  snow. 
So  much  beauty  and  so  much  virtue  seldom  want 
admirers.  Orlandino,  a  youth  of  sense  and  merit, 
was  among  the  number.    He  had  long  languished 


460 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


for  an  opportunity  of  declaring  his  passion,  when 
Cupid,  as  if  willing  to  indulge  his  happiness, 
■brought  the  charming  young  couple  by  mere  acci- 
dent to  an  arbour,  where  every  prying  eye  but  love 
was  absent.  Orlandino  talked  of  the  sincerity  of 
his  passion,  and  mixed  flattery  with  his  addresses ; 
but  it  was  all  in  vain.  The  nymph  was  pre-en- 
gaged, and  had  long  devoted  to  Heaven  those 
chaams  for  which  he  sued.  "  My  dear  Orlandino," 
said  she,  "  you  know  1  have  long  been  dedicated 
to  St.  Catharine,  and  to  her  belongs  all  that  lies 
below  my  girdle ;  all  that  is  above,  you  may  freely 
possess,  but  farther  I  can  not,  must  not  comply. 
The  vow  is  passed ;  I  wish  it  were  undone,  but 
now  it  is  impossible."  You  may  conceive,  my 
companions,  the  embarrassment  our  young  lovers 
felt  upon  this  occasion.  They  kneeled  to  St.  Ca- 
tharine, and  though  both  despaired,  both  implored 
her  assistance.  Their  tutelar  saint  was  entreated 
to  show-some  expedient,  by  which  both  might  con- 
tinue to  love,  and  yet  both  be  happy.  Their  peti- 
tion was  sincere.  St,  Catharine  was  touched  with 
compassion;  for  lo,  a  miracle!  Lucretia's  girdle 
unloosed,  as  if  without  hands ;  and  though  before 
bound  round  her  middle,  fell  spontaneously  down 
to  her  feet,  and  gave  Orlandino  the  possession  of  all 
those  beauties  which  lay  above  it." 

N 


THE  BEE,  No.  VII. 


Saturday,  November  17,  1759. 


OF  ELOaUENCR 

Of  all  lands  of  success,  that  of  an  orator  is  the 
most  pleasing.  Upon  other  occasions,  the  applause 
we  deserve  is  conferred  in  our  absence,  and  we  are 
insensible  of  the  pleasure  we  have  given ;  but  in 
eloquence,  the  victory  and  the  triumph  are  insepa- 
rable. We  read  our  own  glory  in  the  face  of  every 
spectator  ;  the  audience  is  moved  ;  the  antagonist 
is  defeated ;  and  the  whole  circle  bursts  into  un 
solicited  applause. 

The  rewards  which  attend  excellence  in  this 
w^ay  are  so  pleasing,  that  numbers  have  written 
professed  treatises  to  teach  us  the  art;  schools  have 
been  established  with  no  other  intent ;  rhetoric  has 
taken  place  among  the  institutions,  and  pedants 
have  ranged  under  proper  heads,  and  distinguished 
with  long  learned  names,  some  of  the  strokes  of  na- 
ture, or  of  passion,  which  orators  have  \^ed.  I  say 
only  some;  for  a  folio  volume  could  not  contain  all 
the  figures  which  have  been  used  by  the  truly  elo- 
quent ;  and  scarcely  a  good  speaker  or  writer,  but 
makes  use  of  some  that  are  peculiar  or  new. 

Eloquence  has  preceded  the  rules  of  rhetoric,  as 


his  Vl 


languages  have  been  formed  before  grammar.  Na- 
ture renders  men  eloquent  in  great  interests,  or 
great  passions.  He  that  is  sensibly  touched,  sees 
things  with  a  very  different  eye  from  the  rest  of 
mankind.  All  nature  to  him  becomes  an  objec*  * 
of  comparison  and  metaphor,  without  attending  ic 
it;  he  throws  life  into  all,  and  inspires  his  audience 
with  a  part  of  his  own  enthusiasm. 

It  has  been  remarked,  that  the  lower  parts  of 
mankind  generally  express  themselves  most  figura- 
tively, and  that  tropes  are  found  in  the  most  ordi- 
nary forms  of  conversation.  Thus,  in  every  lan- 
guage, the  heart  burns ;  the  courage  is  roused ;  the 
eyes  sparkle ;  the  spirits  are  cast  down ;  passion  in- 
flames ;  pride  swells,  and  pity  sinks  the  soul.  Na-' 
ture  every  where  ^eaks  in  those  strong  images, 
which,  from  the  frequency,  pass  unnoticed. 

Nature  it  is  which  inspires  those  rapturous  en- 
thusiasms, those  irresistible  turns;  a  strong  passion, 
a  pressing  danger,  calls  up  all  the  imagination,  and 
gives  the  orator  irresistible  force.  Thus  a  captain 
of  the  first  caliphs,  seeing  his  soldiers  fly,  cried  out, 
"  Whither  do  you  run?  the  enemy  are  not  there ! 
You  have  been  told  that  the  caliph  is  dead ;  but 
God  is  still  living.  He  regards  the  brave,  and  will 
reward  the  courageous.     Advance!" 

A  man,  therefore,  may  be  called  eloquent,  who 
transfers  the  passion  or  sentiment  with  which  he 
is  moved  himself  into  the  breast  of  another;  and 
this  definition  appears  the  more  just,  as  it  compre- 
hends the  graces  of  silence  and  of  action.  An  in- 
timate persuasion  of  the  truth  to  be  proved,  is  the 
sentiment  and  passion  to  be  transferred ;  and  who 
effects  this,  is  truly  possessed  of  the  talent  of  elo- 
quence. 

I  have  called  eloquence  a  talent,  and  not  an  art, 
as  so  many  rhetoricians  have  done,  as  art  is  ac- 
quired by  exercise  and  study,  and  eloquence  is  the 
gift  of  nature.  Rules  will  never  make  either  a 
work  or  a  discourse  eloquent ;  they  only  serve  tt- 
prevent  faults,  but  not  to  introduce  beauties;  U 
prevent  those  passages  which  are  truly  eloquent 
and  dictated  by  nature,  from  being  blended  with 
others  which  might  disgust,  or  at  least  abate  our 
passion. 

What  we  clearly  conceive,  says  Boileau,  we  can 
learly  express.  I  may  add,  that  what  is  felt  with 
emotion  is  expressed  also  with  the  same  move- 
ments ;  the  words  arise  as  readily  to  paint  our  emo- 
tions, as  to  express  our  thoughts  with  perspicuity. 
The  cool  care  an  orator  takes  to  express  passions 
which  he  does  not  feel,  only  prevents  his  rising 
into  that  passion  he  would  seem  to  feel.  In  a 
word,  to  feel  your  subject  thoroughly,  and  to  speak 
without  fear,  are  the  only  rules  of  eloquence,  pro- 
perly so  called,  which  I  can  offer.  Examine  a 
writer  of  genius  on  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  his 
work,  and  he  will  always  assure  you,  that  such 
passages  are  generally  those  which  have  given  him 


THE  BEE. 


461 


the  least  trouble,  for  they  came  as  if  by  inspiration. 
To  pretend  that  cold  and  didactic  precepts  will 
make  a  man  eloquent,  is  only  to  prove  that  he  is 
incapable  of  eloquence. 

But,  as  in  being  perspicuous  it  is  necessary  to 
have  a  full  idea  of  the  subject,  so  in  being  eloquent 
it  is  not  sufficient,  if  I  may  so  express  it,  to  feel  by 
halves.  The  orator  should  be  strongly  impressed, 
which  is  generally  the  effect  of  a  fine  and  exquisite 
sensibility,  and  not  that  transient  and  superficial 
emotion  which  he  excites  in  the  greatest  part  of  his 
audience.  It  is  even  impossible  to  affect  the  hear- 
ers in  any  great  degree  without  being  affected  our- 
selves. In  vain  it  will  be  objected,  that  many 
writers  have  had  the  art  to  inspire  their  readers 
with  a  passion  for  virtue,  without  being  virtuous 
themselves ;  since  it  may  be  answered,  that  senti- 
ments of  virtue  filled  their  minds  at  the  time  they 
were  writing.  They  felt  the  inspiration  strongly, 
while  they  praised  justice,  generosity,  or  good-na 
ture;  but,  unhappily  for  them,  these  passions  might 
have  been  discontinued,  when  they  laidf|||own  the 
pen.  In  vain  will  it  be  objected  agalnj  that  we 
can  move  without  being  moved,  as  we  ca^jtconvince 
without  being  convinced.  It  is  much  easier  to  de 
ceive  our  reason  than  ourselves ;  a  trifling  defect  in 
reasoning  may  be  overseen,  and  lead  a  man  astray, 
for  it  requires  reason  and  time  to  detect  the  false- 
hood ;  but  our  passions  are  not  easily  imposed  upon, 
our  eyes,  our  ears,  and  every  sense,  are  watchful  to 
detect  the  imposture. 

No  discourse  lan/t)e  eloquent  that  does  not  ele- 
vate the  mind.  Pathetic  eloquence,  it  is  true,  has 
for  its  only  object  to  affect ;  but  I  appeal  to  men  of 
sensibility,  whether  their  pathetic  feelings  are  not 
accompanied  with  some  degree  of  elevation.     We 


tnay  then  call  eloquence  and  sublimity  the  same  ^  speaking,  is  intended  not  to  assist  those  parts 
hing,  since  it  is  impossible  to  possess  one  withc*^  which  are  sublime,  but  those  which  are  naturally 


'eeling  the  other.  Hence  it  follows,  that  we  may 
36  eloquent  in  any  language,  since,  no  language 
'efuses  to  paint  those  sentiments  with  which  we 
ire  thorou^ly  impressed.  What  is  usually  called 
sublimity  of  style,  seems  to  be  only  an  error.  Elo- 
juence  is  not  in  the  words  but  in  the  subject;  and 
n  great  ccpcerns,  the  more  simply  any  thing  is 
ixprq^sed,  it  is  generally  the  more  subUme.  True 
iloquence  does  not  consist,  as  the  rhetoricians  as- 
ure  us,  in  saying  great  things  in  a  sublime  stylo, 
lut  in  a  simple  style ;  for  there  is,  properly  speak- 
ng,  no  such  thing  as  a  sublime  style,  the  sublimity 
ies  only  in  the  things;  and  when  they  are  not  so, 
he  language  may  be  turgid,  affected,  metaphorical, 
)Ut  not  affecting. 

What  can  be  more  simply  expressed  than  the  fol- 
owing  extract  from  a  celebrated  preacher,  and  yet 
?hat  was  ever  more  sublime?  Speaking  of  the 
mall  number  of  the  elect,  he  breaks  out  thus  among 
lis  audience :  "  Let  me  suppose  that  this  was  the 
ist  hour  of  us  all ;  that  the  heavens  were  opening 


over  our  heads ;  that  time  was  passed,  and  eternity 
begun ;  that  Jesus  Christ  in  all  his  glory,  that  man 
of  sorrows  in  all  his  glory,  appeared  on  the  tribunal, 
and  that  we  were  assembled  here  to  receive  our 
final  decree  of  life  or  death  eternal !  Let  me  ask, 
impressed  with  terror  like  you,  and  not  separating 
my  lot  from  yours,  but  putting  myself  in  the  same 
situation  in  which  we  must  all  one  day  appear  be- 
fore God,  our  judge;  let  me  ask,  if  Jesus  Christ 
should  now  appear  to  make  the  terrible  separation 
of  the  just  from  the  unjust,  do  you  think  the  great- 
est number  would  be  saved?  Do  you  think  the 
number  of  the  elect  would  even  be  equal  to  that  of 
the  sinners?  Do  you  think,  if  all  our  works  were 
examined  with  justice,  would  we  find  ten  just  per- 
sons in  this  great  assembly?  Monsters  of  ingrati- 
tude !  would  he  find  one?  "  Such  passages  as  these 
are  sublime  in  every  language.  The  expression 
may  be  less  speaking,  or  more  indistinct,  but  the 
greatness  of  the  idea  still  remains.  In  a  word,  we 
may  be  eloquent  in  every  language  and  in  every 
style,  since  elocution  is  only  an  assistant,  but  not 
a  constitutor  of  eloquence. 

Of  what  use  then,  will  it  be  said,  are  all  the  pre- 
cepts given  us  upon  this  head  both  by  the  ancients 
and  moderns?  I  answer,  that  they  can  not  make 
us  eloquent,  but  they  will  certainly  prevent  us  from 
becoming  ridiculous.  They  can  seldom  procure  a 
single  beauty,  but  they  may  banish  a  thousand 
faults.  The  true  method  of  an  orator  is  not  to  at- 
tempt always  to  move,  always  to  affect,  to  be  con- 
tinually sublime,  but  at  proper  intervals  to  give  rest 
both  to  his  own  and  the  passions  of  his  audience. 
In  these  periods  of  relaxation,  or  of  preparation, 
rather,  rules  may  teach  him  to  avoid  any  thing 
low,  trivial,  or  disgusting.   Thus  criticism,  proper- 


mean  and  humble,  which  are  composed  with  cool- 
ness and  caution,  and  where  the  orator  rather  en- 
deavours not  to  offend,  than  attempts  to  please. 

I  have  hitherto  insisted  more  strenuously  on  that 
eloquence  which  speaks  to  the  passions,  as  it  is  a 
species  of  oratory  almost  unknown  in  England. 
At  the  bar  it  is  quite  discontinued,  and  I  think  with 
justice.  In  the  senate  it  is  used  but  sparingly,  as 
the  orator  speaks  to  enlightened  judges.  But  in 
the  pulpit,  in  which  the  orator  should  chiefly  ad- 
dress the  vulgar,  it  seems  strange  that  it  should  be 
entirely  laid  aside. 

The  vulgar  of  England  are,  without  exception, 
the  most  barbarous  and  the  most  unknowing  of 
any  in  Europe.  A  great  part  of  their  ignorance 
may  be  chiefly  ascribed  to  their  teachers,^  who,  with 
the  most  pretty  gentleman-like  serenity,  deliver 
their  cool  discourses,  and  address  the  reason  of  men 
who  have  never  reasoned  in  all  their  lives.  They 
are  told  of  cause  and  effect,  of  beings  self-existent, 
and  the  universal  scale  of  beings.     They  aie  in- 


1/ 

V 

\ 


462 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


\ 


formed  of  the  excellence  of  the  Bangorian  contro- 
versy, and  the  absurdity  of  an  intermediate  state. 
The  spruce  preacher  reads  his  lucubration  without 
lifting  his  nose  from  the  text,  and  never  ventures 
to  earn  the  shame  of  an  enthusiast. 

By  this  means,  though  his  audience  feel  not  one 
word  of  all  he  says,  he  earns,  however,  among  his 
acquaintance,  the  character  of  a  man  of  sense ; 
among  his  acquaintance  only  did  I  say?  nay,  even 
with  his  bishop. 

The  polite  of  every  country  have  several  motives 
to  induce  them  to  a  rectitude  of  action;  the  love  of 
virtue  for  its  own  sake,  the  shame  of  offending,  and 
the  desire  of  pleasing.  The  vulgar  have  but  one, 
the  enforcements  of  religion ;  and  yet  those  who 
should  push  this  motive  home  to  their  hearts,  are 
basely  found  to  desert  their  post.  They  speak  to 
the  'squire,  the  philosopher,  and  the  pedant ;  but 
the  poor,  those  who  really  want  instruction,  are 
left  uninstructed. 

I  have  attended  most  of  our  pulpit  orators,  who, 
it  must  be  owned,  write  extremely  well  upon  the 
text  they  assume.  To  give  them  their  due  also, 
they  read  their  sermons  with  elegance  and  pro- 
priety ;  but  this  goes  but  a  very  short  way  in  true 
eloquence.  The  speaker  must  be  moved.  In  this, 
in  this  alone,  our  English  divines  are  deficient. 
Were  they  to  speak  to  a  few  calm  dispassionate 
hearers,  they  certainly  use  the  properest  methods 
of  address;  but  their  audience  is  chiefly  composed 
of  the  poor,  who  must  be  influenced  by  motives  of 
reward  and  punishment,  and  whose  only  virtues 
lie  in  self-interest,  or  fear. 

How  then  are  such  to  be  addressed?  not  by 
studied  periods  or  cold  disquisitions ;  not  by  the  la- 
bours of  the  head,  but  the  honest  spontaneous  dic- 
tates of  the  heart.  Neither  writing  a  sermon  with 
regular  periods  and  all  the  harmony  of  elegant  ex- 
pression; neither  reading  it  with  emphasis,  pro- 
priety, and  deliberation;  neither  pleasing  with 
metaphor,  simile,  or  rh'etorical  fustian;  neither 
arguing  coolly,  and  untying  consequences  united 
a  priori^  nor  bundling  up  inductions  a  posteriori 
neither  pedantic  jargon,  nor  academical  trifling, 
can  persuade  the  poor :  writing  a  discourse  coolly 
in  the  closet,  then  getting  it  by  memory,  and  de- 
livering it  on  Sundays,  even  that  will  not  do. 
What  then  is  to  be  done?  I  know  of  no  expedient 
to  speak,  to  speak  at  once  intelli^bly,  and  feeling- 
ly except  to  understand  the  language.  To  be  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  the  object,  to  be  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  the  subject  in  view,  to  prepossess 
yourself  with  a  low  opinion  of  your  audience,  and 
to  do  the  rest  extempore :  by  this  means  strong  ex 
pressions,  new  thoughts,  rising  passions,  and  the 
true  declamatory  style,  will  naturally  ensue. 

Fine  declamation  does  not  consist  in  flowery 
periods,  delicate  allusions,  or  musical  cadences ;  but 


m  w 


long  and  obvious ;  where  the  same  thought  is  oft^n 
exliibited  in  several  points  of  view;  all  this  strong 
sense,  a  good  memory,  and  a  small  share  of  experi- 
ence, will  furnish  to  every  orator;  and  without 
these  a  clergyman  may  be  called  a  fine  preacher,  a 
judicious  preacher,  and  a  man  of  good  sense ;  he 
may  make  his  hearers  admire  his  understanding — 
but  will  seldom  enlighten  theirs. 

When  I  think  of  the  Methodist  preachers  among 
us,  how  seldom  they  are  endued  with  common 
sense,  and  yet  how  often  and  how  justly  they  affect 
their  hearers,  I  can  not  avoid  saying  within  myself, 
had  these  been  bred  gentlemen,  and  been  endued 
with  even  the  meanest  share  of  understanding, 
what  might  they  not  effect !  Did  our  bishops,  who 
can  add  dignity  to  their  expostulations,  testify  the 
same  fervour,  and  entreat  their  hearers,  as  well 
as  argue,  what  might  not  be  the  consequence ! 
The  vulgar,  by  which  I  mean  the  bulk  of  mankind, 
would  then  have  a  double  motive  to  love  religion, 
first  from  seeing  its  professors  honoured  here,  and 
next  from>*he  consequences  hereafter.  At  present 
the  enthusiasms  of  the  poor  are  opposed  to  law; 
did  law  q^spire  with  their  enthusiasms,  we  should 
not  only  iJe  the  happiest  nation  upon  earth,  but  the 
wisest  also. 

Enthusiasm  in  religion,  which  prevails  only 
among  the  vulgar,  should  be  the  chief  object  of 
politics.  A  society  of  enthusiasts,  governed  by 
reason  among  the  great,  is  the  most  indissoluble, 
the  most  virtuous,  and  the  most  efficient  of  its  own 
decrees  that  can  be  imagined.  Every  country,  pos- 
sessed of  any  degree  of  strength,  have  had  their 
enthusiasms,  which  ever  serve  as  laws  among  the 
people.  The  Greeks  had  their  Kalokagathia,  the 
Romans  their  Amor  Patrice,  and  we  the  truer  and 
firmer  bond  of  the  Protestant  Religion.  The 
principle  is  the  same  in  all ;  how  much  then  is  it 
the  duty  of  those  whom  the  law  has  appointed 
teachers  of  this  religion,  to  enforce  its  obligations, 
and  to  raise  those  enthusiasms  among  people,  by 
which  alone  political  society  can  subsist. 

From  eloquence,  therefore,  the  morals  of  our 
people  are  to  expect  emendation;  but  how  little  can 
they  be  improved  by  men,  who  get  into  the  pulpit 
rather  to  show  their  parts  than  convince  us  of  the 
truth  of  what  they  deliver;  who  are  painfully  cor 
rect  in  their  style,  musical  in  their  tones ;  where 
every  sentiment,  every  expression  seems  the  result 
of  meditation  and  deep  study? 

Tillotson  has  been  commended  as  the  model  of 
pulpit  elfxjuence ;  thus  far  he  should  be  imitated, 
where  he  generally  strives  to  convince  rather  than 
to  please ;  but  to  adopt  his  long,  dry,  and  some- 
times tedious  discussions,  which  serve  to  amuse 
only  divines,  and  are  utterly  neglected  by  the  gene- 
rality of  mankind ;  to  prajse  the  intricacy  of  his 
periods,  which  are  too  Ipiag  to  be  spoken ;  to  con- 


in  a  plain,  open,  loose  style,  where  the  periods  are  tinue  his  cool  phlegmatic   manner  of  enforcingr 


THE  BEE. 


463 


every  truth,  is  certainly  erroneous.  As  I  said  be- 
fore, the  good  preacher  should  adopt  no  model, 
write  no  sermons,  study  no  periods;  let  him  but 
tmderstand  his  subject,  the  language  he  speaks, 
and  be  convinced  of  the  truth  he  delivers.  It  is 
amazing  to  what  heights  eloquence  of  this  kind 
may  reach!  This  is  that  eloquence  the  ancients  re- 
presented as  lightning,  bearing  down  every  op- 
poser  ;  this  the  power  which  has  turned  whole  as- 
semblies into  astonishment,  admiration,  and  awe ; 
that  is  described  by  the  torrent,  the  flame,  and 
every  other  instance  of  irresistible  impetuosity. 

But  to  attempt  such  noble  heights  belongs  only 
to  the  truly  great,  or  the  truly  good.  To  discard 
the  lazy  manner  of  reading  sermons,  or  speaking 
sermons  by  rote ;  to  set  up  singly  against  the  op- 
position of  men  who  are  attached  to  their  own  er- 
rors, and  to  endeavour  to  be  greatj  instead  of  being 
prudent,  are  qualities  we  seldom  see  united.  A 
minister  of  the  Church  of  England,  who  may  be 
possessed  of  good  sense,  and  some  hopes  of  prefer- 
ment, will  seldom  give  up  such  substantial  advan- 
tages for  the  empty  pleasure  of  improving  society. 
By  his  present  method,  he  is  liked  by  his  friends, 
admired  by  his  dependants,  not  displeasing  to  his 
bishop;  he  lives  as  well,  eats  and  sleeps  as  well,  as 
if  a  real  orator,  and  an  eager  assertor  of  his  mis- 
sion :  he  will  hardly,  therefore,  venture  all  this  to 
be  called  perhaps  an  enthusiast ;  nor  will  he  de 
part  from  customs  established  by  the  brotherhood 
when,  by  such  a  conduct,  he  only  singles  himself 
out  for  their  contempt. 


CUSTOM  AND  LAWS  COMPARED. 

What,  say  some,  can  give  us  a  more  contempti- 
ble idea  of  a  large  state  than  to  find  it  mostly  gov- 
erned by  custom ;  to  have  few  vnritten  laws,  and  no 
boundaries  to  mark  the  jurisdiction  between  the 
senate  and  the  people?  Among  the  number  who 
speak  in  this  manner  is  the  great  Montesquieu, 
who  asserts  that  every  nation  is  free  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  its  written  laws,  and  seems  to 
hint  at  a  despotic  and  arbitrary  conduct  in  the  pre- 
sent king  of  Prussia,  who  has  abridged  the  laws 
of  His  country  into  a  very  short  compass. 

As  Tacitus  and  Montesquieu  happen  to  differ 
in  sentiment  upon  a  subject  of  so  much  importance 
(for  the  Roman  expressly  asserts  that  the  state  is 
generally  vicious  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  its 
laws,)  it  will  not  be  amiss  to  examine  it  a  little 
more  minutely,  and  see  whether  a  state  which,  like 
England,  is  burdened  with  a  multiplicity  of  written 
laws;  or  which,  like  Switzerland,  Geneva,  and 
some  other  republics,  is  governed  by  custom  and 
the  determination  of  the  judge,  is  best. 

And  to  prove  the  superiority  of  custom  to  writ- 
ten law,  we  shall  at  least  find  history  conspiring. 


Custom,  or  the  traditional  observance  of  the  practice 
of  their  forefathers,  was  what  directed  the  Romans 
as  well  in  their  public  as  private  determinations. 
Custom  was  appealed  to  in  pronouncing  sentence 
against  a  criminal,  where  part  of  the  formulary  was 
more  majorum.  So  Sallust,  speaking  of  the  expul- 
sion of  Tarquin,  says,  mutato  more,  and  not  lege 
mutato ;  and  Virgil,  pacisque  imponere  morem.  So 
that,  in  those  time^  of  the  empire  in  which  the 
people  retained  their  liberty,  they  were  governed  by 
custom ;  when  they  sunk  into  oppression  and  ty- 
ranny, they  were  restrained  by  new  laws,  and  the 
laws  of  tradition  abolished. 

As  getting  the  ancients  on  our  side  is  half  a  vic- 
tory, it  will  not  be  amiss  to  fortify  the  argument 
with  an  observation  of  Chrysostom's;  "That  the 
enslaved  are  the  fittest  to  be  governed  by  laws, 
and  free  men  by  custom."  Custom  partakes  of  the 
nature  of  parental  injunction;  it  is  kept  by  the 
people  themselves,  and  observed  with  a  willing 
obedience.  The  observance  of  it  must  therefore 
be  a  mark  of  freedom ;  and,  coming  originally  to 
a  state  from  the  reverenced  founders  of  its  liberty, 
will  be  an  encouragement  and  assistance  to  it  in 
the  defence  of  that  blessing :  but  a  conquered  peo- 
ple, a  nation  of  slaves,  must  pretend  to  none  of  this 
freedom,  or  these  happy  distinctions ;  having  by 
degeneracy  lost  all  right  to  their  brave  forefathers' 
free  institutions,  their  masters  will  in  a  policy  take 
the  forfeiture ;  and  the  fixing  a  conquest  must  be 
done  by  giving  laws,  which  may  every  moment 
serve  to  remind  the  people  enslaved  of  their  con- 
querors; nothing  being  more  dangerous  than  to 
trust  a  late  subdued  people  with  old  customs,  that 
presently  upbraid  their  degeneracy,  and  provoke 
them  to  revolt. 

The  wisdom  of  the  Roman  republic  in  their 
veneration  for  custom,  and  backwardness  to  intro- 
duce a  new  law,  was  perhaps  the  cause  of  their 
long  continuance,  and  of  the  virtues  of  which  they 
have  set  the  world  so  many  examples.  But  to  s^how 
in  what  that  wisdom  consists,  it  may  be  proper  to 
observe,  that  the  benefit  of  new  written  laws  is 
merely  confined  to  the  consequences  of  their  obser 
vance ;  but  customary  laws,  keeping  up  a  venera- 
tion for  the  founders,  engage  men  in  the  imitation 
of  their  virtues  as  well  as  poUcy.  To  this  may  be 
ascribed  the  religious  regard  the  Romans  paid  to 
their  forefathers'  memory,  and  their  adhering  for 
so  many  ages  to  the  practice  of  the  same  virtues, 
which  nothing  contributed  more  to  efface  than  thtf 
introduction  of  a  voluminous  body  of  new  laws  over 
the  neck  of  venerable  custom. 

The  simplicity,  conciseness,  and  antiquity  of 
custom,  give  an  air  of  majesty  and  immutability 
that  inspires  awe  and  veneration ;  but  new  laws 
are  too  apt  to  be  voluminous,  perplexed,  and  inde- 
terminate, whence  must  necessarily  arise  neglect, 
contempt,  and  ignorance. 


464 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


As  every  human  institution  is  subject  to  gross 
imperfections,  so  laws  must  necess&rily  be  liable  to 
the  same  inconveniencies,  and  their  defects  soon 
discovered.  Thus,  through  the  weakness  of  one 
part,  all  the  rest  are  liable  to  be  brought  into  con- 
tempt But  such  weaknesses  in  a  custom,  for 
very  obvious  reasons,  evade  an  examination ;  be- 
sides, a  friendly  prejudice  always  stands  up  in  their 
favour. 

But  let  us  suppose  a  new  law  to  be  perfectly 
equitable  and  necessary ;  yet  if  the  procurers  of  it 
have  betrayed  a  conduct  that  confesses  by-ends  and 
private  motives,  the  disgust  to  the  circumstances 
disposes  us,  unreasonably  indeed,  to  an  irreverence 
of  the  law  itself;  but  we  are  indulgently  bhnd  to 
the  most  visible  imperfections  of  an  old  custom. 
Though  we  perceive  the  defects  ourselves,  yet  we 
remain  persuaded,  that  our  wise  forefathers  had 
good  reason  for  what  they  did ;  and  though  such 
motives  no  longer  continue,  the  benefit  will  still  go 
along  with  the  observance,  though  we  do  not  know 
how.  It  is  thus  the  Roman  lawyers  speak :  Non 
omnium,  que  a  majoi'ibus  constituta  sunt,  ratio 
reddi  protest,  et  ideo  rationes  eorum  que  constitu- 
untur  inquiri  non  oportet,  alioquin  multa  ex  his 
quce  certa  sunt  subvertuntur. 

Those  laws  which  preserve  to  themselves  the 
greatest  love  and  observance,  must  needs  be  best ; 
but  custom,  as  it  executes  itself,  must  be  necessari- 
ly superior  to  written  laws  in  this  respect,  which 
are  to  be  executed  by  another.  Thus,  nothing  can 
be  more  certain,  than  that  numerous  written  laws 
are  a  sign  of  a  degenerate  community,  and  are  fre- 
quently not  the  consequences  of  vicious  morals  in  a 
state,  but  the  causes. 

Hence  we  see  how  much  greater  benefit  it  would 
be  to  the  state,  rather  to  abridge  than  increase  its 
laws.  We  every  day  find  them  increasing  acts  and 
reports,  which  may  be  termed  the  acts  of  judges,  are 
every  day  becoming  more  voluminous,  and  loading 
the  subject  with  new  penalties. 

Laws  ever  increase  in  number  and  severity,  un- 
til they  at  length  are  strained  so  tight  as  to  break 
themselves.  Such  was  the  case  of  the  latter  em- 
pire, whose  laws  were  at  length  become  so  strict, 
that  the  barbarous  invaders  did  not  bring  servitude 
but  liberty. 


OF  THE  PRIDE  AND  LUXURY  OF  THE 
MIDDLING  CLASS  OF  PEOPLE. 

Of  aU  the  follies  and  absurdities  under  which 
this  great  metropolis  labours,  there  is  not  one,  I 
believe,  that  at  present  appears  in  a  more  glaring 
and  ridiculous  light,  than  the  pride  and  luxury  of 
the  middling  class  of  people.  Their  eager  desire 
of  being  seen  in  a  sphere  far  above  their  capacities 
and  circumstances,  is  daily,  nay  hourly  instanced, 


by  the  prodigious  numbers  of  mechanics  who  flock 
to  the  races,  gaming-tables,  brothels,  and  all  pub- 
lic diversions  this  fashionable  town  afTords. 

You  shall  see  a  grocer,  or  a  tallow-chandler, 
sneak  from  behind  the  counter,  clap  on  a  laced 
coat  and  a  bag,  fly  to  the  E  O  table,  throw  away 
fifty  pieces  with  some  sharping  man  of  quality ; 
while  his  industrious  wife  is  selling  a  pennyworth 
of  sugar,  or  a  pound  of  candles,  to  support  her 
fashionable  spouse  in  his  extravagances. 

I  was  led  into  this  reflection  by  an  odd  adven- 
ture which  happened  to  me  the  other  day  at  Epsora 
races,  whither  I  went,  not  through  any  desire,  I  do 
assure  you,  of  laying  bets  or  winning  thousands, 
but  at  the  earnest  request  of  a  friend,  who  had 
long  indulged  the  curiosity  of  seeing  the  sport, 
very  natural  for  an  Englishman.  When  we  had 
arrived  at  the  course,  and  had  taken  several  turns 
to  observe  the  different  objects  that  made  up  this 
whimsical  group,  a  figure  suddenly  darted  by  us, 
mounted  and  dressed  in  all  the  elegance  of  those 
polite  gentry  who  come  to  show  you  they  have  a 
little  money,  and,  rather  than  pay  their  just  debts 
at  home,  generously  come  abroad  to  bestow  it  on 
gamblers  and  pickpockets.  As  I  had  not  an  op- 
portunity of  viewing  his  face  till  his  return,  1 
gently  walked  after  him,  and  met  him  as  he  came 
back,  when,  to  my  no  small  surprise,  I  beheld  in 
this  gay  Narcissus  the  visage  of  Jack  Varnish,  a 
humble  vender  of  prints.  Disgusted  at  the  sight, 
I  pulled  my  friend  by  the  sleeve,  pressed  him  to 
return  home,  telling  him  all  the  way,  that  I  was  so 
enraged  at  the  fellow's  impudence  that  I  was  re- 
solved never  to  lay  out  another  penny  with  him. 

And  now,  pray  sir,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  give 
this  a  place  in  your  paper,  that  Mr.  Varnish  may 
understand  he  mistakes  the  thing  quite,  if  he  ima- 
gines horse-racing  recommendable  in  a  tradesman; 
and  that  he  who  is  revelling  every  night  in  the 
arms  of  a  common  strumpet  (though  blessed  with 
an  indulgent  wife),  when  ke  ought  to  be  minding 
his  business,  will  never  thrive  in  this  world.  He 
will  find  himself  soon  mistaken,  his  finances  de- 
crease, his  friends  shun  him,  customers  fall  oflf,  and 
himself  thrown  into  a  gaol.  I  would  earnestly 
recommend  this  adage  to  every  mechanic  in  Lon- 
don, "  Keep  your  shop,  and  your  shop  will  keep 
you."  A  strict  observance  of  these  words  will,  I 
am  sure,  in  time  gain  them  estates.  Industry  is 
the  road  to  wealth,  and  honesty  to  happiness ;  and 
he  who  strenuously  endeavours  to  pursue  them 
both,  may  never  fear  the  critic's  lash,  or  the  sharp 
cries  of  penury  and  want. 


SABINUS  AND  OLINDA. 

In  a  fair,  rich,  and  flourishing  country,  whose 
clifis  are  washed  by  the  German  Ocean,  lived  Sa 


THE  BEE. 


binus,  a  youth  formed  by  nature  to  make  a  con- 
quest wherever  he  thought  proper ;  but  the  con- 
stancy of  his  disposition  fixed  him  only  with 
OUnda.  He  was  indeed  superior  to  her  in  fortune, 
but  that  defect  on  her  side  was  so  amply  supplied  by 
her  merit,  that  none  was  thought  more  worthy  of 
his  regards  than  she.  He  loved  her,  he  was  be- 
loved by  her;  and  in  a  short  time,  by  joining 
hands  publicly,  they  avowed  the  union  of  their 
hearts.  But,  alas!  none,  however  fortunate,  how- 
ever happy,  are  exempt  from  the  shafts  of  envy, 
and  the  malignant  effects  of  ungoverned  appetite. 
How  unsafe,  how  detestable  are  they  who  have 
this  fury  for  their  guide !  How  certainly  will  it 
lead  them  from  themselves,  and  plunge  them  in 
errors  they  would  have  shuddered  at,  even  in  ap- 
prehension !  Ariana,  a  lady  of  many  amiable 
quaUties,  very  nearly  allied  to  Sabinus,  and  highly 
esteemed  by  him,  imagined  herself  slighted,  and 
injuriously  treated,  since  his  marriage  with  Olinda. 
By  incautiously  suffering  this  jealousy  to  corrode 
in  her  breast,  she  began  to  give  a  loose  to  passion; 
she  forgot  those  many  virtues  for  which  she  had 
been  so  long  and  so  justly  applauded.  Causeless 
suspicion  and  mistaken  resentment  betrayed  her 
into  all  the  gloom  of  discontent ;  she  sighed  with- 
out ceasing ;  the  happiness  of  others  gave  her  in- 
tolerable pain;  she  thought  of  nothing  but  re- 
venge. How  unlike  what  she  was,  the  cheerful, 
the  prudent,  the  compassionate  Ariana ! 

She  continually  laboured  to  disturb  a  union  so 
firmly,  so  af!ectionately  founded,  and  planned 
every  scheme  which  she  thought  most  likely  to 
disturb  it. 

Fortune  seemed  willing  to  promote  her  unjust 
intentions ;  the  circumstances  of  Sabinus  had  been 
long  embarrassed  by  a  tedious  law-suit,  and  the 
court  determining  the  cause  unexpectedly  in  favour 
of  his  opponent,  it  sunk  his  fortune  to  the  lowest 
pitch  of  penury  from  the  highest  affluence.  From 
the  nearness  of  relationship,  Sabinus  expected 
from  Ariana  those  assistances  his  present  situation 
required;  but  she  was  insensible  to  all  his  en- 
treaties and  the  justice  of  every  remonstrance,  un- 
less he  first  separated  from  Ohnda,  whom  she  re- 
garded with  detestation.  Upon  a  compliance  with 
her  desire  in  this  respect,  she  promised  that  her 
fortune,  her  interest,  and  her  all,  should  be  at  his 
command.  Sabinus  was  shocked  at  the  proposal ; 
he  loved  his  wife  with  inexpressible  tenderness, 
and  refused  those  offers  with  indignation  which 
were  to  be  purchased  at  so  high  a  price.  Ariana 
was  no  less  displeased  to  find  her  oflTers  rejected, 
and  gave  a  loose  to  all  that  warmth  which  she  had 
long  endeavoured  to  suppress.  Reproach  generally 
produces  recrimination ;  the  quarrel  rose  to  such 
a  height,  that  Sabinus  was  marked  for  destruction, 
and  the  very  next  day,  upon  the  strength  of  an 
old  family  debt,  he  was  sent  to  gaol,  with  none  but 
30 


Olinda  to  comfort  him  in  his  miseries.  In  this 
mansion  of  distress  they  lived  together  with  resig- 
nation, and  even  with  comfort.  She  provided  the 
frugal  meal,  and  he  read  to  her  while  employed  in 
the  Uttle  offices  of  domestic  concern.  Their  fellow- 
prisoners  admired  their  contentment,  and  when- 
ever they  had  a  desire  of  relaxing  into  mirth,  and 
enjoying  those  little  comforts  that  a  prison  affords, 
Sabinus  and  Olinda  were  sure  to  be  of  the  party. 
Instead  of  reproaching  each  other  for  their  mutual 
wretchedness,  they  both  lightened  it,  by  bearing 
each  a  share  of  the  load  imposed  by  Providence. 
Whenever  Sabinus  showed  the  least  concern  on 
his  dear  partner's  account,  she  conjured  him,  by 
the  love  he  bore  her,  by  those  tender  ties  which  now 
united  them  forever,  not  to  discompose  himself; 
that  so  loi.g  as  his  affection  lasted,  she  defied  all 
the  ills  of  fortune  and  every  loss  of  fame  or  friend- 
ship ;  that  nothing  could  make  her  miserable  but 
his  seeming  to  want  happiness ;  nothing  please 
but  his  sympathizing  with  her  pleasure.  A  con- 
tinuance in  prison  soon  robbed  them  of  the  little 
they  had  left,  and  famine  began  to  make  its  horrid 
appearance ;  yet  still  was  neither  found  to  mur- 
mur :  they  both  looked  upon  their  Uttle  boy,  who, 
insensible  of  their  or  his  own  distress,  was  play- 
ing about  the  room,  with  inexpressible  yet  silent 
anguish,  when  a  messenger  came  to  inform  them 
that  Ariana  was  dead,  and  that  her  will  in  favour 
of  a  very  distant  relation,  who  was  now  in  another 
country,  might  easily  be  procured  and  burnt ;  in 
which  case  all  her  large  fortune  would  revert  to 
him,  as  being  the  next  heir  at  law. 

A  proposal  of  so  base  a  nature  filled  our  un- 
happy couple  with  horror ;  they  ordered  the  mes- 
senger immediately  out  of  the  room,  and  falling 
upon  each  other's  neck,  indulged  an  agony  of  sor- 
row, for  now  even  all  hopes  of  relief  were  banished. 
The  messenger  who  made  the  proposal,  however, 
was  only  a  spy  sent  by  Ariana  to  sound  the  dispo- 
sitions of  a  man  she  at  once  loved  and  persecuted. 
This  lady,  though  warped  by  wrong  passions,  was 
naturally  kind,  judicious,  and  friendly.  She  found 
that  all  her  attempts  to  shake  the  constancy  or  the 
integrity  of  Sabinus  were  ineffectual;  she  had 
therefore  begun  to  reflect,  and  to  wonder  how  she 
could  so  long  and  so  unprovokedly  injure  such  un- 
common fortitude  and  affection. 

She  had  from  the  next  room  herself  heard  the 
reception  given  to  the  messenger,  and  could  not 
avoid  feeling  all  the  force  of  superior  virtue ;  she 
therefore  reassumed  her  former  goodness  of  heart ; 
she  came  into  the  room  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and 
acknowledged  the  severity  of  her  former  treatment. 
She  bestowed  her  first  care  in  providing  them  all 
the  necessary  supplies,  and  acknowledged  them  as 
the  most  deserving  heirs  of  her  fortune.  From 
this  moment  Sabinus  enjoyed  an  uninterrupted 
happiness  with  Olinda,  and  both  were  happy  in 


466 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


the  friendship  and  assistance  of  Ariana,  who,  dy- 
ing soon  after,  left  them  in  possession  of  a  large 
estate,  and  in  her  last  moments  confessed,  that 
virtue  was  the  only  path  to  true  glory  ;  and  that 
however  innocence  may  for  a  time  be  depressed, 
a  steady  perseverance  will  in  time  lead  it  to  a  cer- 
tain victory. 


THE  SENTIMENTS  OP  A  FRENCH- 
MAN ON  THE  TEMPER  OF  THE 
ENGLISH. 

Nothing  is  so  uncommon  among  the  English 
as  that  easy  affabiUty,  that  instant  method  of  ac- 
quaintance, or  that  cheerfulness  of  disposition, 
which  make  in  France  the  charm  of  every  socie- 
ty. Yet  in  this  gloomy  reserve  they  seem  to  prid 
themselves,  and  think  themselves  less  happy  if 
obliged  to  be  more  social.  One  may  assert,  with- 
out wronging  them,  that  they  do  not  study  the 
method  of  going  through  life  with  pleasure  and 
tranquillity  like  the  French.  Might  not  this  be  a 
proof  that  they  are  not  so  m.uch  philosophers  as 
they  imagine  1  Philosophy  is  no  more  than  the 
art  of  mailing  ourselves  happy  :  that  is  in  seeking 
pleasure  in  regularity,  and  reconciling  what  we 
owe  to  society  with  what  is  due  to  ourselves. 

This  cheerfulness,  which  is  the  characteristic  of 
our  nation,  in  the  eye  of  an  Englishman  passes  al 
most  for  folly.  But  is  their  gloominess  a  greater 
mark  of  their  wisdom  1  and,  folly  against  folly,  is 
not  the  most  cheerful  sort  the  best  1  If  our  gaiety 
makes  them  sad,  they  ought  not  to  find  it  strange 
if  their  seriousness  makes  us  laugh. 

As  this  disposition  to  levity  is  not  familiar  to 
them,  and  as  they  look  on  every  thing  as  a  fault 
which  they  do  not  find  at  home,  the  English  who 
live  among  us  are  hurt  by  it.  Several  of  their  au- 
thors reproach  us  with  it  as  a  vice,  or  at  least  as  a 
ridicule. 

Mr,  Addison  styles  us  a  comic  nation.  In  my 
opinion,  it  is  not  acting  the  philosopher  on  this 
point,  to  regard  as  a  fault  that  quality  which  con- 
tributes most  to  the  pleasure  of  society  and  ha{)pi- 
ness  of  Ufe.  Plato,  convinced  that  whatever  makes 
men  happier  makes  them  better,  advises  to  neglect 
nothing  that  may  excite  and  convert  to  an  early 
habit  this  sense  of  joy  in  children.  Seneca  places 
it  in  the  first  rank  of  good  things.  Certain  it  is, 
at  least,  that  gaiety  may  be  a  concomitant  of  all 
sorts  of  virtue,  but  that  there  are  some  vices  with 
which  it  is  incompatible. 

As  to  him  who  laughs  at  every  thing,  and  him 
wiio  laughs  at  nothing,  neither  has  sound  judg- 
ment. AH  the  difference  I  find  between  them  is, 
that  the  last  is  constantly  the  most  unhappy. 
Those  who  speak  against  cheerfulness,  prove  no- 
thing else  but  that  they  were  born  melancholic, 


and  that  in  their  hearts  they  rather  envy  than  con- 
demn that  levity  they  affect  to  despise. 

The  Spectator,  whose  constant  object  was  the 
good  of  mankind  in  general,  and  of  his  own  natiort 
in  particular,  should,  according  to  his  own  princi- 
ples, place  cheerfulness  among  the  most  desirable 
qualities ;  and  probably,  whenever  he  contradicts 
himself  in  this  particular,  it  is  only  to  conform  to 
the  tempers  of  the  people  whom  he  addresses. 
He  asserts,  that  gaiety  is  one  great  obstacle  to  the 
prudent  conduct  of  women.  But  are  those  of  a 
melancholic  temper,  as  the  English  women  gene- 
rally are,  less  subject  to  the  foibles  of  love  ?  1  am 
acquainted  with  some  doctors  in  this  science,  to 
whose  judgment  I  would  more  willingly  refer  than 
to  his.  And  perhaps,  in  reality,  persons  naturally 
of  a  gay  temper  are  too  easily  taken  off  by  differ- 
ent objects,  to  give  themselves  up  to  all  the  ex- 
cesses of  this  passion. 

Mr.  Hobbes,  a  celebrated  philosopher  of  his  na- 
tion, maintains  that  laughing  proceeds  from  our 
pride  alone.  This  is  only  a  paradox  if  asserted  of 
laughing  in  general,  and  only  argues  that  misan- 
thropical disposition  for  which  he  was  remarkable. 

To  bring  the  causes  he  assigns  for  laughing  un- 
der suspicion,  it  is  sufficinnt  to  remark,  that  proud 
people  are  commonly  those  who  laugh  least. 
Gravity  is  the  inseparable  companion  of  pride.  To 
say  that  a  man  is  vain,  because  the  humour  of  a 
writer,  or  the  buffooneries  of  a  harlequin,  excite  his 
laughter,  would  be  advancing  a  great  absurdity. 
We  should  distinguish  between  laughter  inspired 
by  joy,  and  that  which  arises  from  mockery.  The 
malicious  sneer  is  improperly  called  laughter.  It 
must  be  owned,  that  pride  is  the  parent  of  such 
laughter  as  this :  but  this  is  in  itself  vicious ; 
whereas  the  other  sort  has  nothing  in  its  princi- 
ples or  effects  that  deserves  condemnation.  We 
find  this  amiable  in  others,  and  is  it  unhappiness 
to  feel  a  disposition  towards  it  in  ourselves  ? 

When  I  see  an  EngUshman  laugh,  I  fancy  I 
rather  see  him  hunting  after  joy  than  having 
caught  it  :  and  this  is  more  particularly  remarka- 
ble in  their  women,  whose  tempers  are  inclined  to 
melancholy.  A  laugh  leaves  no  more  traces  on 
fheir  countenance  than  a  flash  of  lightning  on  the 
face  of  the  heavens.  The  most  laughing  air  is  in- 
stantly succeeded  by  the  most  gloomy.  One 
would  be  apt  to  think  that  their  souls  open  with 
difficulty  to  joy,  or  at  least  that  joy  is  not  pleased 
with  its  habitation  there. 

n  regard  to  fine  raillery,  it  must  be  allowed  that 
it  is  not  natural  to  the  English,  and  therefore  those 
who  endeavour  at  it  make  but  an  ill  figure.  Some 
of  their  authors  have  candidly  confessed,  that 
pleasantry  is  quite  foreign  to  their  character;  but 
according  to  the  reason  they  give,  they  lose  nothing 
by  this  confession.  Bishop  Sprat  gives  the  fol- 
lowing one;  "  The  English,'  says  he,  "h^ve  too 


THE  BEE. 


4b  I 


much  bravery  to  be  derided,  and  too  much  virtue 
and  honour  to  mock  others." 


THE  BEE,  No.  VIII. 


Saturday,  November  24,  1759. 


ON  DECEIT  AND  FALSEHOOD. 

The  following  account  is  so  judiciously  conceived 
that  I  am  convinced  the  reader  will  be  more 
pleased  with  it  than  with  any  thing  of  mine,  so 
I  shall  make  no  apology  for  this  new  publication. 

to  the  author  op  the  bee. 

.Sir, 

Deceit  and  falsehood  have  ever  been  an  over- 
match for  truth,  and  followed  and  admired  by  the 
majority  of  mankind.  If  we  inquire  after  the  rea- 
son of  this,  we  shall  find  it  in  our  own  imagina- 
tions, which  are  amused  and  entertained  with  the 
perpetual  novelty  and  variety  that  fiction  affords, 
but  find  no  manner  of  delight  in  the  uniform  sim- 
plicity of  homely  truth,  which  still  sues  them  un- 
der the  same  appearance. 

He,  therefore,  that  would  gain  our  hearts,  must 
make  his  court  to  our  fancy,  which,  being  sovereign 
comptroller  of  the  passions,  lets  them  loose,  and  in- 
flames them  more  or  less,  in  proportion  to  the  force 
and  efficacy  of  the  first  cause,  which  is  ever  the 
more  powerful  the  more  new  it  is.  Thus  in  mathe- 
matical demonstrations  themselves,  though  they 
seem  to  aim  at  pure  truth  and  instruction,  and  to 
be  addressed  to  our  reason  alone,  yet  I  think  it  is 
pretty  plain,  that  our  understanding  is  only  made 
a  drudge  to  gratify  our  invention  and  curiosity,  and 
we  are  pleased,  not  so  much  because  our  discoveries 
are  certain,  as  because  they  are  new. 

I  do  not  deny  but  the  world  is  still  pleased  with 
things  that  pleased  it  many  years  ago,  but  it  should 
at  the  same  time  be  considered,  that  man  is  na- 
turally so  much  of  a  logician,  as  to  distinguish  be- 
tween matters  that  are  plain  and  easy,  and  otherfe 
that  are  hard  and  inconceivable.  What  we  un- 
derstand, we  overlook  and  despise,  and  what  we 
know  nothing  of,  we  hug  and  delight  in.  Thus 
there  are  such  things  as  perpetual  novelties ;  for  we 
are  pleased  no  longer  than  v/e  are  amazed,  and  no- 
thing so  much  contents  us  as  that  which  con- 
founds us. 

This  weakness  in  human  nature  gave  occasion 
to  a  party  of  men  to  make  such  gainful  markets  as 
they  have  done  of  our  credulity.  All  objects  and 
facts  whatever  now  ceased  to  be  what  they  had  been 
for  ever  before,  and  received  what  make  and  mean- 
ing it  was  found  convenient  to  put  upon  them ; 


what  people  ate,  and  drank,  and  saw,  was  not  whal 
they  ate,  and  drank,  and  saw,  but  something  fur- 
ther, which  they  were  fond  of  because  they  were 
ignorant  of  it.  In  short,  nothing  was  itself,  but 
something  beyond  itself;  and  by  these  artifices  and 
amusements  the  heads  of  the  world  were  so  turned 
and  intoxicated,  that  at  last  there  was  scarcely  a 
sound  set  of  brains  left  in  it. 

In  this  state  of  giddiness  and  infatuation  it  was 
no  very  hard  task  to  persuade  the  already  deluded, 
that  there  was  an  actual  society  and  communion 
between  human  creatures  and  spiritual  demons. 
And  when  they  had  thus  put  people  into  the  power 
and  clutches  of  the  devil,  none  but  they  alone  could 
have  either  skill  or  strength  to  bring  the  prisoners 
back  again. 

But  so  far  did  they  carry  this  dreadful  drollery, 
and  so  fond  were  they  of  it,  that  to  maintain  it  and 
themselves  in  profitable  repute,  they  literally  sacri- 
ficed for  it,  and  made  impious  victims  of  number- 
less old  women  and  other  miserable  persons,  who 
either,  through  ignorance,  could  not  say  what  they 
were  bid  to  say,  or,  through  madness,  said  what 
they  should  not  have  said.  Fear  and  stupidity 
made  them  incapable  of  defending  themselves,  and 
frenzy  and  infatuation  made  them  confess  guilty 
impossibilities,  which  produced  cruel  sentences, 
and  then  inhuman  executions. 

Some  of  these  wretched  mortals,  finding  them- 
selves either  hateful  or  terrible  to  all,  and  befriend- 
ed by  none,  and  perhaps  wanting  the  common  ne- 
cessaries of  life,  came  at  last  to  abhor  themselves  as 
much  as  they  were  abhorred  by  others,  and  grew 
willing  to  be  burnt  or  hanged  out  of  a  world  which 
was  no  other  to  them  than  a  scene  of  persecution 
and  anguish. 

Others  of  strong  imaginations  and  little  under- 
standings were,  by  positive  and  repeated  charges 
against  them,  of  committing  mischievous  and  su- 
pernatural facts  and  villanies,  deluded  to  judge  of 
themselves  by  the  judgment  of  their  enemies,  whose 
weakness  or  malice  prompted  them  to  be  accusers. 
And  many  have  been  condemned  as  witches  and 
dealers  with  the  devil,  for  no  other  reason  but  their 
knowing  more  than  those  who  accused,  tried,  and 
passed  sentence  upon  them. 

In  these  cases,  credulity  is  a  much  greater  error 
than  infidelity,  and  it  is  safer  to  believe  nothing 
than  too  much.  A  man  that  beheves  little  or  no- 
thing of  witchcraft  will  destroy  nobody  for  being 
under  the  imputation  of  it;  and  so  far  he  certainly 
acts  with  humanity  to  others,  and  safety  to  him- 
self: but  he  that  credits  all,  or  too  much,  upon 
that  article,  is  obliged,  if  he  acts  consistently  with 
his  persuasion,  to  kill  all  those  whom  he  takes  to 
be  the  killers  of  mankind ;  and  such  are  witches- 
It  would  be  a  jest  and  a  contradiction  to  say,  tha 
he  is  for  sparing  them  who  are  harmless  of  that 
tribe,  since  the  received  notion  of  their  supposed 


468 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


contract  with  the  devil  implies  that  they  are  en- 
gaged, by  covenant  and  inclination,  to  do  all  the 
mischief  they  possibly  can. 

I  have  heard  many  stories  of  witches,  and  read 
many  accusations  against  them ;  but  I  do  not  re- 
member any  that  would  have  induced  me  to  have 
consigned  over  to  the  halter  or  the  flame  any  of 
those  deplorable  wretches,  who,  as  they  share  our 
likeness  and  nature,  ought  to  share  our  compas- 
sion, as  persons  cruelly  accused  of  impossibilities. 

But  we  love  to  delude  ourselves,  and  often  fancy 
or  forge  an  effect,  and  then  set  ourselves  as  gravely 
as  ridiculously  to  find  out  the  cause.  Thus,  for 
example,  when  a  dream  or  the  hyp  has  given  us 
false  terrors,  or  imaginary  pains,  we  immediately 
conclude  that  the  infernal  tyrant  owes  us  a  spite, 
and  inflicts  his  wrath  and  stripes  upon  us  by  the 
hands  of  some  of  his  sworn  servants  among  us. 
For  this  end  an  old  woman  is  promoted  to  a  seat 
in  Satan's  privy -council,  and  appointed  his  execu- 
tioner-in-chief within  her  district.  So  ready  and 
civil  are  we  to  allow  the  devil  the  dominion  over 
us,  and  even  to  provide  him  with  butchers  and 
hangmen  of  our  own  make  and  nature. 

I  have  often  wondered  why  we  did  not,  in  choos- 
ing our  proper  officers  for  Beelzebub,  lay  the  lot 
rather  upon  men  than  women,  the  former  being 
more  bold  and  robust,  and  more  equal  to  that 
bloody  service;  but  upon  inquiry,  I  find  it  has 
been  so  ordered  for  two  reasons:  first,  the  men 
having  the  whole  direction  of  this  affair,  are  wise 
enough  to  slip  their  own  necks  out  of  the  collar; 
and  secondly,  an  old  woman  is  grown  by  custom 
the  most  avoided  and  most  unpitied  creature  under 
the  sun,  the  very  name  carrying  contempt  and  sa- 
tire in  it.  And  so  far  indeed  we  pay  but  an  un- 
courtly  sort  of  respect  to  Satan,  in  sacrificing  to 
him  nothing  but  dry  sticks  of  human  nature. 

We  have  a  wondering  quality  within  us,  which 
finds  huge  gratification  when  we  see  strange  feats 
done,  and  can  not  at  the  same  time  see  the  doer  or 
the  cause.  Such  actions  are  sure  to  be  attributed 
to  some  witch  or  demon;  for  if  we  come  to  find 
they  are  slily  performed  by  artists  of  our  own  spe- 
cies, and  by  causes  purely  natural,  our  delight  dies 
with  our  amazement. 

It  is,  therefore,  one  of  the  most  unthankful  offi- 
ces in  the  world,  to  go  about  to  expose  the  mis- 
taken notions  of  witchcraft  and  spirits ;  it  is  robbing 
mankind  of  a  valuable  imagination,  and  of  the 
privilege  of  being  deceived.  Those  who  at  any 
lime  undertook  the  task,  have  always  met  with 
rough  treatment  and  ill  language  for  their  pains, 
and  seldom  escaped  the  imputation  of  atheism,  be- 
cause they  would  not  allow  the  devil  to  be  too  pow- 
erful for  the  Almighty.  For  my  part,  I  am  so  much 
a  her*ic  as  to  believe,  that  God  Almighty,  and  not 
the  devil,  governs  the  world. 


I  If  we  inquire  what  are  the  common  marks  and 
symptoms  by  which  witches  are  discovered  to  be 
such,  we  shall  see  how  reasonably  and  mercifully 
those  poor  creatures  were  burnt  and  hanged  who 
unhappily  fell  under  that  name. 

In  the  first  place,  the  old  woman  must  be  pro- 
digiously ugly ;  her  eyes  hollow  and  red.  her  face 
shriveled ;  she  goes  double,  and  her  voice  trem- 
bles. It  frequently  happens,  that  this  rueful  figure 
frightens  a  child  into  the  palpitation  of  the  heart : 
home  he  runs,  and  tells  his  mamma,  that  Goody 
Such-a-one  looked  at  him,  and  he  is  very  ill.  The 
good  woman  cries  out,  her  dear  baby  is  bewitched, 
and  sends  for  the  parson  and  the  constable. 

It  is  moreover  necessary  that  she  be  very  poor. 
It  is  true,  her  master  Satan  has  mines  and  hidden 
treasures  in  his  gift;  but  no  matter,  she  is  for  all 
that  very  poor,  and  lives  on  alms.  She  goes  to 
Sisly  the  cook- maid  for  a  dish  of  broth,  or  the  heel 
of  a  loaf,  and  Sisly  denies  them  to  her.  The  old 
woman  goes  away  muttering,  and  perhaps  in  lesa 
than  a  month's  time,  Sisly  hears  the  voice  of  a 
cat,  and  strains  her  ancles,  which  are  certain  signs 
that  she  is  bewitched. 

A  farmer  sees  his  cattle  die  of  the  murrain,  and 
his  sheep  of  the  rot,  and  poor  Goody  is  forced  to 
be  the  cause  of  their  death,  because  she  was  seen 
talking  to  herself  the  evening  before  such  an  ewe 
departed,  and  had  been  gathering  sticks  at  the  side 
of  the  wood  where  such  a  cow  run  mad. 

The  old  woman  has  always  for  her  companion 
an  old  gray  cat,  which  is  a  disguised  devil  too,  and 
confederate  with  Goody  in  works  of  darkness. 
They  frequently  go  journeys  into  Egypt  upon  a 
broom-staff  in  half  an  hour's  time,  and  now  and 
then  Goody  and  her  cat  change  shapes.  The 
neighbours  often  overhear  them  in  deep  and  solemn 
discourse  together,  plotting  some  dreadful  mischief 
you  may  be  sure. 

There  is  a  famous  way  of  trying  witches,  re- 
commended by  King  James  I.  The  old  woman 
is  tied  hand  and  foot,  and  thrown  into  the  river, 
and  if  she  swims  she  is  guilty,  and  taken  out  and 
burnt ;  but  if  she  is  innocent,  she  sinks,  and  is 
only  drowned. 

The  witches  are  said  to  meet  their  master  fre- 
quently in  churches  and  church-yards.  I  won- 
der at  the  boldness  of  Satan  and  his  congregation, 
in  revelling  and  playing  mountebank  farces  on  con- 
secrated ground ;  and  I  have  so  often  wondered  at 
the  oversight  and  ill  policy  of  some  people  in  al- 
lowing it  possible. 

It  would  have  been  both  dangerous  and  impious 
to  have  treated  this  subject  at  one  certain  time  in 
this  ludicrous  manner.  It  used  to  be  managed 
with  all  possible  gravity,  and  even  terror :  and  in- 
deed it  was  made  a  tragedy  m  all  its  parts,  and 
thousands  were  sacrificed,  or  rather  murdered,  b» 


THE  BEE. 


469 


such  evidence  and  colours,  as,  God  be  thanked ! 
^ve  are  this  day  ashamed  of.  An  old  woman  may 
oe  miserable  now,  and  not  be  hanged  for  it. 


AN  ACCOUNT   OF  THE  AUGUSTAN 
AGE  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  history  of  the  rise  of  language  and  learn- 
ing is  calculated  to  gratify  curiosity  rather  than  to 
satisfy  the  understanding.  An  account  of  that 
period  only  when  language  and  learning  arrived 
at  its  highest  perfection,  is  the  most  conducive  to 
real  improvement,  since  it  at  once  raises  emulation 
and  directs  to  the  proper  objects.  The  age  of  Leo 
X.  in  Italy  is  confessed  to  be  the  Augustan  age 
with  them.  The  French  writers  seem  agreed  to 
give  the  same  appellation  to  that  of  Louis  XIV. ; 
but  the  English  are  yet  undetermined  with  respect 
to  themselves. 

Some  have  looked  upon  the  writers  in  the  times 
of  Glueen  EUzabeth  as  the  true  standard  for  future 
imitation ;  others  have  descended  to  the  reign  of 
James  L  and  others  still  lower,  to  that  of  Charles  II. 
Were  I  to  be  permitted  to  offer  an  opinion  upon  this 
subject,  I  should  readily  give  my  vote  for  the  reign 
Df  Glueen  Anne,  or  some  years  before  that  period. 
It  was  then  that  taste  was  united  to  genius ;  and 
as  before  our  writers  charmed  with  their  strength 
of  think  uig,  so  then  they  pleased  with  strength 
and  grace  united.  In  that  period  of  British  glory, 
though  no  writer  attracts  our  attention  singly, 
yet,  hke  stars  lost  in  each  other's  brightness,  they 
have  cast  such  a  lustre  upon  the  age  in  which  they 
lived,  that  their  minutest  transactions  will  be  at- 
tended to  by  posterity  with  a  greater  eagerness  than 
the  most  important  occurrences  of  even  empires 
which  have  been  transacted  in  greater  obscurity. 

At  that  period  there  seemed  to  be  a  just  balance 
l)etween  patronage  and  the  press.  Before  it,  men 
were  little  esteemed  whose  only  merit  was  genius; 
and  since,  men  who  can  prudently  be  content  to 
catch  the  public,  are  certain  of  living  without  de- 
pendence. But  the  writers  of  the  period  of  which 
I  am  speaking  were  sufficiently  esteemed  by  the 
great,  and  not  rewarded  enough  by  booksellers  to 
set  them  above  independence.  Fame,  conse- 
quently, then  was  the  truest  road  to  happiness ;  a 
sedulous  attention  to  the  mechanical  business  of 
the  day  makes  the  present  never-failing  resource. 

The  age  of  Charles  II.,  which  our  countrymen 
term  the  age  of  wit  and  immorality,  produced 
some  writers  that  at  once  served  to  improve  our 
language  and  corrupt  our  hearts.  The  king  him- 
self had  a  large  share  of  knowledge,  and  some  wit ; 
and  his  courtiers  were  generally  men  who  had 
been  brought  up  in  the  school  of  affliction  and  ex- 
perience. For  this  reason,  when  the  sunshine  of 
their  fortune  returned,  they  gave  too  great  a  loose 


to  pleasure,  and  language  was  by  them  cultivated 
only  as  a  mode  of  elegance.  Hence  it  became 
more  enervated,  and  was  dashed  with  quaintr  esses, 
which  gave  the  public  writings  of  those  times  a 
very  illiberal  air. 

L'Estrange^  who  was  by  no  means  so  bad  a 
writer  as  some  have  represented^bim,  was  sunk  in 
party  faction  ;  and  having  generally  the  worst  side 
of  the  argument,  often  had  recourse  to  scolding, 
pertness,  and  consequently  a  vulgarity  that  dis- 
covers itself  even  in  his  more  liberal  compositions. 
He  was  the  first  writer  who  regularly  enlisted 
himself  under  the  banners  of  a  party  for  pay.  and 
fought  for  it  through  right  and  wrong  for  upwards 
of  forty  literary  campaigns.  This  intrepidity 
gained  him  the  esteem  of  Cromwell  himself,  and 
the  papers  he  wrote  even  just  before  the  revolution, 
almost  with  the  rope  about  his  neck,  have  his  usual 
characters  of  impudence  and  perseverance.  That 
he  was  a  standard  writer  can  not  be  disowned,  be- 
cause a  great  many  very  eminent  authors  formed 
their  style  by  his.  But  his  standard  was  far  from 
being  a  just  one  ;  though,  when  party  considera- 
tions are  set  aside,  he  certainly  was  possessed  of 
elegance,  ease,  and  perspicuity. 

Drydcn,  though  a  great  and  undisputed  genius, 
had  the  same  cast  as  L'Estrange.  Even  his  plays 
discover  him  to  be  a  party  man,  and  the  same  prin- 
ciple infects  his  style  in  subjects  of  the  Ughtest 
nature;  but  the  English  tongue,  as  it  stands  at 
present,  is  greatly  his  debtor.  He  first  gave  it  re- 
gular harmony,  and  discovered  its  latent  powers. 
It  was  his  pen  that  formed  the  Congreves,  the 
Priors,  and  the  Addisons,  who  succeeded  him; 
and  had  it  not  been  for  Dryden,  we  never  should 
have  known  a  Pope,  at  least  in  the  meridian  lustre 
he  now  displays.  But  Dryden's  excellencies  as  a 
writer  were  not  confined  to  poetry  alone.  There 
is,  in  his  prose  writings,  an  ease  and  elegance  that 
have  never  yet  been  so  well  united  in  works  of 
taste  or  criticism. 

The  English  language  owes  very  Uttle  to  Otwa}', 
though,  next  to  Shakspeare,  the  greatest  genius 
England  ever  produced  in  tragedy.  His  excellen- 
cies lay  in  painting  directly  from  nature,  in  catch 
ing  every  emotion  just  as  it  rises  from  the  soul,  and 
in  all  the  powers  of  the  moviijg  and  pathetic.  He 
appears  to  have  had  no  learning,  no  critical  know- 
ledge, and  to  have  lived  in  great  distress.  When 
he  died  (which  he  did  in  an  obscure  house  near 
the  Minories),  he  had  about  him  the  copy  of  a 
tragedy,  which,  it  seems,  he  had  sold  for  a  trifle  to 
Bentley  the  bookseller.  I  have  seen  an  advertise- 
ment at  the  end  of  one  of  D'Estrange's  political 
papers,  offering  a  reward  to  any  one  who  should 
bring  it  to  his  shop.  What  an  invaluable  treasure 
was  there  irretrievably  lost,  by  the  ignorance  and 
neglect  of  the  age  he  hved  in ! 

Lee  had  a  great  coimnand  of  language,  and  vast 


470 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


force  of  expression,  both  which  the  best  of  our 
succeeding  dramatic  poets  thought  proper  to  take 
for  their  models.  Rowe,  in  particular,  seems  to 
have  caujxht  that  manner,  though  in  all  other  re- 
spects  inferior.  The  other  poets  of  that  reign  con- 
tributed but  little  towards  improving  the  English 
tongue,  and  it  isjiot  certain  whether  they  did  not 
injure  rather  than  improve  it.  ImmoraUty  has  its 
cant  as  well  as  party,  and  many  shocking  expres 
sions  now  crept  into  the  language,  and  became  the 
transient  fashion  of  the  day.  The  upper  galleries, 
by  the  prevalence  of  party-spirit,  were  courted  with 
great  assiduity,  and  a  horse-laugh  following  ribaldry 
was  the  highest  instance  of  applause,  the  chastity 
as  well  as  energy  of  diction  being  overlooked  or 
neglecte-d. 

Virtuous  sentiment  was  recovered,  but  energy 
of  style  never  was.  This,  though  disregarded  in 
plays  and  party  writings,  still  prevailed  amongst 
men  of  character  and  business.  The  dispatches  of 
Sir  Richard  Fanshaw,  Sir  William  Godolphin, 
Lord  Arlington,  and  many  other  ministers  of  state, 
are  all  of  them,  "^ith  respect  to  diction,  manly,  bold, 
and  nervous.  Sir  W  ilham  Temple,  though  a  man 
of  no  learning,  had  great  knowledge  and  experience. 
He  wrote  always  like  a  man  of  sense  and  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  his  style  is  the  model  by  which  the  best 
prose  writers  in  the  reign  of  Glueen  Anne  formed 
theirs.  The  beauties  of  Mr.  Locke's  style,  though 
not  so  much  celebrated,  are  as  striking  as  that  of 
his  understanding.  He  never  says  more  nor  less 
than  he  ought,  and  never  makes  use  of  a  word  that 
he  could  have  changed  for  a  better.  The  same  ob- 
servation holds  good  of  Dr.  Samuel  Clarke. 

Mr.  Locke  was  a  philosopher;  his  antagonist, 
Stillingfleet,  bishop  of  Worcester,  was  a  man  of 
learning ;  and  therefore  the  contest  between  them 
was  unequal.  The  clearness  of  Mr.  Locke's  head 
renders  his  language  perspicuous,  the  learning  of 
Stillingfleet's  clouds  his.  This  is  an  instance  of  the 
superiority  of  good  sense  over  learning  towards  the 
improvement  of  every  language. 

There  is  nothing  peculiar  to  the  language  of 
Archbishop  Tillotson,  but  his  manner  of  writing 
is  inimitable  ;  for  one  who  reads  him,  wonders  why 
he  himself  did  not  think  and  speak  in  that  very 
manner-  The  turn  of  his  periods  is  agreeable, 
though  artless,  and  every  thing  he  says  seems  to 
flow  spontaneously  from  inward  conviction.  Bar- 
row, though  greatly  his  superior  in  learning,  falls 
short  of  him  in  other  respects. 

The  time  seems  to  be  athand  when  justice  will 
be  done  to  Mr.  Cowley's  prose,  as  well  as  poetical, 
writings ;  and  though  his  friend  Dr.  Sprat,  bishop 
of  Rochester,  in  his  <]iction  falls  far  short  of  the 
abilities  for  which  he  has  been  celebrated,  yet  there 
is  sometimes  a  happy  flow  in  his  periods,  something 
that  looks  like  eloquence.  The  style  of  his  suc- 
cessor, Alterbury,  has  been  much  commended  by 


his  friends,  which  always  happens  when  a  man 
distinguishes  himself  in  party;  but  there  is  in  it  no- 
thing extraordinary.  Even  the  speech  which  he 
made  for  himself  at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords, 
before  he  was  sent  into  exile,  is  void  of  eloquence, 
though  it  has  been  cried  up  by  his  friends  to  such 
a  degree  that  his  enemies  have  suffered  it  to  pass 
uncensured. 

The  philosophical  manner  of  Lord  Shaftesbury's 
writing  is  nearer  to  that  of  Cicero  than  any  Eng- 
lish author  has  yet  arrived  at ;  but  perhaps  had 
Cicero  written  in  English,  his  composition  would 
have  greatly  exceeded  that  of  our  countryman. 
The  diction  of  the  latter  is  beautiful,  but  such 
beauty  as,  upon  nearer  inspection,  carries  with  it 
evident  symptoms  of  affectation.  This  has  been 
attended  with  very  disagreeable  consequences.  No- 
thing is  so  easy  to  copy  as  affectation,  and  his  lord- 
ship's rank  and  fame  have  procured  him  more  imi- 
tators in  Britain  than  any  other  writer  I  know;  all 
faithfully  preserving  his  blemishes,  but  unhappily 
not  one  of  his  beauties. 

Mr.  Trenchard  and  Mr.  Davenant  were  politi- 
cal writers  of  great  abilities  in  diction,  and  their 
pamphlets  are  now  standards  in  that  way  of  writing 
They  were  followed  by  Dean  Swift,  who,  though 
in  other  respects  far  their  superior,  never  could  rise 
to  that  manliness  and  clearness  of  diction  in  politi- 
cal writing  for  which  they  were  so  justly  famous. 

They  were  all  of  them  exceeded  by  the  late  Lord 
BoUngbroke,  whose  strength  lay  in  that  province ; 
for  as  a  philosopher  and  a  critic  he  was  ill  qualified, 
being  destitute  of  virtue  for  the  one,  and  of  learn- 
ing for  the  other.  His  writings  against  Sir  Robert 
Walpole  are  incomparably  the  best  part  of  his 
works.  The  personal  and  perpetual  antipathy  he 
had  for  that  family,  to  whose  places  he  thought  his 
own  abilities  had  a  right,  gave  a  glow  to  his  style, 
and  an  edge  to  his  manner,  that  never  yet  have 
been  equalled  in  political  writing.  His  misfortunes 
and  disappointments  gave  his  mind  a  turn  which  his 
friends  mistook  for  philosophy,  and  at  one  time  of 
his  life  he  had  the  art  to  impose  the  same  behef  up- 
on some  of  his  enemies.  His  idea  of  a  Patriot 
King,  which  I  reckon  (as  indeed  it  was)  amongst 
his  writings  against  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  is  a 
masterpiece  of  diction.  Even  in  his  other  works 
his  style  is  excellent ;  but  where  a  man  either  does 
not,  or  will  not  understand  the  subject  he  writes 
on,  there  must  always  be  a  deficiency.  In  politics 
he  was  generally  master  of  what  he  undertook,  in 
morals  never. 

Mr.  Addison,  for  a  happy  and  natural  style, 
will  be  always  an  honour  to  British  literature.  His 
diction  indeed  wants  strength,  but  it  is  equal  to  all 
the  subjects  he  undertakes  to  handle,  as  he  never 
(at  least  in  his  finished  works)  attempts  any  thing 
either  in  the  argumentative  or  demonstrative  way. 

Though  Sir  Richard  Steele's  reputation  as  a 


THE  BEE. 


471 


{)ublic  writer  was  owing  to  his  connexions  with 
Mr.  Addison,  yet  after  their  intimacy  was  formed, 
Steele  sunk  in  his  merit  as  an  author.  This  was 
not  owing  so  much  to  the  evident  superiority  on 
the  part  of  Addison,  as  to  the  unnatural  efforts 
which  Steele  made  to  equal  or  eclipse  him.  This 
emulation  destroyed  that  genuine  flow  of  diction 
which  is  discoverable  in  all  his  former  composi- 
tions. 

Whilst  their  Writings  engaged  attention  and  the 
favour  of  the  public,  reiterated  but  unsuccessful  en- 
deavours were  made  towards  forming  a  grammar 
of  the  English  language.  The  authors  of  those 
efforts  went  upon  wrong  principles.  Instead  of 
endeavouring  to  retrench  the  absurdities  of  our  lan- 
guage, and  bringing  it  to  a  certain  criterion,  their 
grammars  were  no  other  than  a  collection  of  rules 
attempting  to  naturalize  those  absurdities,  and 
bring  them  under  a  regular  system. 

Somewhat  effectual,  however,  might  have  been 
done  towards  fixing  the  standard  of  the  English 
language,  had  it  not  been  for  the  spirit  of  party. 
For  both  whigs  and  tories  being  ambitious  to  stand 
at  the  head  of  so  great  a  design,  the  Glueen's  death 
happened  before  any  plan  of  an  academy  could  be 
resolved  on. 

Meanwhile  the  necessity  of  such  an  institution 
became  every  day  more  apparent.  The  periodical 
and  political  writers,  who  then  swarmed,  adopted 
the  very  worst  manner  of  L' Estrange,  till  not  only 
all  decency,  but  all  propriety  of  language,  was  lost 
in  the  nation.  Leslie,  a  pert  writer,  with  some  wit 
and  learning,  insulted  the  government  every  week 
with  the  grossest  abuse.  His  style  and  manner, 
botli  of  which  were  illiberal,  were  imitated  by  Rid- 
path,  De  Foe,  Dunton,  and  others  of  the  opposite 
party,  and  Toland  pleaded  the  cause  of  atheism 
and  immorality  in  much  the  same  strain ;  his  sub- 
ject seemed  to  debase  his  diction,  and  he  ever 
failed  most  in  one  when  he  grew  most  licentious  in 
the  other. 

Towards  the  end  of  Glueen  Anne's  reign,  some 
of  the  greatest  men  in  England  devoted  their  time 
to  party,  and  then  a  much  better  manner  obtained 
in  political  writing.  Mr.  Walpole,  Mr.  Addison, 
Mr.  Mainwaring,  Mr.  Steele,  and  many  members 
of  both  houses  of  parliament,  drew  their  pens  for 
the  whigs ;  but  they  seem  to  have  been  overmatch- 
ed, though  not  in  argument  yet  in  writing,  by  Bo- 
lingbroke,  Prior,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  the  other 
friends  of  the  opposite  party.  They  who  oppose  a 
ministry  have  always  a  better  field  for  ridicule  and 
reproof  than  they  who  defend  it. 

Since  that  period,  our  writers  have  either  been 
encouraged  above  their  merits  or  below  them. 
Some  who  were  possessed  of  the  meanest  abilities 
acquired  the  highest  preferments,  while  others  who 
seemed  born  to  reflect  a  lustre  upon  the  age,  perish- 
ed by  wftnt  and  neglect.     More,  Savage,  and  Am- 


herst, were  possessed  of  great  abilities,  yet  they 
were  suffered  to  feel  all  the  miseries  that  usually 
attend  the  ingenious  and  the  imprudent,  that  at- 
tend nten  of  strong  passions,  lyid  no  phlegmatic  re- 
serve in  their  command. 

At  prc^sent,  were  a  man  to  attempt  to  improve 
his  fortune,  or  increase  his  friendship,  by  poetry, 
he  would  soon  feel  the  anxiety  of  disappointment. 
The  press  lies  open,  and  is  a  benefactor  to  every 
sort  of  literature  but  that  alone. 

I  am  at  a  loss  whether  to  ascribe  this  falling  off 
of  the  public  to  a  vicious  taste  in  the  poet,  or  in 
them.  Perhaps  both  are  to  be  reprehended.  The 
poet,  either  drily  didactive,  gives  us  rules  which 
might  appear  abstruse  even  in  a  system  of  ethics 
or  triflingly  volatile,  writes  upon  the  most  unworthy 
subjects ;  content,  if  he  can  give  music  instead  of 
sense ;  content,  if  he  can  paint  to  the  imagination 
without  any  desires  or  endeavours  to  affect :  the 
public,  therefore,  with  justice,  discard  such  empty 
sound,  which  has  nothing  but  a  jingle,  or,  what  is 
worse,  the  unmusical  flow  of  blank  verse  to  recom- 
mend it.  The  late  method,  also,  into  which  our 
newspapers  have  fallen,  of  giving  an  epitome  of 
every  new  publication,  must  greatly  damp  the 
writer's  genius.  He  finds  himself,  in  this  case,  at 
the  mercy  of  men  who  have  neither  abilities  nor 
learning  to  distinguish  his  merit.  He  finds  his 
own  composition  mixed  with  the  sordid  trash  of 
every  daily  scribbler.  There  is  a  sufficient  speci- 
men given  of  his  work  to  abate  curiosity,  and  yet 
so  mutilated  as  to  render  him  contemptible.  His 
first,  and  perhaps  his  second  work,  by  these  means 
sink,  among  the  crudities  of  the  age,  into  oblivion. 
Fame  he  finds  begins  to  turn  her  back :  he  there- 
fore flies  to  profit  which  invites  him,  and  he  en- 
rols himself  in  the  lists  of  dulness  and  of  avarice 
for  life. 

Yet  there  are  still  among  us  men  of  the  greatest 
abilities,  and  who  in  some  parts  of  learning  have 
surpassed  their  predecessors ;  justice  and  friendship 
might  here  impel  me  to  speak  of  names  which  will 
shine  out  to  all  posterity,  but  prudence  restrains 
me  from  what  I  should  otherwise  eagerly  embrace. 
Envy  might  rise  against  every  honoured  name  I 
should  mention,  since  scarcely  one  of  them  has  not 
those  who  are  his  enemies,  or  those  who  despise 
him,  etc. 


OF  THE  OPERA  IN  ENGLAND. 

The  rise  and  fall  of  our  amusements  pretty 
much  resemble  that  of  empire.  They  this  day 
flourish  withoLt  any  visible  cause  for  such  vigour; 
the  next,  they  decay  without  any  reason  that  can 
be  assigned  for  their  downfal.  Some  years  ago  the 
Italian  opera  was  the  only  fashionable  amusement 
among  our  nobility.     The  managers  of  the  play- 


472 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


houses  dreaded  it  as  a  mortal  enemy,  and  our  very 
poets  listed  themselves  in  the  opposition :  at  present 
the  house  seems  deserted,  the  castrati  sing  to  empty 
benches,  even  Prince  Vologese  himself,  a  youth  of 
great  expectations,  sings  himself  out  of  breath,  and 
rattles  his  chain  to  no  purpose. 

To  say  the  truth,  the  opera  as  it  is  conducted 
among  us,  is  but  a  very  humdrum  amusement :  in 
other  countries,  the  decorations  are  entirely  magnifi- 
cent, the  singers  all  excellent,  and  the  burlettas  or 
interludes  quite  entertaining ;  the  best  poets  com- 
pose the  veords,  and  the  best  masters  the  music,  but 
with  us  it  is  otherwise ;  the  decorations  are  but  tri- 
fling and  cheap ;  the  singers,  Matei  only  excepted, 
but  indifferent.  Instead  of  interlude,  we  have  those 
sorts  of  skipping  dances,  which  are  calculated  for 
the  galleries  of  the  theatre.  Every  performer  sings 
his  favourite  song,  and  the  music  is  only  a  medley  of 
old  Italian  airs,  or  some  meagre  modern  Capriccio. 

When  such  is  the  case,  it  is  not  much  to  be 
wondered  if  the  opera  is  pretty  much  neglected ; 
the  lower  orders  of  people  have  neither  taste  nor 
fortune  to  relish  such  an  entertainment;  they 
would  find  more  satisfaction  in  the  Roast  Beef 
of  Old  England  than  in  the  finest  closes  of  a  eu- 
nuch; they  sleep  amidst  all  the  agony  of  recita- 
tive ;  on  the  other  hand,  people  of  fortune  or  taste 
can  hardly  be  pleased,  where  there  is  a  visible 
poverty  in  the  decorations,  and  an  entire  want  of 
taste  in  the  composition. 

Would  it  not  surprise  one,  that  when  Metasta- 
sio  is  so  well  known  in  England,  and  so  universal- 
ly admired,  the  manager  or  the  composer  should 
have  recourse  to  any  other  operas  than  those  writ- 
ten by  himl  I  might  venture  to  say,  that  written 
by  Metastasio,  put  up  in  the  bills  of  the  day,  would 
alone  be  sufficient  to  fill  a  house,  since  thus  the 
admirers  of  sense  as  well  as  sound  might  find  enter- 
tainment. 

The  performers  also  should  be  entreated  to  sing 
only  their  parts  without  clapping  in  any  of  their 
own  favourite  airs.  I  must  own,  that  such  songs 
are  generally  to  me  the  most  disagreeable  in  the 
world.  Every  singer  generally  chooses  a  favourite 
air,  not  from  the  excellency  of  the  music,  but  from 
difficulty ;  such  songs  are  generally  chosen  as  sur- 
prise rather  than  please,  where  the  performer  may 
show  his  compass,  his  breath,  and  his  volubility. 

Hence  proceed  those  unnatural  startings,  those 
unmusical  closings,  and  shakes  lengthened  out  to 
a  painful  continuance ;  such  indeed  may  show  a 
voice,  but  it  must  give  a  truly  deUcate  ear  the  ut- 
cnost  uneasiness.     Such  tricks  are  not  music ;  nei- 


ther Corelli  nor  Pergolesi  ever  permitted  them,  and 
they  even  begin  to  be  discontinued  in  Italy,  where 
they  first  had  their  rise. 

And  now  I  am  upon  the  subj-act :  our  composers 
also  should  affect  greater  simplicity ;  let  their  bass 
cliff  have  all  the  variety  they  can  give  it ;  let  the 
body  of  the  music  (if  I  may  so  express  it)  be  as  va- 
rious as  they  please ;  but  let  them  avoid  ornament- 
ing a  barren  ground-work ;  let  them  not  attempt 
by  flourishing  to  cheat  us  of  solid  harmony. 

The  works  of  Mr.  Rameau  are  never  heard 
without  a  surprising  effect.  I  can  attribute  it  only 
to  the  simplicity  he  every  where  observes,  insomuch 
that  some  of  his  finest  harmonies  are  only  octave 
and  unison.  This  simple  manner  has  greater 
powers  than  is  generally  imagined  ;  and  were  not 
such  a  demonstration  misplaced,  I  think,  from  the 
principles  of  music  it  might  be  proved  to  be  most 
agreeable. 

But  to  leave  general  reflection.  With  the  present 
set  of  performers,  the  operas,  if  the  conductor  thinks 
proper,  may  be  carried  on  with  some  success,  since 
they  have  all  some  merit,  if  not  as  actors,  at  least  as 
singers.  Signora  Matei  is  at  once  both  a  perfect 
actress  and  a  very  fine  singer.  She  is  possessed 
of  a  fine  sensibility  in  her  manner,  and  seldom  in- 
dulges those  extravagant  and  unmusical  flights  of 
voice  complained  of  before.  Cornacini,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  very  indifferent  actor,  has  a  most  un- 
meaning face,  seems  not  to  feel  his  part,  is  infected 
with  a  passion  of  showing  his  compass;  but  to  re- 
compense all  these  defects,  his  voice  is  melodious, 
he  has  vast  compass  and  great  volubihty,  his  swell 
and  shake  are  perfectly  fine,  unless  that  he  con- 
tinues the  latter  too  long.  In  short,  whatever  the 
defects  of  his  action  may  be,  they  are  amply  recom- 
pensed by  his  excellency  as  a  singer ;  nor  can  I 
avoid  fancying  that  he  might  make  a  much  great- 
er figure  in  an  oratorio  than  upon  the  stage. 

However,  upon  the  whole,  I  know  not  whether 
ever  operas  can  be  kept  up  in  England;  they  seem 
to  be  entirely  exotic,  and  require  the  nicest  manage- 
ment and  care.  Instead  of  this,  the  care  of  them  is 
assigned  to  men  unacquainted  with  the  genius  and 
disposition  of  the  people  they  would  amuse,  and 
whose  only  motives  are  immediate  gain.  Whether 
a  discontinuance  of  such  entertainments  would  be 
more  to  the  loss  or  advantage  of  the  nation,  1  will 
not  take  upon  me  to  determine,  since  it  is  as  much 
our  interest  to  induce  foreigners  of  taste  among  us 
on  the  one  hand,  as  it  is  to  discourage  those  trifling 
members  of  society  who  generally  compose  the 
operatical  dramatis  personce  on  the  other. 


i;s^(g^E^lEjMfl^®W^  lg^ii'^& 


[originally  published  in  1765.] 


THE  PREFACE. 

The  following  Essays  have  already  appeared  at 
different  times,  and  in  different  publications.  The 
pamphlets  in  which  they  were  inserted  being  gen- 
erally unsuccessful,  these  shared  the  common  fate, 
without  assisting  the  bookseller's  aims,  or  extend- 
ing the  writer's  reputation.  The  public  were  too 
strenuously  employed  with  their  own  follies  to  be 
assiduous  in  estimating  mine  ;  so  that  many  of  my 
best  attempts  in  this  way  have  fallen  victims  to  the 
transient  topic  of  the  times — the  Ghost  in  Cock- 
lane,  or  the  siege  of  Ticonderoga. 

But  though  they  have  passed  pretty  silently  in- 
to the  world,  I  can  by  no  means  complain  of  their 
circulation.  The  magazines  and  papers  of  the 
day  have  indeed  been  Uberal  enough  in  this  re- 
spect. Most  of  these  essays  have  been  regularly 
reprinted  twice  or  thrice  a  year,  and  conveyed  to 
the  public  through  the  kennel  of  some  engaging 
compilation.  If  there  be  a  pride  in  multiplied  edi- 
tions, 1  have  seen  some  of  my  labours  sixteen 
times  reprinted,  and  claimed  by  different  parents 
as  their  own.  I  have  seen  them  flourished  at  the 
beginning  with  praise,  and  signed  at  the  end  with 
the  names  of  Philautos,  Philalethis,  Phileleuthcros, 
and  Philanthropes,  These  gentlemen  have  kindly 
stood  sponsors  to  my  productions,  and,  to  flatter 
me  more,  have  always  passed  them  as  their  own. 

It  is  time,  however,  at  last  to  vindicate  my 
claims  ;  and  as  these  entertainers  of  the  public,  as 
they  call  themselves,  have  partly  hved  upon  me  for 
some  years,  let  me  now  try  if  I  can  not  live  a  little 
upon  myself.  1  would  desire,  in  this  case,  to  imi- 
tate that  fat  man  whom  1  have  somewhere  heard 
of  in  a  shipwreck,  who,  when  the  sailors,  pressed 
by  famine,  were  taking  sUces  from  his  posteriors  to 
satisfy  their  hunger,  insisted,  with  great  justice,  on 
having  the  first  cut  for  himself 

Yet,  after  all,  lean  not  be  angry  with  any  who  have 
taken  it  into  their  heads,  to  think  that  whatever  I 
write  is  worth  reprinting,  particularly  when  I  consid- 
er how  great  a  majority  will  think  it  scarcely  worth 
reading.  Trijlmg  and  superficial  are  terms  of  re- 
proach that  are  easily  objected,  and  that  carry  an 
air  of  penetration  in  the  observer.     These  faults 


have  been  objected  to  the  following  Essays,  and  it 
must  be  owned  'in  some  measure  that  the  charge 
is  true.  However,  1  canld  have  made  them  more 
metaphysical  had  I  thought  fit ;  but  1  would  ask, 
whether,  in  a  short  Essay,  it  is  not  necessary  to  be 
superficial?  Before  we  have  prepared  to  enter 
into  the  depths  of  a  subject  in  the  usual  forms,  we 
have  arrived  at  the  bottom  of  our  scanty  page,  and 
thus  lose  the  honours  of  a  victory  by  too  tedious  a 
preparation  for  the  combat. 

There  is  another  fault  in  this  collection  of  tri- 
fles, which,  I  fear,  will  not  be  so  easily  pardoned. 
It  will  be  alleged,  that  the  humour  of  them  (if  any 
be  found)  is  stale  and  hackneyed.  This  may  be 
true  enough,  as  matters  now  stand ;  but  I  may 
with  great  truth  assert,  that  the  humour  was  new 
when  I  wrote  it.  Since  that  time,  indeed,  many 
of  the  topics,  which  were  first  stated  here,  have 
been  hunted  down,  and  many  of  the  thoughts 
blown  upon.  In  fact,  these  Essays  were  consider- 
ed as  quietly  laid  in  the  grave  of  oblivion ;  and  our 
modern  compilers,  like  sextons  and  executioners, 
think  it  their  undoubted  right  to  pillage  the  dead. 

However,  whatever  right  I  have  to  complain  of 
the  public,  they  can,  as  yet,  have  no  just  reason  to 
complain  of  me.  If  I  have  written  dull  Essays, 
they  have  hitherto  treated  them  as  dull  Essays. 
Thus  far  we  are  at  least  upon  par,  and  until  they 
think  fit  to  make  me  their  humble  debtor  by  praise, 
I  am  resolved  not  to  lose  a  single  inch  of  my  self- 
importance.  Instead,  therefore,  of  attempting  to 
establish  a  credit  amongst  them,  it  will  perhaps  be 
wiser  to  apply  to  some  more  distant  correspondent; 
and  as  my  drafts  are  in  some  danger  of  being  pro- 
tested at  home,  it  may  not  be  imprudent,  upon  this 
occasion,  to  draw  my  bills  upon  Posterity. 

Mr.  Posterity, 

Sir, 

Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  years 
after  sight  hereof,  pay  the  bearer,  or  order,  a  thou- 
sand pounds  worth  of  praise,  free  from  all  deduc- 
tions whatsoever,  it  being  a  commodity  that  will 
then  be  very  serviceable  to  him,  and  place  it  to  the 
account  of,  etc. 


474 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ESSAY  L 

I  REMEMBER  to  liavc  read  in  some  philosopher 
(I  believe  in  Tom  Brown's  works),  that,  let  a 
man's  character,  sentiments,  or  complexion  be 
what  they  will,  he  can  find  company  in  London  to 
match  them.  If  he  be  splenetic,  he  may  every 
day  meet  companions  on  the  seats  in  St.  James's 
Park,  with  whose  groans  he  may  mix  his  own, 
and  pathetically  talk  of  the  weather.  If  he  be  pas- 
sionate, he  may  vent  his  rage  among  the  old  ora- 
tors at  Slaughter's  Coffee-house,  and  damn  the 
nation  because  it  keeps  him  from  starving.  If  he 
be  phlegmatic,  he  may  sit  in  silence  at  the  hum 
drum  club  in  Ivy-lane ;  and,  if  actually  mad,  he 
may  find  very  good  company  in  Moorfields,  either 
at  Bedlam  or  the  Foundry,  ready  to  cultivate  a 
nearer  acquaintance. 

But,  although  such  as  have  a  knowledge  of  the 
towrn  may  easily  class  themselves  with  tempers 
congenial  to  their  own,  a  countryman,  who  comes 
to  Uve  in  London,  finds  nothing  more  difficult. 
With  regard  to  myself,  none  ever  tried  with  more 
assiduity,  or  came  oif  with  such  indifferent  suc- 
cess. I  spent  a  whole  season  in  the  search,  dur- 
ing which  time  my  name  has  been  enrolled  in  so- 
cieties, lodges,  convocations,  and  meetings,  with- 
out number.  To  some  I  was  introduced  by  a 
friend,  to  others  invited  by  an  advertisement ;  to 
these  I  introduced  myself,  and  to  those  I  changed 
my  name  to  gain  admittance.  In  short,  no  co- 
quette was  ever  more  sohcitous  to  match  her  ri- 
bands to  her  complexion,  than  I  to  suit  my  club  to 
my  temper ;  for  I  was  too  obstinate  to  bring  my 
temper  to  conform  to  it. 

The  first  club  I  entered  upon  coming  to  town 
was  that  of  the  Choice  Spirits.  The  name  was 
entirely  suited  to  my  taste ;  I  was  a  lover  of  mirth, 
good-humour,  and  even  sometimes  of  fun,  from 
my  childhood. 

As  no  other  passport  was  requisite  but  the  pay- 
ment of  two  shiUings  at  the  door,  I  introduced  my- 
self without  further  ceremony  to  the  members,  who 
were  already  assembled,  and  had  for  some  time 
begun  upon  business.  The  Grand,  with  a  mallet 
in  his  hand,  presided  at  the  head  of  the  table.  I 
could  not  avoid,  upon  my  entrance,  malung  use  of 
all  my  skill  in  physiognomy,  in  order  to  discover 
that  superiority  of  genius  in  men,  who  had  taken 
a  title  so  superior  to  the  rest  of  mankind.  I  ex- 
pected to  see  the  lines  of  every  face  marked  with 
strong  thinking ;  but  though  I  had  some  skill  in 
this  science,  I  could  for  my  hfe  discover  nothing 
but  a  pert  simper,  fat  or  profound  stupidity. 

My  speculations  were  soon  interrupted  by  the 
Grand,  who  had  knocked  down  Mr.  Spriggins  for 
a  song.  I  was  upon  this  whispered  by  one  of  the 
company  who  sat  next  me,  that  I  should  now  see 


something  touched  oflf  to  a  nicety,  for  Mr.  Sprig- 
gins  was  going  to  give  us  Mad  Tom  in  all  its  glo- 
ry. Mr.  Spriggins  endeavoured  to  excuse  himself; 
for  as  he  was  to  act  a  madman  and  a  king,  it  was 
impossible  to  go  through  the  part  properly  without 
a  crown  and  chains.  His  excuses  were  overruled 
by  a  great  majority,  and  with  much  vociferation. 
The  president  ordered  up  the  jack-chain,  and  in- 
stead of  a  crown,  our  performer  covered  his  brows 
with  an  inverted  jorden.  After  he  had  rattled  his 
chain,  and  shook  his  head,  to  the  great  delight  of 
the  whole  company,  he  began  his  song.  As  1 
have  heard  few  young  fellows  offer  to  sing  in  com- 
pany, that  did  not  expose  themselves,  it  was  no 
great  disappointment  to  me  to  find  Mr.  Spriggins 
among  the  number ;  however,  not  to  seem  an  odd 
fish,  1  rose  from  my  seat  in  rapture,  cried  out, 
bravo !  encore !  and  slapped  the  table  as  loud  as 
any  of  the  rest. 

The  gentleman  who  sat  next  me  seemed  highly 
pleased  with  my  taste  and  the  ardour  of  my  ap- 
probation ;  and  whispering  told  me  that  I  had  suf- 
fered an  immense  loss,  for  had  I  come  a  few  mi- 
nutes sooner,  I  might  have  heard  Gee  ho  Dobbin 
sung  in  a  tip-top  manner  by  the  pimple-nosed  spi- 
rit at  the  president's  right  elbow ;  but  he  was  evap- 
orated before  I  came. 

As  I  was  expressing  my  uneasiness  at  this  dis- 
appointment, 1  found  the  attention  of  the  compa- 
ny employed  upon  a  fat  figure,  who,  with  a  voice 
more  rough  than  the  Staffordshire  giant's,  was 
giving  us  the  Softly  Sweet  in  Lydian  Measure  of 
Alexander's  Feast.  After  a  short  pause  of  ad- 
miration, to  this  succeeded  a  Welsh  dialogue, 
with  the  humours  of  Teague  and  Taffy  :  after  that 
came  on  Old  Jackson,  with  a  story  between  every 
stanza;  next  was  sung  the  Dustcart,  and  then 
Solomon's  Song.  The  glass  began  now  to  circu- 
late pretty  freely :  those  who  were  silent  when  so- 
ber would  now  be  heard  in  their  turn ;  every  man 
had  his  song,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  be  heard  as  well  as  any  of  the  rest ;  one  begged  to 
be  heard  while  he  gave  Death  and  the  Lady  in  high 
taste ;  another  sung  to  a  plate  which  he  kept 
trundling  on  the  edges ;  nothing  was  now  heard 
but  singing ;  voice  rose  above  voice ;  and  the  whole 
became  one  universal  shout,  when  the  landlord 
came  to  acquaint  the  company  that  the  reckoning; 
was  drank  out.  Rabelais  calls  the  moment  in 
which  a  reckoning  is  mentioned  the  most  melan- 
choly of  our  hves ;  never  was  so  much  noise  so 
quickly  quelled  as  by  this  short  but  pathetic  ora- 
tion of  our  landlord  :  drank  out !  was  echoed  in  a 
tone  of  discontent  round  the  table  :  drank  out  al- 
ready !  that  was  very  odd !  that  so  much  punch 
could  be  drank  already — impossible !  The  land- 
lord, however,  seeming  resolved  not  to  retreat  from 
his  first  assurances,  the  company  was  dissolved, 
and  a  president  chosen  for  the  night  ensuing. 


ESSAYS. 


475 


A  friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  was  complaining 
some  time  after  the  entertainment  I  have  been  de- 
scribing, proposed  to  bring  me  to  the  club  that  he 
frequented,  which  he  fancied  would  suit  the  gravity 
of  my  temper  exactly.  "  We  have  at  the  Muzzy 
Club,"  says  he,  "  no  riotous  mirth  nor  awkward 
ribaldry ;  no  confusion  or  bawling ;  all  is  conducted 
with  wisdom  and  decency :  besides,  some  of  our 
members  are  worth  forty  thousand  pounds ;  men  of 
prudence  and  foresight  every  one  of  them :  these  are 
the  proper  acquaintance,  and  to  such  I  will  to  night 
introduce  you."  I  was  charmed  at  the  proposal : 
to  be  acquainted  with  men  worth  forty  thousand 
pounds,  and  to  talk  wisdom  the  whole  night,  were 
offers  that  threw  me  into  raptures. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  was  accordingly  introduced 
by  my  friend,  not  indeed  to  the  company,  for, 
though  I  made  my  best  bow,  they  seemed  insensi- 
ble of  my  approach,  but  to  the  table  at  which  they 
were  sitting.  Upon  my  entering  the  room,  I  could 
not  avoid  feeling  a  secret  veneration  from  the  so- 
lemnity of  the  scene  before  me;  the  members  kept 
a  profound  silence,  each  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  a  pewter  pot  in  his  hand,  and  with  faces  that 
might  easily  be  construed  into  absolute  wisdom. 
Happy  society,  thought  I  to  myself,  where  the 
members  think  before  they  speak,  deliver  nothing 
rashly,  but  convey  their  thoughts  to  each  other 
pregnant  with  meaning  and  matured  by  reflection. 

In  this  pleasing  speculation  I  continued  a  full 
half-hour,  expecting  each  moment  that  somebody 
would  begin  to  open  his  mouth :  every  time  the  pipe 
was  laid  down  I  expected  it  was  to  speak ;  but  it 
was  only  to  spit.  At  length  resolving  to  break  the 
charm  myself,  and  overcome  their  extreme  diffi- 
dence, for  to  this  I  imputed  their  silence,  I  rubbed 
my  hands,  and,  looking  as  wise  as  possible,  ob- 
sjerved  that  the  nights  began  to  grow  a  little  coolish 
at  this  time  of  the  year.  This,  as  it  was  directed 
to  none  of  the  company  in  particular,  none  thought 
himself  obliged  to  answer,  wherefore  I  continued 
still  to  rub  my  hands  and  look  wise.  My  next 
effort  was  addressed  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  next 
me ;  to  whom  I  observed,  that  the  beer  was  ex- 
tremely good.  My  neighbour  made  no  reply,  but 
by  a  large  puff  of  tobacco-smoke. 

I  now  began  to  be  uneasy  in  this  dumb  society, 
till  one  of  them  a  little  relieved  me  by  observing 
that  bread  had  not  risen  these  three  weeks  :  "  Aye," 
says  another,  still  keening  the  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
"  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  pleasant  story  about 
that — hem — very  well ;  you  must  know — but.  be- 
fore I  begin — sir,  niy  service  to  you — where  was 
17" 

My  next  club  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Harmo 
nical  Society;  probably  from  that  love  of  order  and 
friendship  which  every  person  commends  in  insti- 
tutions of  this  nature.  The  landlord  was  liimself 
the  founder.    The  money  spent  is  fourpence  each  j 


and  they  sometimes  whip  for  a  double  reckoning. 
To  this  club  few  recommendations  are  requisite, 
except  the  introductory  fourpence  and  my  land- 
lord's good  word,  which,  as  he  gains  by  it,  he  never 
refuses. 

We  all  here  talked  and  behaved  as  every  body 
else  usually  does  on  his  club-night ;  we  discussed 
the  topic  of  the  day,  drank  each  other's  healths, 
snuffed  the  candles  with  our  fingers,  and  filled  our 
pipes  from  the  same  plate  of  tobacco.  The  com- 
pany saluted  each  other  in  the  common  manner; 
Mr.  Bellows-mender  hoped  Mr.  Currycomb-maker 
had  not  caught  cold  going  home  the  last  club- 
night  ;  and  he  returned  the  compliment  by  hoping 
that  young  Master  Bellows-mender  had  got  well 
again  of  the  chincough.  Dr.  Twist  told  us  a  story 
of  a  parliament-man,  with  whom  he  was  intimately 
acquainted ;  while  the  bug-man,  at  the  same  time, 
was  telling  a  better  story  of  a  noble  lord  with  whom 
he  could  do  any  thing.  A  gentleman,  in  a  black 
wig  and  leather  breeches  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table,  was  engaged  in  a  long  narrative  of  the  Ghost 
in  Cock-lane :  he  had  read  it  in  the  papers  of  the 
day,  and  was  telling  it  to  some  that  sat  next  him, 
who  could  not  read.  Near  him  Mr.  Dibbins  was 
disputing  on  the  old  subject  of  religion  with  a  Jew 
pedler,  over  the  table,  while  the  president  vainly 
knocked  down  Mr.  Leathersides  for  a  song.  Be- 
sides the  combinations  of  these  voices,  which  I 
could  hear  altogether,  and  which  formed  an  upper 
part  to  the  concert,  there  were  several  others  play- 
ing under-parts  by  themselves,  and  endeavouring 
to  fasten  on  some  luckless  neighbour's  ear,  who  was 
himself  bent  upon  the  same  design  against  some 
other. 

We  have  often  heard  of  the  speech  of  a  corpora- 
tion, and  this  induced  me  to  transcribe  a  speech  of 
this  club,  taken  in  short-hand,  word  for  word,  as  it 
was  spoken  by  every  member  of  the  company.  It 
may  be  necessary  to  observe,  that  the  man  who  told 
of  the  ghost  had  the  loudest  voice,  and  the  longest 
story  to  tell,  so  that  his  continuing  narrative  filled 
every  chasm  in  the  conversation. 

"  So,  sir,  d'ye  perceive  me,  the  ghost  giving  three 
loud  raps  at  the  bed-post — Says  my  Lord  to  me, 
my  dear  Smokeum,  you  know  there  is  no  man 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  for  whom  I  have  so  high — 
A  damnable  false  heretical  opinion  of  all  sound 
doctrine  and  good  learning ;  for  I'll  tell  it  aloud, 
and  spare  not  that — Silence  for  a  song ;  Mr.  Leath- 
ersides for  a  song — '  As  I  was  walking  upon  the 
highway,  I  met  a  young  damsel' — Then  what 
brings  you  here  ?  says  the  parson  to  the  ghost — 
Sanc(miathan,  Manetho,  and  Berosus — The  whole 
way  from  Islington-turnpike  to  Dog-house  bar — 
Dam — As  for  Abel  Drugger,  sir,  he's  damn'd  low 
in  it ;  my  'prentice  boy  has  more  of  the  gentleman 
than  he — For  murder  will  out  one  time  or  ano- 
ther •  and  none  but  a  ghost,  you  know,  gentlemen, 


47G 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


can — Damme  if  I  don't;  for  my  friend,  whom 
you  know,  gentlemen,  and  who  is  a  parUament- 
raan,  a  man  of  consequence,  a  dear  honest  crea- 
ture, to  be  sure ;  we  were  laughing  last  night  at — 
Death  and  damnation  be  upon  all  his  posterity,  by 
simply  barely  tasting — Sour  grapes,  as  the  fox  said 
once  when  he  could  not  reach  them;  and  I'll,  I'll 
tell  you  a  story  about  that,  that  will  make  you 
burst  your  sides  with  laughing :  A  fox  once — Will 
nobody  listen  to  the  song — '  As  I  was  walking  upon 
the  highway,  I  met  a  young  damsel  both  buxom 
and  gay' — No  ghost,  gentlemen,  can  be  murdered ; 
nor  did  I  ever  hear  but  of  one  ghost  killed  in  all 
my  life,  and  that  was  stabbed  in  the  belly  with  a — 
My  blood  and  soul  if  I  don't — Mr.  Bellows-mender, 
I  have  the  honour  of  drinking  your  very  good 
health — Blast  me  if  I  do — dam — blood — bugs — fire 

— whiz — ^blid — tit — rat — trip" The  rest  all  riot, 

nonsense,  and  rapid  confusion. 

Were  I  to  be  angry  at  men  for  being  fools,  I 
could  here  find  ample  room  for  declamation ;  but, 
alas !  I  have  been  a  fool  myself;  and  why  should  I 
be  angry  with  them  for  being  something  so  natural 
to  every  child  of  humanity  7 

Fatigued  with  this  society,  I  was  introduced  the 
following  night  to  a  club  of  fashion.  On  taking 
my  place,  I  found  the  conversation  sufficiently 
easy,  and  tolerably  good-natured ;  for  my  lord  and 
Sir  Paul  were  not  yet  arrived.  I  now  thought 
myself  completely  fitted,  and  resolving  to  seek  no 
further,  determined  to  take  up  my  residence  here 
for  the  winter ;  while  my  temper  began  to  open  in- 
sensibly to  the  cheerfulness  I  saw  diffused  on  every 
face  in  the  room :  but  the  delusion  soon  vanished, 
when  the  waiter  came  to  apprise  us  that  his  lord- 
ship and  Sir  Paul  were  just  arrived. 

From  this  moment  all  our  felicity  was  at  an  end  ; 
our  new  guests  bustled  into  the  room,  and  took 
their  seats  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Adieu  now  all 
confidence ;  every  creature  strove  who  should  most 
recommend  himself  to  our  members  of  distinction. 
Each  seemed  quite  regardless  of  pleasing  any  but 
our  new  guests ;  and  what  before  wore  the  ap- 
pearance of  friendship  was  now  turned  into  rivalry. 

Yet  I  could  not  observe  that,  amidst  all  this  flat- 
tery and  obsequious  attention,  our  great  men  took 
any  notice  of  the  rest  of  the  company.  Their 
whole  discourse  was  addressed  to  each  other.  Sir 
Paul  told  his  lordship  a  long  story  of  Moravia  the 
Jew ;  and  his  lordship  gave  Sir  Paul  a  very  long 
account  of  his  new  method  of  managing  silk- 
worms :  he  led  him,  and  consequently  the  rest  of 
the  company,  through  all  the  stages  of  feeding, 
sunning,  and  hatching  ;  with  an  episode  on  mul- 
berry-trees, a  digression  upon  grass  seeds,  and  a 
long  parenthesis  about  his  new  postillion.  In  this 
manner  we  travelled  on,  wishing  every  story  to  be 
the  last ;  but  all  in  vain — 

"  Hills ovnr  hillf=,  anrl  Al^w  on  Alpg  arose.'' 


The  last  club  in  which  I  was  enrolled  a  member 
was  a  society  of  moral  philosophers,  as  they  called 
themselves,  who  assembled  twice  a-week,  in  order 
to  show  the  absurdity  of  the  present  mode  of  re- 
ligion, and  establish  a  new  one  in  its  stead. 

I  found  the  members  very  warmly  disputing 
when  I  arrived  ;  not  indeed  about  religion  or  ethics^ 
but  about  who  had  neglected  to  lay  down  his  pre- 
liminary sixpence  upon  entering  the  room.  The 
president  swore  that  he  had  laid  his  own  down,  and 
so  swore  all  the  company. 

During  this  contest  I  had  an  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving the  laws,  and  also  the  members  of  the  so- 
ciety. The  president,  who  had  been,  as  I  was 
told,  lately  a  bankrupt,  was  a  tall  pale  figure  with 
a  long  black  wig;  the  next  to  him  was  dressed  in 
a  large  white  wig,  and  a  black  cravat ;  a  third  by 
the  brownness  of  his  complexion  seemed  a  native 
of  Jamaica ;  and  a  fourth  by  his  hue  appeared  to 
be  a  blacksmith.  But  their  rules  will  give  the 
most  just  idea  of  their  learning  and  principles. 

I.  We  being  a  laudable  society  of  moral  phi- 
losophers, intends  to  dispute  twice  a-week  about 
religion  and  priestcraft.  Leaving  behind  us  old 
wives'  tales,  and  following  good  learning  and  sound 
sense :  and  if  so  be,*  that  any  other  persons  has  a 
mind  to  be  of  the  society,  they  shall  be  entitled  so 
to  do,  upon  paying  the  sum  of  three  shillings  to  be 
spent  by  the  company  in  punch. 

II.  That  no  member  get  drunk  before  nine  of 
the  clock,  upon  pain  of  forfeiting  threepence,  to  be 
spent  by  the  company  in  punch. 

III.  That  as  members  are  sometimes  apt  to  go 
away  without  paying,  every  person  shall  pay  six- 
pence upon  his  entering  the  room ;  and  all  disputes 
shall  be  settled  by  a  majority,  and  all  fines  shall  be 
paid  in  punch. 

IV.  That  sixpence  shall  be  every  night  given 
to  the  president,  in  order  to  buy  books  of  learning 
for  the  good  of  the  society  :  the  president  has  al- 
ready put  himself  to  a  good  deal  of  expense  in 
buying  books  for  the  club ;  particularly  the  works 
of  TuUy,  Socrates,  and  Cicero,  wliich  he  will  soon 
read  to  the  society. 

V.  All  them  who  brings  a  new  argument 
against  religion,  and  who  being  a  philosopher,  and 
a  man  of  learning,  as  the  rest  of  us  is,  shall  be  ad- 
mitted to  the  freedom  of  the  society,  upon  paying 
sixpence  only,  to  be  spent  in  punch. 

VI.  Whenever  we  are  to  have  an  extraordinary 
meeting,  it  shall  be  advertised  by  some  outlandish 
name  in  the  newspapers. 

Saunders  Mac  Wild,  president, 
Anthony  Blewit,   vice-presiden^ 

his  -f-  mark. 
William  Turpin,  secretary. 


ESSAYS. 


477 


ESSAY  II. 

We  essayists,  who  are  allowed  but  one  subject 
at  a  time,  are  by  no  means  so  fortunate  as  the  wri- 
ters of  magazines,  who  write  upon  several.  If  a 
magaziner  be  dull  upon  the  Spanish  war,  he  soon 
has  us  up  again  with  the  Ghost  in  Cock-lane ;  if 
the  reader  begins  to  doze  upon  that,  he  is  quickly 
roused  by  an  eastern  tale ;  tales  prepare  us  for  po- 
etry, and  poetiy  for  the  meteorological  history  of 
the  weather.  It  is  the  life  and  soul  of  a  magazine 
never  to  be  long  dull  upon  one  subject ;  and  the 
reader,  like  the  sailor's  horse,  has  at  least  the  com- 
fortable refreshment  of  having  the  spur  often 
changed. 

As  I  see  no  reason  why  they  should  carry  off 
all  the  rewards  of  genius,  I  have  some  thoughts 
for  the  future  of  making  this  Essay  a  magazine  in 
miniature :  I  shall  hop  from  subject  to  subject,  and, 
if  properly  encouraged,  I  intend  in  time  to  adorn 
my  feuille  volant  with  pictures.  But  to  begin  in 
the  usual  form  with 

A  MODEST  ADDRESS  TO  THE  PUBLIC. 

The  public  has  been  so  often  imposed  upon  by 
the  unperforming  promises  of  others,  that  it  is  with 
the  utmost  modesty  we  assure  them  of  our  invio- 
lable design  of  giving  the  very  best  collection  that 
ever  astonished  society.  The  public  we  honour 
and  regard,  and  therefore  to  instruct  and  entertain 
Jhem  is  our  highest  ambition,  with  labours  calcu- 
feited  as  well  for  the  head  as  the  heart.  If  four 
>.xtraordinary  pages  of  letter-press,  be  any  recom- 
mendation of  our  wit,  we  may  at  least  boast  the 
honour  of  vindicating  our  own  abilities.  To  say 
more  in  favour  of  the  Infernal  Magazine,  would 
»e  unworthy  the  public ;  to  say  less,  would  be  inju- 
flous  to  ourselves.  As  we  have  no  interested  mo- 
ijves  for  this  undertaking,  being  a  society  of  gen- 
Uemen  of  distinction,  we  disdain  to  eat  or  write 
like  hirelings ;  we  are  all  gentlemen,  resolved  to 
«ell  our  sixpenny  magazine  merely  for  our  own 
tmusement. 

Be  careful  to  ask  for  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


DEDICATION    TO     THAT    MOST    INGENIOUS    OF   ALL 
PATRONS,    THE   TRIPOLINE   AMBASSADOR. 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 

As  your  taste  in  the  fine  arts  is  universally  al- 
\»wed  and  admired,  permit  the  authors  of  the  In- 
.fernal  Magazine  to  lay  the  following  sheets  hum- 
bly at  your  Excellency's  toe ;  and  should  our  la- 
bours ever  have  the  happiness  of  one  day  adorning 
the  courts  of  Fez,  we  doubt  not  that  the  influence 
wherewith  we  are  honoured,  shall  be  ever  retained 
with  the  most  warm  ardour  by, 

May  it  please  your  Excellency, 
^  Your  most  devoted  humble  servants. 

The  authors  of  the  Infernal  Magazine. 


A  speech  spoken  by  the  indigent  philoso- 
pher, TO  PERSUADE  HIS  CLUB  AT  CATEATON  TO 
DECLARE  WAR  AGAINST  SPAIN. 

My  honest  friends  and  brother  politicians,  I  per- 
ceive that  the  intended  war  with  Spain  makes  ma- 
ny of  you  uneasy.  Yesterday,  as  we  were  told, 
the  stocks  rose,  and  you  were  glad ;  to-day  they 
fall,  and  you  are  again  miserable.  But,  my  dear 
friends,  w^at  is  the  rising  or  the  falling  of  the 
stocks  to  us,  who  have  no  money  1  Let  Nathan 
Ben  Funk,  the  Dutch  Jew,  be  glad  or  sorry  for 
this ;  but,  my  good  Mr.  Bellows-mender,  what  is 
all  this  to  you  or  me  7  You  must  mend  broken 
bellows,  and  I  write  bad  prose,  as  long  as  we  live, 
whether  we  like  a  Spanish  war  or  not.  Believe 
me,  my  honest  friends,  whatever  you  may  talk  of 
liberty  and  your  own  reason,  both  that  liberty  and 
reason  are  conditionally  resigned  by  every  poor 
man  in  every  society ;  and,  as  we  are  born  to  work, 
so  others  are  born  to  watch  over  us  while  we  are 
working.  In  the  name  of  common  sense  then,  my 
,  ^ood  friends,  let  the  great  keep  watch  over  us,  and 
let  us  mind  our  business,  and  perhaps  we  may  at 
last  get  money  ourselves,  and  set  beggars  at  work 
in  our  turn.  I  have  a  Latin  sentence  that  is  worth 
its  weight  in  gold,  and  which  I  shall  beg  leave  to 
translate  for  your  instruction.  An  author,  called 
Lilly's  Grammar,  finely  observes,  that  "  ^s  in 
praesenti  perfectum  format ;"  that  is,  "  Ready  mo- 
ney makes  a  perfect  man."  Let  us  then  get  ready 
money ;  and  let  them  that  will  spend  theirs  by  go- 
ing to  war  with  Spain. 

RULES   FOR   BEHAVIOUR,    DRAWN  UP  BY  THE   INDI- 
GENT PHILOSOPHER. 

If  you  be  a  rich  man,  you  may  enter  the  room 
with  three  loud  hems,  march  deliberately  up  to 
the  chimney,  and  turn  your  back  to  the  fire.  If 
you  be  a  poor  man,  I  would  advise  you  to  shrink 
into  the  room  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  place  your 
self  as  usual  upon  the  corner  of  a  chair  in  a  re- 
mote corner. 

When  you  are  desired  to  sing  in  company,  I 
would  advise  you  to  refuse  ;  for  it  is  a  thousand  to 
one  but  that  you  torment  us  with  jifFectation  or  a 
bad  voice. 

If  you  be  young,  and  live  with  an  old  man,  I 
would  advise  you  not  to  like  gravy ;  I  was  disin^ 
herited  myself  for  liking  gravy. 

Don't  laugh  much  in  pubUc ;  the  spectators  that 
are  not  as  merry  as  you  will  hate  you,  either  be- 
cause they  envy  your  happiness,  or  fancy  them- 
selves the  subject  of  your  mirth. 


RULES  FOR  RAISING  THE  DEVIL.  TRANSLATED 
FROM  THE  LATIN  OF  DAN^US  DE  SORTIARIIS, 
A  WRITER  CONTEMPORARY  WITH  CALVIN,  AND 
ONE  OF  THE  REFORMERS  OF  OUR  CHURCH. 

The  person  who  desires  to  raise  the  Devil,  is  to 


478 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


sacrifice  a  dog,  a  cat,  and  a  hen,  all  of  his  own 
property,  to  Beelzebub.  He  is  to  swear  an  eternal 
obedience,  and  then  to  receive  a  mark  in  some  un- 
seen place,  either  under  the  eye-lid,  or  in  the  roof 
of  the  mouth  inflicted  by  the  devil  himself  Upon 
this  he  has  power  given  him  over  three  spirits ;  one 
for  earth,  another  for  air,  and  a  third  for  the  sea. 
Upon  certain  times  the  devil  holds  an  assembly  of 
magicians,  in  which  each  is  to  give  an  account 
of  what  evil  he  has  done,  and  what  he  wishes  to 
do.  At  this  assembly  he  appears  in  the  shape  of  an 
old  man,  or  often  like  a  goat  with  large  horns. 
They  upon  this  occasion  renew  their  vows  of  obe- 
dience ;  and  then  form  a  grand  dance  in  honour 
of  their  false  deity.  The  devil  instructs  them  in 
every  method  of  injuring  mankind,  in  gathering 
poisons,  and  of  riding  upon  occasion  through  the 
air.  He  show^s  them  the  whole  method,  upon  ex- 
amination, of  giving  evasive  answers ;  his  spirits 
have  power  to  assume  the  form  of  angels  of  light, 
and  there  is  but  one  method  of  detecting  them, 
viz.  to  ask  them  in  proper  form,  what  method  is 
the  most  certain  to  propagate  the  faith  over  all  the 
world'?  To  this  they  are  not  permitted  by  the  Su- 
perior Power  to  make  a  false  reply,  nor  are  they 
willing  to  give  the  true  one,  wherefore  they  con- 
tinue silent,  and  are  thus  detected. 


ESSAY  III. 

Where  Tauris  lifts  its  head  above  the  storm, 
and  presents  nothing  to  the  sight  of  the  distant 
traveller  but  a  prospect  of  nodding  rocks,  falling 
torrents,  and  all  the  variety  of  tremendous  nature ; 
on  the  bleak  bosom  of  this  frightful  mountain,  se- 
cluded from  society,  and  detesting  the  ways  of  men, 
lived  Asem  the  Man-hater. 

Asem  had  spent  his  youth  with  men,  had  shared 
in  their  amusements,  and  had  been  taught  to  love 
his  fellow-creatures  with  the  most  ardent  affection ; 
but  from  the  tenderness  of  his  disposition  he  ex- 
hausted all  his  fortune  in  relieving  the  wants  of  the 
distressed.  The  petitioner  never  sued  in  vain,  the 
weary  traveller  never  passed  his  door ;  he  only  •^"- 
sisted  from  doing  good  when  he  had  no  longer  le 
power  of  relieving. 

From  a  fortune  thus  spent  in  benevolence  he 
expected  a  grateful  return  from  those  he  had  for- 
merly relieved,  and  made  his  application  with  con- 
fidence of  redress :  the  ungrateful  world  soon  grew 
weary  of  his  importunity  ;  for  pity  is  but  a  short- 
lived passion.  He  soon  therefore  began  to  view 
mankind  in  a  very  different  light  from  that  in  which 
he  had  before  beheld  them ;  he  perceived  a  thousand 
vices  he  had  never  before  suspected  to  exist ;  where  ■ 
ever  he  turned,  ingratitude,  dissimulation,  and 
treachery,  contributed  to  increase  his  detestation  of 
them.    Resolved  therefore  to  continue  no  longer 


in  a  world  which  he  hated,  and  which  repaid  his 
detestation  with  contempt,  he  retired  to  this  region 
of  sterility,  in  order  to  brood  over  his  resentment  in 
solitude,  and  converse  with  the  only  honest  heart 
he  knew,  namely,  with  his  own. 

A  cave  was  his  only  shelter  from  the  inclemency 
of  the  weather ;  fruits  gathered  with  difficulty  from 
the  mountain's  side  his  only  food ;  and  his  drink 
was  fetched  with  danger  and  toil  from  the  head- 
long torrent.  In  this  manner  he  lived,  sequestered 
from  society,  passing  the  hours  in  meditation,  and 
sometimes  exulting  that  he  was  able  to  live  inde- 
pendently of  his  fellow-creatures. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  an  extensive  lake 
displayed  its  glassy  bosom,  reflecting  on  its  broad 
surface  the  impending  horrors  of  the  mountain.  To 
this  capacious  mirror  he  would  sometimes  descend, 
and  reclining  on  its  steep  banks,  cast  an  eager  look 
on  the  smooth  expanse  that  lay  before  him.  "  How 
beautiful,"  he  often  cried,  "  is  Nature !  how  lovely 
even  in  her  wildest  scenes !  How  finely  contrasted 
is  the  level  plain  that  lies  beneath  me,  with  yon 
awful  pile  that  hides  its  treniendous  head  in  clouds! 
But  the  beauty  of  these  scenes  is  no  way  compara- 
ble with  their  utility ;  hence  a  hundred  rivers  are 
supplied,  which  distribute  health  and  verdure  to 
the  various  countries  through  which  they  flow. 
Every  part  of  the  universe  is  beautiful,  just,  and 
wise ;  but  man,  vile  man,  is  a  solecism  in  nature, 
the  only  monster  in  the  creation.  Tempests  and 
whirlwinds  have  their  use ;  but  vicious  ungrateful 
man  is  a  blot  in  the  fair  page  of  universal  beauty. 
Why  was  I  born  of  that  detested  species,  whose 
vices  are  almost  a  reproach  to  the  wisdom  of  the 
divine  Creator?  Were  men  entirely  free  from  vice, 
all  would  be  uniformity,  harmony,  and  order.  A 
world  of  moral  rectitude  should  be  the  result  of  a 
perfect  moral  agcn,,.  Why,  why  then,  O  Alia ! 
must  I  be  thus  confined  in  darkness,  doubt,  and 
despair?" 

Just  as  he  uttered  the  word  despair,  he  was  going 
to  plunge  into  the  lake  beneath  him,  at  once  to  sat- 
isfy his  doubts,  and  put  a  period  to  his  anxiety ; 
when  he  perceived  a  most  majestic  being  walking 
on  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  approaching  the 
bank  on  which  he  stood.  So  unexpected  an  object 
at  once  checked  his  purpose ;  he  stopped,  contem- 
plated, and  fancied  he  saw  something  awful  and 
divine  in  his  aspect. 

"  Son  of  Adam,"  cried  the  Genius,  "  stop  thy 
rash  purpose ;  the  Father  of  the  faithful  has  seen 
thy  justice,  thy  integrity,  thy  miseries,  and  hath 
sent  me  to  aflford  and  administer  relief.  Give  me 
thine  hand,  and  follow  without  trembling  wherever 
I  shall  lead :  in  me  behold  the  Genius  of  Convic- 
tion, kept  by  the  Great  Prophet,  to  turn  from  their 
errors  those  who  go  astray,  not  from  curiosity,  but 
a  rectitude  of  intention.   Follow  me,  and  be  wise." 

Asam  immediately  descended  upon  the  lake,  and 


ESSAYS. 


4'/9 


his  guide  conducted  him  along  the  surface  of  the 
water,  till  coming  near  the  centre  of  the  lake,  they 
both  began  to  sink ;  the  waters  closed  over  their 
heads ;  they  descended  several  hundred  fathoms, 
till  Asem,  just  ready  to  give  up  his  hfe  as  inevitably 
lost,  found  himself  with  his  celestial  guide  in  ano- 
ther world,  at  the  bottom  of  the  waters,  where  hu- 
man foot  had  never  trod  before.  His  astonishment 
was  beyond  description,  when  he  saw  a  sun  like 
that  he  had  left,  a  serene  sky  over  his  head,  and 
blooming  verdure  under  his  feet. 

"  I  plainly  perceive  your  amazement,"  said  the 
Genius ;  "  but  suspend  it  for  a  while.  This  world 
was  formed  by  Alia,  at  the  request,  and  under  the 
inspection,  of  our  Great  Prophet ;  who  once  en- 
tertained the  same  doubts  which  filled  your  mind 
when  I  found  you,  and  from  the  consequence  of 
which  you  were  so  lately  rescued.  The  rational 
inhabitants  of  this  world  are  formed  agreeable  to 
your  own  ideas ;  they  are  absolutely  without  vice. 
In  other  respects  it  resembles  your  earth,  but  dif- 
fers from  it  in  being  wholly  inhabited  by  men  who 
never  do  wrong.  If  you  find  this  world  more 
agreeable  than  that  you  so  lately  left,  you  have 
free  permission  to  spend  the  remainder  of  your 
days  in  it ;  but  permit  me  for  some  time  to  attend 
you,  that  I  may  silence  your  doubts,  and  make 
you  better  acquainted  with  your  company  and 
your  new  habitation !" 

"  A, world  without  vice !  Rational  beings  with- 
out immorality !"  cried  Asem  in  a  rapture  :  "  I 
thank  thee,  O  Alia,  who  hast  at  length  heard  my 
petitions ;  this,  this  indeed  will  produce  happiness, 
ecstacy,  and  ease.  O  for  an  immortality  to  spend 
it  among  men  who  are  incapable  of  ingratitude, 
injustice,  fraud,  violence,  and  a  thousand  other 
crimes,  that  render  society  miserable." 

"  Cease  thine  exclamations,"  replied  the  Genius. 
'Look  around  thee;  reflect  on  every  object  and 
action  before  us,  and  communicate  to  me  the  re- 
sult of  thine  observations.  Lead  wherever  you 
think  proper,  I  shall  be  your  attendant  and  in- 
structor. Asem  and  his  companion  travelled  on 
in  silence  for  some  time,  the  former  being  entirely 
lost  in  astonishment ;  but  at  last  recovering  his 
former  serenity,  he  could  not  help  observing,  that 
the  face  of  the  country  bore  a  near  resemblance  to 
that  he  had  left,  except  that  this  subterranean 
world  still  seemed  to  retain  its  primeval  wildness. 

"  Here,"  cried  Asem,  "  I  perceive  animals  of 
prey,  and  others  that  seem  only  designed  for  their 
subsistence ;  it  is  the  very  same  in  the  world  over 
our  heads.  But  had  I  been  permitted  to  instruct 
our  Prophet,  I  would  have  removed  this  defect, 
and  formed  no  voracious  or  destructive  animals, 
which  only  prey  on  the  other  parts  of  the  creation." 
"  Your  tenderness  for  inferior  animals  is,  I  find, 
remarkable,"  said  the  Genius  smiling.  But  with 
regard  to  meaner  creatures  this  world  exactly  re- 


sembles the  other,  and  indeed  for  obvious  reasons ; 
for  the  earth  can  support  a  more  considerable  num- 
ber of  animals,  by  their  thus  becoming  food  for 
each  other,  than  if  they  had  lived  entirely  on  her 
vegetable  productions.  So  that  animals  of  differ- 
ent natures  thus  formed,  instead  of  lessening  their 
multitude,  subsist  in  the  greatest  number  possible. 
But  let  us  hasten  on  to  the  inhabited  country  be- 
fore us,  and  see  what  that  oflers  for  instruction." 

They  soon  gained  the  ilttmost  verge  of  the  forest, 
and  entered  the  country  inhabited  by  men  without 
vice  ;  and  Asem  anticipated  in  idea  the  rational  de- 
hght  he  hoped  to  experience  in  such  an  innocent 
society.  But  they  had  scarcely  left  the  confines  of 
the  wood,  when  they  beheld  one  of  the  inhabitants 
flying  with  hasty  steps,  and  terror  in  his  counte- 
nance, from  an  army  of  squirrels  that  closely  pur- 
sued him.  "  Heavens !"  cried  Asem,  "  why  does 
he  fly  1  What  can  he  fear  from  animals  so  con- 
temptible?" He  had  scarcely  spoken  when  he 
perceived  two  dogs  pursuing  another  of  the  human 
species,  who  with  equal  terror  and  haste  attempted 
to  avoid  them.  "  This,"  cried  Asem  to  his  guide, 
"  is  truly  surprising ;  nor  can  I  conceive  the  rea- 
son for  so  strange  an  action."  Every  species  of 
animals,"  replied  the  Genius,  "  has  of  late  grown 
very  powerful  in  this  country  ;  for  the  inhabitants 
at  first  thinking  it  unjust  to  use  either  fraud  or 
force  in  destroying  them,  they  have  insensibly  in- 
creased, and  now  frequently  ravage  their  harmless 
frontiers."  "But  they  should  have  been  destroy- 
ed," cried  Asem;  "you  see  the  consequence  of 
such  neglect."  "  Where  is  then  that  tenderness 
you  so  lately  expressed  for  subordinate  animals?" 
rephed  the  Genius  smiUng ;  "  you  seem  to  have  for- 
got that  branch  of  justice."  "  I  must  acknowledge 
my  mistake,"  returned  Asem ;  "  I  am  now  con- 
vinced that  we  must  be  guilty  of  tyranny  and  in- 
justice to  the  brute  creation,  if  we  would  enjoy  the 
world  ourselves.  But  let  us  no  longer  observe  the 
duty  of  man  to  these  irrational  creatures,  but  sur- 
vey their  connexions  with  one  another." 

As  they  walked  farther  up  the  country,  the  more 
he  was  surprised  to  see  no  vestiges  of  handsome 
houses,  no  cities,  nor  any  mark  of  elegant  design. 
His  conductor,  perceiving  his  surprise,  observed, 
that  the  inhabitants  of  this  new  world  were  per- 
fectly content  with  their  ancient  simplicity ;  each 
had  a  house,  which,  though  homely,  was  sufficient 
to  lotlge  his  little  family ;  they  were  too  good  to 
build  houses  which  could  only  increase  their  own 
pride,  and  the  envy  of  the  spectator ;  what  they 
built  was  for  convenience,  and  not  for  show.  "  At 
least,  then,"  said  Asem,  "they  have  neither  archi- 
tects, painters,  nor  statuaries,  in  their  society ;  but 
these  are  idle  arts,  and  may  be  spared.  However, 
liefore  I  spend  much  more  time,  you  should  have 
my  thanks  for  introducing  me  into  the  society  oi 
some  of  their  wisest  men ;  there  is  scarcely  an\ 


480 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


pleasure  to  me  equal  to  a  refined  conversation ; 
there  is  nothing  of  which  I  am  so  much  enamour- 
ed as  wisdom."  "  Wisdom !"  replied  his  instruc- 
tor, "how  ridiculous !  We  have  no  wisdom  here, 
for  we  have  no  occasion  for  it ;  true  wisdom  is  only 
a  knowledge  of  our  own  duty,  and  the  duty  of 
others  to  us;  but  of  what  use  is  such  wisdom  here? 
each  intuitively  performs  what  is  right  in  himself, 
and  expects  the  same  from  others.  If  by  wisdom 
you  should  mean  vain  cfiriosity,  and  empty  specu- 
lation, as  such  pleasures  have  their  origin  in  vani- 
ty, luxury,  or  avarice,  we  are  too  good  to  pursue 
them.  "  AH  this  may  be  right, "  says  Asem ;  "  but 
methinks  I  observe  a  solitary  disposition  prevail 
among  the  people ;  each  family  keeps  separately 
within  their  own  precincts,  without  society,  or  with- 
out intercourse."  "  That  indeed  is  true,"  replied 
the  other;  "herd  is  no  established  society;  nor 
should  there  be  any  ;  all  societies  are  made  either 
through  fear  or  friendship:  the  people  we  are 
among  are  too  good  to  fear  each  other ;  and  there 
are  no  motives  to  private  friendship,  where  all  are 
equally  meritorious."  "Well,  then,"  said  the 
sceptic,  "as  I  am  to  spend  my  time  here,  if  I 
am  to  have  neither  the  polite  arts,  nor  wisdom,  nor 
friendship,  in  such  a  world,  I  should  be  glad  at 
least  of  an  easy  companion,  who  may  tell  me  his 
thoughts,  and  to  whom  I  may  communicate  mine." 
"And  to  what  purpose  should  either  do  this?"  says 
the  Genius :  "  flattery  or  curiosity  are  vicious  mo- 
tives, and  never  allowed  of  here ;  and  wisdom  is 
out  of  the  question." 

"Still,  however,"  said  Asem,  ""the  inhabitants 
must  be  happy ;  each  is  contented  with  his  own 
possessions,  nor  avariciously  endeavours  to  heap 
up  more  than  is  necessary  for  his  own  subsistence 
each  has  therefore  leisure  for  pitying  those  that 
stand  in  need  of  his  compassion."  He  had  scarce 
ly  spoken  when  his  ears  were  assaulted  with  the 
lamentations  of  a  wretch  who  sat  by  the  way-side, 
and,  in  the  most  deplorable  distress,  seemed  gently 
to  murmur  at  his  own  misery.  Asem  immediate 
ly  ran  to  his  relief,  and  found  him  in  the  last  stage 
of  a  consumption.  "Strange,"  cried  the  son  of 
Adam,  "  that  men  who  are  free  from  vice  should 
thus  suffer  so  much  misery  without  relief! "  "  Be 
not  surprised,"  said  the  wretch  who  was  dying: 
*'  would  it  not  be  the  utmost  injustice  for  beings 
who  have  only  just  sufficient  to  support  themselves, 
and  are  content  with  a  bare  subsistence,  to  take  it 
from  their  own  mouths  to  put  it  into  mine?  They 
never  are  possessed  of  a  single  meal  more  than  is 
necessary;  and  what  is  barely  necessary  can  not  be 
dispensed  with."  "  They  should  have  been  sup 
plied  with  more  than  is  necessary,"  cried  Asem ; 
"and  yet  I  contradict  my  own  opinion  but  a  mo- 
ment before; — all  is  doubt,  perplexity,  and  con 
fusion.  Even  the  want  of  ingratitude  is  no  virtue 
here,  since  they  never  received  a  favour.     They 


have,  however,  another  excellence  yet  behind;  the 
love  of  their  country  is  still  I  hope  one  of  their 
darling  virtues."  "Peace,  Asem,"  replied  the 
Guardian,  with  a  countenance  not  less  severe  than 
beautiful,  "  nor  forfeit  all  thy  pretensions  to  wis- 
dom :  the  same  selfish  motives  by  which  we  prefer 
our  own  interest  to  that  of  others,  induce  us  to  re- 
gard our  country  preferably  to  that  of  another. 
Notliing  less  than  universal  benevolence  is  free 
from  vice,  and  that  you  see  is  practised  here." 
"  Strange !"  cries  the  disappointed  pilgrim,  in  an 
agony  of  distress ;  "  what  sort  of  a  world  am  I  now 
introduced  to?  There  is  scarcely  a  single  virtue, 
but  that  of  temperance,  which  they  practise  ;  and 
in  that  they  are  no  way  superior  to  the  very  brute 
creation.  There  is  scarcely  an  amusement  whicHT 
they  enjoy ;  fortitude,  hberality,  friendship,  wisdom, 
conversation,  and  love  of  country,  all  are  virtues 
entirely  unknown  here:  thus  it " seems  that  to  be 
acquainted  with  vice  is  not  to  know  virtue.  Take 
me,  O  my  Genius,  back  to  that  very  world  which 
I  have  despised :  a  world  which  has  Alia  for  its 
contriver  is  much  more  wisely  formed  than  that 
which  has  been  projected  by  Mahomet.  Ingrati- 
tude, contempt,  and  hatred,  I  can  now  suffer,  for 
perhaps  I  have  deserved  them.  When  I  arraigned 
the  wisdom  of  Providence,  I  only  showed  my  own 
ignorance :  henceforth  let  me  keep  from  vice  my- 
self, and  pity  it  in  others." 

He  had  scarcely  ended,  when  the  Genius,  as- 
suming an  air  of  terrible  complacency,  called  all 
his  thunders  around  him,  and  vanished  in  a  whirl- 
wind. Asem,  astonished  at  the  terror  of  the  scene, 
looked  for  his  imaginary  world ;  when,  casting  his 
eyes  around,  he  perceived  himself  in  the  very  situa- 
tion, and  in  the  very  place,  where  he  first  began  to 
repine  and  despair ;  his  right  foot  had  been  just  ad- 
vanced to  take  the  fatal  plunge,  nor  had  it  been  yet 
withdrawn  ;  so  instantly  did  Providence  strike  the 
series  of  truths  just  imprinted  on  his  soul.  He  now 
departed  from  the  water-side  in  tranquillity,  and 
leaving  his  horrid  mansion,  travelled  to  Segestan, 
his  native  city ;  where  he  diligently  applied  himself 
to  commerce,  and  put  in  practice  that  wisdom  he 
had  learned  in  solitude.  The  frugality  of  a  few 
years  soon  produced  opulence;  the  number  of 
his  domestics  increased ;  his  friends  came  to  him 
from  every  part  of  the  city ;  nor  did  he  receive  them 
with  disdain :  and  a  youth  of  misery  was  concluded 
with  an  old  age  of  elegance,  affluence,  and  ease. 


ESSAY  IV. 

It  is  allowed  on  all  hands,  that  our  English  di- 
vines receive  a  more  liberal  education,  and  improve 
that  education  by  frequent  study,  more  than  any 
others  of  this  reverend  profession  in  Europe.  In 
general  also  it  may  be  observed,  that  a  greater  de- 


ESSAYa 


481 


gree  of  gentility  is  affixed  to  the  character  of  a 
student  in  England  than  elsewhere;  by  which 
means  our  clergy  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
better  company  while  young,  and  of  sooner  wear- 
ing off  those  prejudices  which  they  are  apt  to  im- 
bibe even  in  the  best  regulated  universities,  and 
which  may  be  justly  termed  the  vulgar  errors  of 
the  wise. 

Yet,  with  all  these  advantages,  it  is  very  obvious, 
that  the  clergy  are  no  where  so  little  thought  of  by 
the  populace  as  here :  and  though  our  divines  are 
foremost  with  respect  to  abilities,  yet  they  are  found 
last  in  the  effects  of  their  ministry ;  the  vulgar  in 
general  appearing  no  way  impressed  with  a  sense 
of  religious  duty.  I  am  not  for  whining  at  the  de- 
pravity of  the  times,  or  for  endeavouring  to  paint  a 
prospect  more  gloomy  than  in  nature ;  but  certain 
it  is,  no  person  who  has  travelled  will  contradict 
me  when  I  aver,  that  the  lower  orders  of  mankind, 
in  other  countries,  testify  on  every  occasion  the  pro- 
foundest  awe  of  religion ;  while  in  England  they 
are  scarcely  awakened  into  a  sense  of  its  duties, 
even  in  circumstances  of  the  greatest  distress. 

This  dissolute  and  fearless  conduct,  foreigners 
are  apt  to  attribute  to  climate  and  constitution : 
may  not  the  vulgar,  being  pretty  much  neglected 
in  our  exhortations  from  the  pulpit,  be  a  conspiring 
cause?  Our  divines  seldom  stoop  to  their  mean 
capacities ;  and  they  who  want  instruction  most, 
find  least  in  our  rehgious  assemblies. 

Whatever  may  become  of  the  higher  orders  of 
mankind,  who  are  generally  possessed  of  collateral 
motives  to  virtue,  the  vulgar  should  be  particularly 
regarded,  whose  behaviour  in  civil  life  is  totally 
hinged  upon  their  hopes  and  fears.  Those  who 
constitute  the  basis  of  the  great  fabric  of  society 
should  be  particularly  regarded ;  for  in  policy,  as  in 
architecture,  ruin  is  most  fatal  when  it  begins  from 
the  bottom. 

Men  of  real  sense  and  understanding  prefer  a 
prudent  mediocrity  to  a  precarious  popularity ;  and, 
fearing  to  outdo  their  duty,  leave  it  half  done. 
Their  discourses  from  the  pulpit  are  generally  dry, 
methodical,  and  unaffecting;  delivered  with  the 
most  insipid  calmness ;  insomuch,  that  should  the 
peaceful  preacher  lift  his  head  over  the  cushion, 
which  alone  he  seems  to  address,  he  might  discover 
his  audience,  instead  of  being  awakened  to  re- 
morse, actually  sleeping  over  his  methodical  and 
laboured  composition. 

This  method  of  preaching  is,  however,  by  some 
called  an  address  to  reason,  and  not  to  the  passions ; 
this  is  styled  the  making  of  converts  from  convic- 
tion: but  such  are  indifferently  acquainted  with 
human  nature,  who  are  not  sensible,  that  men  sel- 
dom reason  about  their  debaucheries  till  they  are 
committed ;  reason  is  but  a  weak  antagonist  when 
headlong  passion  dictates;  in  all  such  cases  we 
fthould  arm  one  passion  against  another;  it  is  with 
31 


the  human  mind  as  in  nature,  from  the  mixture  of 
two  opposites  the  result  is  most  frequently  neutral 
tranquillity.  Those  who  attempt  to  reason  us  out 
of  our  follies  begin  at  the  wrong  end,  since  the  at- 
tempt naturally  presupposes  us  capable  of  reason ; 
but  to  be  made  capable  of  thb,  is  one  great  point 
of  the  cure. 

There  are  but  few  talents  requisite  to  become  a 
popular  preacher,  for  the  people  are  easily  pleased 
if  they  perceive  any  endeavours  in  the  orator  to 
please  them ;  the  meanest  qualifications  will  work 
this  effect,  if  the  preacher  sincei  ely  sets  about  it. 
Perhaps  little,  indeed  very  little,  more  is  required 
than  sincerity  and  assurance ;  and  a  becoming  sin- 
cerity is  always  certain  of  producing  a  becoming 
assurance.  ^^  Si  vis  me  Jlere^  dolendum  est  primum 
tihi  ipsi,^'  is  so  trite  a  quotation,  that  it  almost  de- 
mands an  apology  to  repeat  it;  yet,  though  all  allow 
the  justice  of  the  remark,  how  fpw  do  we  find  put 
it  in  practice !  Our  orators,  with  the  most  faulty 
bashfulness,  seem  impressed  rather  with  an  awe  of 
their  audience,  than  with  a  just  respect  for  the 
truths  they  are  about  to  deliver ;  they,  of  all  pro- 
fessions, seem  the  most  bashful,  who  have  the 
greatest  right  to  glory  in  their  commission. 

The  French  preachers  generally  assume  all  that 
dignity  which  becomes  men  who  are  ambassadors 
from  Christ :  the  English  divines,  like  erroneous 
envoys,  seem  more  solicitous  not  to  offend  the  court 
to  which  they  are  sent,  than  to  drive  home  the  in- 
terests of  their  employer.  Massilon,  bishop  of 
Clermont,  in  the  first  sermon  he  ever  preached, 
found  the  whole  audience,  upon  his  getting  into 
the  pulpit,  in  a  disposition  no  way  favourable  to 
his  intentions ;  their  nods,  whispers,  or  drowsy  be- 
haviour, showed  him  that  there  was  no  great  profit 
to  be  expected  from  hk  sowing  in  a  soil  so  improper; 
however,  he  soon  changed  the  disposition  of  his 
audience  by  his  manner  of  beginning:  "If,"  says 
he,  "  a  cause,  the  most  important  that  could  be 
conceived,  were  to  be  tried  at  the  bar  before  quali- 
fied judges ;  if  this  cause  interested  ourselves  in 
particular ;  if  the  eyes  of  the  whole  kingdom  were 
fixed  upon  the  event;  if  the  most  eminent  counsel 
were  employed  on  both  sides;  and  if  we  had  heard 
from  our  infancy  of  this  yet  undetermined  trial ; 
would  you  not  all  sit  with  due  attention,  and  warm 
expectation,  to  the  pleadings  on  each  side?  Would 
not  all  your  hopes  and  fears  be  hinged  upon  the 
final  decision?  And  yet,  let  me  tell  you,  you  have 
this  moment  a  cause  of  much  greater  importance 
before  you ;  a  cause  where  liot  one  nation,  but  all 
the  world  are  spectators ;  tried  not  before  a  fallible 
tribunal,  but  the  awful  throne  of  Heaven ;  where 
not  your  temporal  and  transitory  interests  are  the 
subject  of  debate,  but  your  eternal  happiness  or 
misery,  where  the  cause  is  still  undetermined ;  but 
perhaps  the'  very  moment  1  am  speaking  may  fix 
the  irrevocable  decree  that  shall  last  for  ever ;  and 


482 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  you  can  hardly  sit 
with  patience  to  hear  the  tidings  of  your  own  salva- 
tion :  I  plead  the  cause  of  Heaven,  and  yet  I  am 
scarcely  attended  to,"  &c. 

The  style,  the  abruptness  of  a  beginning  like 
this,  in  the  closet  would  appear  absurd ;  but  in  the 
pulpit  it  is  attended  with  the  most  lasting  impres- 
sions :  that  style  which  in  the  closet  might  justly 
1)6  called  flimsy,  seems  the  true  mode  of  eloquence 
here.  I  never  read  a  line  composition  under  the 
title  of  a  sermon,  that  I  do  not  think  the  author  has 
miscalled  his  piece ;  for  the  talents  to  be  used  in 
writing  well,  entirely  differ  from  those  of  speaking 
well.  The  qualiiications  for  speaking,  as  has  been 
already  observed,  are  easily  acquired ;  they  are  ac- 
coni[)lishments  which  may  be  taken  up  by  every 
candidate  who  will  be  at  the  pains  of  stooping. 
Impressed  with  the  sense  of  the  truths  he  is 
about  to  deliver,  a  preacher  disregards  the  applause 
or  the  contempt  of  his  audience,  and  he  insensibly 
assumes  a  just  and  manly  sincerity.  With  this 
talent  alone,  we  see  what  crowds  are  drawn  around 
enthusiasts,  even  destitute  of  common  sense  ;  what 
numbers  are  converted  to  Christianity.  Folly  may 
sometimes  set  an  example  1"  r  wisdom  to  practise; 
and  our  regular  divines  may  borrow  instruction 
.from  even  methodists,  who  go  their  circuits  and 
^.reach  prizes  among  the  populace.  Even  Whit- 
lield  may  be  placed  as  a  model  to  some  of  our  young 
divines;  let  them  join  to  their  own  good  sense  his 
earnest  manner  of  delivery. 

It  will  be  perhaps  objected,  that  by  confining 
the  excellencies  of  a  preacher  to  proper  assurance, 
earnestness,  and  openness  of  style,  I  make  the 
qualiiications  too  trifling  for  estimation :  there  will 
be  something  called  oratory  brought  up  on  this  oc- 
casion ;  action,  attitude,  grace,  elocution,  may  be 
repeated  as  absolutely  necessary  to  complete  the 
character  :  but  let  us  not  be  deceived ;  common 
sense  is  seldom  swayed  by  fine  tones,  musical  pe- 
riods, just  attitudes,  or  the  display  of  a  white  hand- 
kerchief; oratorial  behaviour  except  in  very  able 
hands  indeed,  generally  sinks  into  awkward  and 
paltry  affectation. 

It  must  be  observed,  however,  that  these  rules 
are  calculated  only  for  him  who  would  instruct  the 
vulgar,  who  stand  in  most  need  of  instruction ;  to 
address  philosophers,  and  to  obtain  the  character 
of  a  pohte  preacher  among  the  polite — a  much  more 
useless,  though  more  sought  for  character — re- 
quires a  different  method  of  proceeding.  All  I 
shall  observe  on  this  head  is,  to  entreat  the  polemic 
divine,  in  his  controversy  with  the  Deists,  to  act 
rather  offensively  than  to  defend ;  to  push  home 
the  grounds  of  his  belief,  and  the  impracticability 
of  theirs,  rather  than  to  spend  time  in  solving  the 
objections  of  every  opponent.  "  It  is  ten  to  one," 
says  a  late  writer  on  the  art  of  war,  '-but  that  the 


assailant  who  attacks  the  enemy  in  his  trenches  ia 
always  victorious." 

Yet,  upon  the  whole,  our  clergy  might  employ 
themselves  more  to  the  benefit  of  society,  by  dechn 
ing  all  controversy,  than  by  exhibiting  even  the 
profoundest  skill  in  polemic  disputes:  their  con- 
tests with  each  other  often  turn  on  speculative 
trifles;  and  their  disputes  with  the  Deists  are  al- 
most at  an  end,  since  they  can  have  no  more  than 
victory,  and  that  they  are  already  possessed  of,  as 
their  antagonists  have  been  driven  into  a  confes- 
sion of  the  necessity  of  revelation,  or  an  open 
avowal  of  atheism.  To  continue  the  dispute  longer 
would  only  endanger  it ;  the  sceptic  is  ever  expert 
at  puzzling  a  debate  which  he  finds  himself  unable 
to  continue,  "  and,  like  an  Olympic  boxer,  gene- 
rally fights  best  when  undermost." 


ESSAY  V. 

The  improvements  we  make  in  mental  acquire- 
ments only  render  us  each  day  more  sensible  of  the 
defects  of  our  constitution :  with  this  in  view, 
therefore,  let  us  often  recur  to  the  amusements  of 
youth,  endeavour  to  forget  age  and  wisdom,  and, 
as  far  as  innocence  goes,  be  as  much  a  boy  as  the 
best  of  them. 

Let  idle  declaimers  mourn  over  the  degeneracy 
of  the  age ;  but  in  my  opinion  every  age  is  the 
same.  This  I  am  sure  of,  that  man  in  every  sea- 
son is  a  poor  fretful  being,  with  no  other  means  to 
escape  the  calamities  of  the  times  but  by  endeavour- 
ing to  forget  them ;  for  if  he  attempts  to  resist,  he 
is  certainly  undone.  If  I  feel  poverty  and  pain,  I  am 
not  so  hardy  as  to  quarrel  with  the  executioner,  even 
while  under  correction :  I  find  myself  no  way 
disposed  to  making  fine  speeches  while  I  am  mak- 
ing wry  faces.  In  a  word,  let  me  drink  when  the 
fit  is  on,  to  make  me  insensible  ;  and  drink  when 
it  is  over,  for  joy  that  I  feel  pain  no  longer. 

The  character  of  old  Falstafij  even  with  all  his 
faults,  gives  me  more  consolation  than  the  most 
studied  efforts  of  wisdom :  I  here  behold  an  agreea- 
ble old  fellow,  forgetting  age,  and  showing  me  the 
way  to  be  young  at  sixty -five.  Sure  I  am  well  able 
to  be  as  merry,  though  not  so  comical  as  he — Is  it 
not  in  my  power  to  have,  though  not  so  much  wit, 
at  least  as  much  vivacity? — Age,  care,  wisdom,  re- 
flection begone — I  give  you  to  the  winds.  Let's 
have  t'other  bottle :  here's  to  the  memory  of  Shak- 
speare,  Falstaff,  and  all  the  merry  men  of  East 
cheap. 

Such  were  the  reflections  that  naturally  arose 
while  I  sat  at  the  Boar's-Head  Tavern,  still  kept 
at  Eastcheap.  Here  by  a  pleasant  fire,  in  the  very 
room  where  old  John  Falstaff  cracked  his  jokes,  in 
the  very  chair  which  was  sometimes  honoured  by 


ESSAYS. 


Prince  Henry,  and  sometimes  polluted  by  his  im- 
moral merry  companions,  I  sat  and  ruminated  on 
the  follies  of  youth ;  wished  to  be  young  again,  but 
was  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  life  while  it  lasted 
and  now  and  then  compared  past  and  present  times 
together,  I  considered  myself  as  the  only  living 
representative  of  the  old  knight,  and  transported 
my  imagination  back  to  the  times  when  the  prince 
and  he  gave  life  to  the  revel,  and  made  even  de- 
bauchery not  disgusting.  The  room  also  conspired 
to  throw  my  reflections  back  into  antiquity :  the 
oak  floor,  the  Gothic  windows,  and  the  ponderous 
chimney-piece,  had  long  withstood  the  tooth  of 
time ;  the  watchman  had  gone  twelve;  my  com- 
panions had  all  stolen  oflf;  and  none  now  remained 
with  me  but  the  landlord.  From  him  I  could  have 
wished  to  know  the  history  of  a  tavern,  that  had 
such  a  long  succession  of  customers  :  1  could  not 
help  thinking  that  an  account  of  this  kind  would 
be  a  pleasing  contrast  of  the  manners  of  different 
ages ;  but  my  landlord  could  give  me  no  informa- 
tion. He  continued  to  doze  and  sot,  and  tell  a  te- 
dious story,  as  most  other  landlords  usually  do, 
and,  though  he  said  nothing,  yet  was  never  silent; 
one  good  joke  followed  another  good  joke ;  and  the 
best  joke  of  all  was  generally  begun  towards  the 
end  of  a  bottle.  I  found  at  last,  however,  his  wine 
and  his  conversation  operate  by  degrees:  ho  in- 
sensibly began  to  alter  his  appearance  ;  his  cravat 
seemed  quilled  into  a  ruff",  and  his  breeches  swelled 
out  into  a  fardingale,  I  now  fancied  him  chang- 
ing sexes ;  and  as  my  eyes  be^an  to  close  in  slum- 
ber, I  imagined  my  fat  landlord  actually  converted 
into  as  fat  a  landlady.  However,  sleep  made  but 
few  changes  in  my  situation :  the  tavern,  the  apart- 
ment, and  the  table,  continued  as  before ;  nothing 
suffered  mutation  but  my  host,  who  was  fairly  al- 
tered into  a  gentlewoman,  whom  I  knew  to  be 
Dame  Gluickly,  mistress  of  this  tavern  in  the  days 
of  Sir  John,  and  the  liquor  we  were  drinking, 
which  seemed  converted  into  sack  and  sugar. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Cluickly,"  cried  I  (for  I  knew 
her  perfectly  well  at  first  sight),  "  I  am  heartily 
glad  to  see  you.  How  have  you  left  Falstaff',  Pis- 
tol, and  the  rest  of  our  friends  below  stairs?  Brave 
and  hearty,  I  hope  ?" — "  In  good  sooth,"  replied 
she,  "  he  did  deserve  to  live  for  ever ;  but  he  maketh 
foul  work  on't  where  he  hath  flitted.  Clueen  Pro- 
serpine and  he  have  quarrelled  for  his  attempting 
a  rape  upon  her  divinity ;  and  were  it  not  that  she 
still  had  bowels  of  compassion,  it  more  than  seems 
probable  he  might  have  been  now  sprawling  in 
Tartarus," 

I  now  found  that  spirits  still  preserve  the  frailties 
of  the  flesh ;  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  cri- 
ticism and  dreaming,  ghosts  have  been  known  to 
be  guilty  of  even  more  than  platonic  affection : 
wherefore,  as  I  found  her  too  much  moved  on  such 
a  topic  to  proceed,  I  was  resolved  to  change  the 


subject,  and  desiring  she  would  pledge  me  iii  a 
bumper,  observed  with  a  sigh,  that  our  sack  was 
nothing  now  to  what  it  was  in  former  days :  ••  Ah, 
Mrs.  Gluickly,  those  were  merry  times  when  you 
drew  sack  for  Prince  Henry :  men  were  twice  au 
strong,  and  twice  as  vvise,  and  much  braver,  and 
ten  thousand  times  more  charitable  than  now. 
Those  were  the  times  !  The  battle  of  Agincourt 
was  a  victory  indeed !  Ever  since  that  we  have 
only  been  degenerating ;  and  I  have  lived  to  see  the 
day  when  drinking  is  no  longer  fashionable,  when 
men  wear  clean  shirts,  and  women  show  their 
necks  and  arms.  All  are  degenerated,  Mrs.  Gluick- 
ly; and  we  shall  probably,  in  another  century,  be 
frittered  away  into  beaux  or  monkeys.  Had  you 
been  on  earth  to  see  what  I  have  seen,  it  would 
congeal  all  the  blood  in  your  body  (your  soul,  I 
mean).  Why,  our  very  nobility  now  have  the  in- 
tolerable arrogance,  in  spite  of  what  is  every  day 
remonstrated  from  the  press ;  our  very  nobility,  I 
say,  have  the  assurance  to  frequent  assemblies,  and 
presume  to  be  as  merry  as  the  vulgar.  See,  my 
very  friends  have  scarcely  manhood  enough  to  sit 
to  it  till  eleven  ;  and  I  only  am  left  to  make  a  night 
on't.  Prithee  do  me  the  favour  to  console  me  a 
little  f)!''  their  absence  by  the  story  of  your  own  ad- 
venture?, or  the  history  of  the  tavern  where  we  are 
now  sitting  :  I  fancy  the  narrative  may  have  some- 
thing singular." 

"  Observe  this  apartment,"  interrupted  my  com- 
panion ;  "  of  neat  device,  and  excellent  workman- 
ship— In  this  room  I  have  lived,  child,  woman,  and 
ghost,  more  than  three  hundred  years :  I  am  ordered 
by  Pluto  to  keep  an  annual  register  of  every  trans- 
action that  passeth  here ;  and  I  have  whilom  com- 
piled three  hundred  tomes,  which  eftsoons  may  be 
submitted  to  thy  regards."  "None  of  your  whiloms 
or  eftsoons.  Mrs.  Cluickly,  if  you  please,"  I  replied: 
"  1  know  you  can  talk  every  whit  as  well  as  I  can ; 
for,  as  you  have  lived  here  so  long  it  is  but  natural 
to  suppose  you  should  learn  the  conversation  of  the 
company.  Believe  me,  dame,  at  best,  you  have 
neither  too  much  sense,  nor  too  much  language  to 
spare ;  so  give  me  both  as  well  as  you  can  :  but  first, 
my  service  to  you;  old  women  should  water  their 
clay  a  little  now  and  then ;  and  now  to  your  story." 

'  The  story  of  my  own  adventures,"  replied  the 
vision,  "  is  but  short  and  unsatisfactory ;  for,  be- 
lieve me,  Mr.  Rigmarole,  believe  me,  a  woman 
with  a  butt  of  sack  at  her  elbow  is  never  long-lived. 
Sir  John's  death  afflicted  me  to  such  a  degree,  that 
I  sincerely  believe,  to  drown  sorrow,  I  drank  more 
liquor  myself  than  I  drew  for  my  customers :  my 
grief  was  sincere,  and  the  sack  was  excellent.  The 
prior  of  a  neighbouring  convent  (for  our  priors  then 
had  as  much  power  as  a  Middlesex  Justice  now), 
he,  I  say,  it  was  who  gave  me  a  license  for  keep- 
ing a  disorderly  house,  upon  condition  that  I  should 
never  make  hard  bargains  with  the  clergy,  that  he 


4m 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


should  have  a  bottle  of  sack  every  morning,  and 
the  liberty  of  confessing  which  of  my  girls  he 
thought  proper  in  private  every  night.  I  had  con- 
tinued for  several  years  to  pay  this  tribute ;  and  he, 
it  must  be  confessed,  continued  as  rigorously  to 
exact  it.  I  grew  old  insensibly ;  my  customers  con- 
tinued, however,  to  compliment  my  looks  while  I 
was  by,  but  I  could  hear  them  say  I  was  wearing 
when  my  back  was  turned.  The  prior,  however, 
etill  was  constant,  and  so  were  half  his  convent ; 
but  one  fatal  morning  he  missed  the  usual  beverage, 
for  I  had  incautiously  drank  overnight  the  last 
bottle  myself.  What  will  you  have  on't? — The 
very  next  day  Dol  Tearsheet  and  I  were  sent  to 
the  house  of  correction,  and  accused  of  keeping  a 
low  bawdy-house.  In  short,  we  were  so  well 
purified  there  with  stripes,  mortification,  and  pen- 
ance, that  we  were  afterwards  utterly  unfit  for 
worldly  conversation;  though  sack  would  have 
killed  me,  had  I  stuck  to  it,  yet  I  soon  died  for  want 
of  a  drop  of  something  comfortable,  and  fairly  left 
my  body  to  the  care  of  the  beadle. 

"  Such  is  ray  own  history ;  but  that  of  the  tavern, 
where  I  have  ever  since  been  stationed,  affords 
greater  variety.  In  the  histuiv  of  this,  which  is 
one  of  the  oldest  in  London,  >ou  may  view  the 
different  manners,  pleasures,  and  follies  of  men,  at 
different  periods.  You  will  find  mankind  neither 
better  nor  worse  now  than  formerly ;  the  vices  of  an 
uncivilized  people  are  generally  more  detestable, 
though  not  so  frequent,  as  those  in  polite  society. 
It  is  the  same  luxury,  which  formerly  stuffed  your 
alderman  with  plum-porridge,  and  now  crams  him 
with  turtle.  It  is  the  same  low  ambition,  that  for- 
merly induced  a  courtier  to  give  up  his  religion  to 
please  his  king,  and  now  persuades  him  to  give  up 
his  conscience  to  please  his  minister.  It  is  the 
same  vanity,  that  formerly  stained  our  ladies'  cheeks 
and  necks  with  woad,  and  now  paints  them  with 
carmine.  Your  ancient  Briton  formerly  powdered 
his  hair  with  red  earth,  hke  brick-dust,  in  order  to 
appear  frightful :  your  modern  Briton  cuts  his  hair 
on  the  crown,  and  plasters  it  with  hog's-lard  and 
flour ;  and  this  to  make  him  look  killing.  It  is  the 
same  vanity,  the  same  folly,  and  the  same  vice, 
only  appearing  different,  as  viewed  through  the 
glass  of  fashion.     In  a  word,  all  mankind  are  a — " 

"  Sure  the  woman  is  dreaming,"  interrupted  I. 
"  None  of  your  reflections,  Mrs.  Cluickly,  if  you 
love  me  ;  they  only  give  me  the  spleen.  Tell  me 
your  history  at  once.  I  love  stories,  but  hate  rea- 
soning." 

"  If  you  please,  then,  sir,"  returned  my  com- 
panion, I'll  read  you  an  abstract  which  I  made  of 
the  three  hundred  volumes  I  mentioned  just  now. 

"  My  body  was  no  sooner  laid  in  the  dust  than  ! 
the  prior  and  several  of  his  convent  came  to  purify 
the  tavern  from  the  pollutions  with  which  they 
said  I  had  filled  it.     Masses  were  said  in  everv 


room,  reliques  were  exposed  upon  every  piece  of 
furniture,  and  the  whole  house  washed  with  a  de- 
luge of  holy  water.  My  habitation  was  soon  con- 
verted into  a  monastery ;  instead  of  customers  now 
applying  for  sack  and  sugar,  my  rooms  were  crowd- 
ed with  images,  reliques,  saints,  whores,  and  friars. 
Instead  of  being  a  scene  of  occasional  debauchery, 
it  was  now  filled  with  continual  lewdness.  The 
prior  led  the  fashion,  and  the  whole  convent  imi- 
tated his  pious  example.  Matrons  came  hither  to 
confess  their  sins,  and  to  commit  new.  Virgins 
came  hither  who  seldom  went  virgins  away.  Nor 
was  this  a  convent  peculiarly  wicked ;  every  con- 
vent at  that  period  was  equally  fond  of  pleasure, 
and  gave  a  boundless  loose  to  appetite.  The  laws 
allowed  it ;  each  priest  had  a  right  to  a  favourite 
companion,  and  a  power  of  discarding  her  as  often 
as  ho  pleased.  The  laity  grumbled,  quarrelled 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  hated  their  con- 
fessors, and  maintained  them  in  opulence  and  ease. 
These,  these  were  happy  times,  Mr.  Rigmarole ; 
these  were  times  of  piety,  bravery,  and  simplicity." 
"Not  so  very  happy,  neither,  good  Madam ;  pretty 
much  like  the  present — those  that  labour  starve, 
and  those  that  do  nothing  wear  fine  clothes,  and 
live  in  luxury." 

^'  In  this  manner  the  fathers  lived  for  some  years 
without  molestation  ;  they  transgressed,  confessed 
themselves  to  each  other,  and  were  forgiven.  One 
evening,  however,  our  prior  keeping  a  lady  of  dis- 
tinction somewhat  too  long  at  confession,  her  hus- 
band unexpectedly  came  upon  them,  and  testified 
all  the  indignation  which  was  natural  upon  such 
an  occasion.  The  prior  assured  the  gentleman 
that  it  was  the  devil  who  put  it  into  his  heart ;  and 
the  lady  was  very  certain  that  she  was  under  the 
influence  of  magic,  or  she  could  never  have  be- 
haved in  so  unfaithful  a  manner.  The  husband, 
however,  was  not  to  be  put  off  by  such  evasions, 
but  summoned  both  before  the  tribunal  of  justice. 
His  proofs  were  flagrant,  and  he  expected  large 
damages.  Such  indeed  he  had  a  right  to  expect, 
were  the  tribunals  of  those  days  constituted  in  the 
same  manner  as  they  are  now.  The  cause  of  the 
priest  was  to  be  tried  before  an  assembly  of  priests ; 
and  a  layman  was  to  expect  redress  only  from  their 
impartiality  and  candour.  What  plea  then  do  you 
think  the  prior  made  to  obviate  this  accusation  1 
He  denied  the  fact,  and  challenged  the  plaintiff 
to  try  the  merits  of  their  cause  by  single  combat. 
It  was  a  little  hard,  you  may  be  sure,  updh  the 
poor  gentleman,  not  only  to  be  made  a  cuckold,  but 
to  be  obliged  to  fight  a  duel  into  the  bargain  ;  yet 
such  was  the  justice  of  the  times.  The  prior 
threw  down  his  glove,  and  the  injured  husband 
was  obliged  to  take  it  up,  in  token  of  his  accept- 
ing the  challenge.  Upon  this  the  priest  supplied 
his  champion,  for  it  was  not  lawful  for  th(j  clergy 
to  fight ;  and  the  defendant  and  plaintiff,  according 


ESSAYS. 


to  custom,  were  put  in  prison ;  both  ordered  to 
tast  and  pray,  every  method  being  previously  used 
to  induce  both  to  a  confession  of  the  truth.  After 
a  month's  imprisonment,  the  hair  of  each  was  cut, 
the  bodies  anointed  with  oil,  the  field  of  battle 
appointed  and  guarded  by  soldiers,  while  his  ma- 
jesty presided  over  the  whole  in  person.  Both  the 
champions  were  sworn  not  to  seek  victory  either 
by  fraud  or  magic.  They  prayed  and  confessed 
upon  their  knees ;  and  after  these  ceremonies  the 
rest  was  left  to  the  courage  and  conduct  of  the 
combatants.  As  the  champion  whom  the  prior 
had  pitched  upon  had  fought  six  or  eight  times 
upon  similar  occasions,  it  was  no  way  extraordi- 
nary to  find  him  victorious  in  the  present  combat. 
In  short,  the  husband  was  discomfited ;  he  was 
taken  from  the  field  of  battle,  stripped  to  his  shirt, 
and  after  one  of  his  legs  had  been  cut  off,  as  jus- 
tice ordained  in  such  cases,  he  was  hanged  as  a 
terror  to  future  offenders.  These,  these  were  the 
times,  Mr.  Rigmarole ;  you  see  how  much  more 
just,  and  wise,  and  valiant,  our  ancestors  were  than 
us." — "  I  rather  fancy,  madam,  that  the  times  then 
were  pretty  much  like  our  own ;  where  a  multi- 
plicity of  laws  gives  a  judge  as  much  power  as  a 
want  of  law,  since  he  is  ever  sure  to  find  among 
the  number  some  to  countenance  his  partiality." 

"Our  convent,  victorious  over  their  enemies, 
now  gave  a  loose  to  every  demonstration  of  joy. 
The  lady  became  a  nun,  the  prior  was  made  a 
bishop,  and  three  Wickliffites  were  burned  in  the 
illuminations  and  fire- works  that  were  made  on  the 
present  occasion.  Our  convent  now  began  to  en- 
joy a  very  high  degree  of  reputation.  There  was 
not  one  in  London  that  had  the  character  of  hating 
heretics  so  much  as  ours :  ladies  of  the  first  dis- 
tinction chose  from  our  convent  their  confessors. 
In  short,  it  flourished,  and  might  have  flourished 
to  this  hour,  but  for  a  fatal  accident  which  termi- 
nated in  its  overthrow.  The  lady,  whom  the  prior 
had  placed  in  a  nunnery,  and  whom  he  continued 
to  visit  for  some  time  with  great  punctuality,  be- 
gan at  last  to  perceive  that  she  was  quite  forsaken. 
Secluded  from  conversation,  as  usual,  she  now  en- 
tertained the  visions  of  a  devotee ;  found  herself 
strangely  disturbed ;  but  hesitated  in  determining 
whether  she  was  possessed  by  an  angel  or  a  demon. 
She  was  not  long  in  suspense ;  for  upon  vomiting 
a  large  quantity  of  crooked  pins,  and  finding  the 
palms  of  her  hands  turned  outwards,  she  quickly 
concluded  that  she  was  possessed  by  the  devil. 
She  soon  lost  entirely  the  use  of  speech ;  and, 
when  she  seemed  to  speak,  every  body  that  was 
present  perceived  that  her  voice  was  not  her  own, 
but  that  of  the  devil  within  her.  In  short,  she  was 
bewitched ;  and  all  the  difiiculty  lay  in  determin- 
ing who  it  could  be  that  bewitched  her.  The 
nuns  and  the  monks  all  demanded  the  magician's 
name,  but  the  devil  made  no  reply ;  for  he  knew 


that  they  had  no  authority  to  ask  questions.  By 
the  rules  of  witchcraft,  when  an  evil  spirit  has 
taken  possession,  he  may  refuse  to  answer  any 
questions  asked  him,  unless  they  are  put  by  a 
bishop,  and  to  these  he  is  obliged  to  reply.  A 
bishop  therefore  was  sent  for,  and  now  the  whole 
secret  came  out :  the  devil  reluctantly  owned  that 
he  was  a  servant  of  the  prior;  that  by  his  com- 
mand he  resided  in  his  present  habitation,  and  that 
without  his  command  he  was  resolved  to  keep  in 
possession.  The  bishop  was  an  able  exorcist ;  he 
drove  the  devil  out  by  force  of  mystical  arms ;  the 
prior  was  arraigned  for  witchcraft ;  the  witnesses 
were  strong  and  numerous  against  him,  not  less 
than  fourteen  persons  being  by,  who  heard  the 
devil  talk  Latin.  There  was  no  resisting  such  a 
cloud  of  witnesses;  the  prior  was  condemned; 
and  he  who  had  assisted  at  so  many  burnings,  was 
burned  himself  in  turn.  These  were  times,  Mr. 
Rigmarole ;  the  people  of  those  times  were  not  in- 
fidels, as  now,  but  sincere  believers  !" — "  Equally 
faulty  with  ourselves  ;  they  believed  what  the  devil 
was  pleased  to  tell  them,  and  we  seem  resolved  at 
last  to  believe  neither  God  nor  devil." 

"  After  such  a  stain  upon  the  convent,  it  was 
not  to  be  supposed  it  could  subsist  any  longer;  the 
fathers  were  ordered  to  decamp,  and  the  house  was 
once  again  converted  into  a  tavern.  The  king 
conferred  it  on  one  of  his  cast  mistresses ;  she  was 
constituted  landlady  by  royal  authority,  and  as 
the  tavern  was  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  court, 
and  the  mistress  a  very  polite  woman,  it  began  to 
have  more  business  than  ever,  and  sometimes  took 
not  less  than  four  shillings  a-day. 

"  But  perhaps  you  are  desirous  of  knowing  what 
were  the  peculiar  qualifications  of  a  woman  of 
fashion  at  that  period ;  and  in  a  description  of  the 
present  landlady  you  will  have  a  tolerable  idea  of  all 
the  rest.  This  lady  was  the  daughter  of  a  noble- 
man, and  received  such  an  education  in  the  coun- 
try as  became  her  quality,  beauty,  and  great  ex- 
pectations. She  could  make  shifts  and  hose  for 
herself  and  all  the  servants  of  the  family,  when  she 
was  twelve  years  old.  She  knew  the  names  of  the 
four-and-twenty  letters,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to 
bewitch  her ;  and  this  was  a  greater  piece  of  learn- 
ing than  any  lady  in  the  whole  country  could  pre- 
tend to.  She  was  always  up  early,  and  saw  break- 
fast served  in  the  great  hall  by  six  o'clock.  At  this 
scene  of  festivity,  she  generally  improved  good-hu- 
mour by  telling  her  dreams,  relating  stories  of  spi- 
rits, several  of  which  she  herself  had  seen,  and  one 
of  which  she  was  reported  to  have  killed  with  a 
black-hafted  knife.  Hence  she  usually  went  to 
make  pastry  in  the  larder,  and  here  she  was  follow- 
ed by  her  sweethearts,  who  were  much  helped  on 
in  conversation  by  struggling  with  her  for  kisses. 
About  ten,  Miss  generally  went  to  play  at  hot- 
cockles  and  blind-man's  buff  in  the  parlour;  and 


486 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


when  the  young  folks  (for  they  seldom  played  at 
hot-cockles  when  grown  old)  were  tired  of  such 
amusements,  the  gentleman  entertained  Miss  with 
the  history  of  their  greyhounds,  bear-baitings,  and 
victories  at  cudgel-playing.  If  the  weather  was 
fine,  they  ran  at  the  ring,  shot  at  butts,  while  Miss 
held  in  her  hand  a  riband,  with  which  she  adorned 
the  conqueror.  Her  mental  qualifications  were 
exactly  fitted  to  her  external  accomplishments. 
Before  she  was  fifteen  she  could  tell  the  story  of 
Jack  the  Giant  Killer,  could  name  every  luountain 
that  was  inhabited  by  fairies,  knew  a  witch  at  first 
sight,  and  could  repeat  four  Latin  prayers  without 
a  prompter.  Her  dress  was  perfectly  fashionable  ; 
her  arms  and  her  hair  were  completely  covered  ;  a 
monstrous  ruflf  was  put  round  her  neck,  so  thather 
head  seemed  like  that  of  John  the  Baptist  placed 
in  a  charger.  In  short,  when  completely  equipped, 
her  appearance  was  so  very  modest,  that  she  dis- 
covered little  more  than  her  nose.  These  were  the 
times,  Mr.  Rigmarole ;  when  every  lady  that  had 
a  good  nose  might  set  up  for  a  beauty ;  when  every 
woman  that  could  tell  stories  might  be  cried  up  for 
a  wit." — "  I  am  as  much  displeased  at  those  dresses 
which  conceal  too  much,  as  at  those  which  discov- 
er too  much  ;  I  am  equally  an  enemy  to  a  female 
dunce  or  a  female  pedant." 

"You  may  be  sure  that  Miss  chose  a  husband 
with  qualifications  resembling  her  own  ;  she  pitch- 
ed upon  a  courtier,  equally  remarkable  for  hunting 
and  drinking,  who  had  given  several  proofs  of  his 
great  virility  among  the  daughters  of  his  tenants 
and  domestics.  T  hey  fell  in  love  at  first  sight  (for 
such  was  the  gallantry  of  the  times),  were  married, 
came  to  court,  and  Madam  appeared  with  superior 
qualifications.  The  king  was  struck  with  her 
beauty.  All  property  was  at  the  king's  command: 
the  husband  was  obliged  to  resign  all  pretensions 
in  his  wife  to  the  sovereign,  whom  God  had  anoint- 
ed to  commit  adultery  where  he  thought  proper. 
The  king  loved  her  for  some  time ;  but  at  length 
repenting  of  his  misdeeds,  and  instigated  by  his 
father -confessor,  from  a  principle  of  conscience  re- 
moved her  from  his  levee  to  the  bar  of  this  tavern, 
and  took  a  new  mistress  in  her  stead.  Let  it  not 
surprise  you  to  behold  the  mistress  of  a  king  de- 
graded to  so  humble  an  office.  As  the  ladies  had 
no  mental  accomplishments,  a  good  face  was 
enough  to  raise  them  to  the  royal  couch ;  and  she 
who  was  this  day  a  royal  mistress,  might  the  next, 
when  her  beauty  palled  upon  enjoyment,  be  doom- 
ed to  infamy  and  want. 

"  Under  the  care  of  this  lady  the  tavern  grew 
into  great  reputation  :  the  courtiers  had  not  yet 
learned  to  game,  but  they  paid  it  oflfby  drinking; 
drunkenness  is  ever  the  vice  of  a  barbarous,  and 
gaming  of  a  luxurious  age.  They  had  not  such 
frequent  entertainments  as  the  moderns  h^ve,  but 
were    more   expensive    and    more   luxurious  in 


those  they  had.  All  their  fooleries  were  mviio 
elaborate,  and  more  admired  by  the  great  and  the 
vulgar  than  now.  A  courtier  has  been  known 
to  spend  his  whole  fortune  at  a  single  feast,  a 
king  to  mortgage  his  dominions  to  furnish  out 
the  frippery  of  a  tournament.  There  were  certain 
days  appointed,  for  riot  and  debauchery,  and  to  be 
sober  at  such  times  was  reputed  a  crime .  Kings 
themselves  set  the  example ;  and  I  have  seen  mo- 
narchs  in  this  room  drunk  before  the  entertainment 
was  half  concluded.  These  were  the  times,  sir, 
when  kings  kept  mistresses,  and  got  drunk  in  pub' 
lie ;  they  were  too  plain  and  simple  in  those  happy 
times,  to  hide  their  vices,  and  act  the  hypocrite 
as  now." — "Lord!  Mrs.  Gluickly,"  interrupting 
her,  "I  expected  to  have  heard  a  story,  and  here  you 
are  going  to  tell  me  I  know  not  what  oT  times  and 
vices ;  prithee  let  me  entreat  thee  once  more  to 
wave  reflections,  and  give  thy  history  without  de- 
viation." 

"No lady  upon  earth,"  continued  my  visionary 
correspondent,  "  knew  how  to  put  off  her  damaged 
wine  or  women  with  more  art  than  she.  When 
these  grew  flat,  or  those  paltry,  it  was  but  changing 
the  names  :  the  wine  became  excellent,  and  the 
girls  agreeable.  She  was  also  possessed  of  the  en- 
gaging leer,  the  chuck  under  the  chin,  winked  at 
a  double  entendre,  could  nick  the  opportunity  of 
calling  for  something  comfortable,  and  perfectly 
understood  the  discreet  moments  when  to  with- 
draw. The  gallants  of  these  times  pretty  much 
resembled  the  bloods  of  ours ;  they  were  fond  of 
pleasure,  but  quite  ignorant  of  the  art  of  refining 
upon  it ;  thus  a  court  bawd  of  those  times  resem- 
bled the  common  low-lived  harridan  of  a  modern 
bagnio.  Witness,  ye  powers  of  debauchery,  how 
often  I  have  been  present  at  the  various  appear- 
ances of  drunkenness,  riot,  guilt,  andbrutaUty!  A 
tavern  is  the  true  picture  of  human  infirmity :  in 
history  we  find  only  one  side  of  the  age  exhibited 
to  our  view  ;  but  in  the  accounts  of  a  tavern  we  sea 
every  age  equally  absurd  and  eqnially  vicious. 

"  Upon  this  lady's  decease,  the  tavern  was  sue 
cessively  occupied  by  adventures,  bullies,  pimps 
and  gamesters.  Towards  the  conclusion  of  the 
reign  of  Henry  VII.  gaming  was  more  universal- 
ly practised  in  England  than  even  now.  Kings 
themselves  have  been  known  to  play  off  at  Prime- 
ro,  not  only  all  the  money  and  jewels  they  could 
part  with,  but  the  very  images  in  churches.  The 
last  Henry  played  away,  in  this  very  room,  not 
only  the  four  great  bells  of  St.  Paul's  cathedral, 
but  the  fine  image  of  St.  Paul  which  stood  upon 
the  top  of  the  spire,  to  Sir  Miles  Partridge,  who 
took  them  down  the  next  day,  and  sold  them  by 
auction.  Have  you  then  any  cause  to  regret  being 
born  in  the  times  you  now  live  in ;  or  do  you  still 
believe  that  human  nature  continues  to  run  on  de- 
cUning  every  age  ?     If  we  observe  the  action*  of 


ESSAYS. 


487 


the  busy  part  of  mankind,  your  ancestors  will  be 
found  infinitely  more  gross,  servile,  and  even  dis- 
honest than  you.  If,  forsaking  history,  we  only 
trace  them  in  their  hours  of  amusement  and  dissi 
])ation,  we  shall  find  them  more  sensual,  more 
(entirely  devoted  to  pleasure,  and  infinitely  more 
selfish. 

"  The  last  hostess  of  note  I  find  upon  record  was 
Jane  Rouse.  She  was  born  among  the  lower 
ranks  of  the  people ;  and  by  frugality  and  extreme 
complaisance,  contrived  to  acquire  a  moderate  for- 
tune ;  this  she  might  have  enjoyed  for  many  years, 
had  she  not  unfortunately  quarrelled  with  one  of 
her  neighbours,  a  woman  who  was  in  high  repute 
for  sanctity  through  the  whole  parish.  In  the 
times  of  which  I  speak,  two  women  seldom  quar- 
relled that  one  did  not  accuse  the  other  of  witch- 
craft, and  she  who  first  contrived  to  vomit  crooked 
pins  was  sure  to  come  off  victorious.  The  scandal 
of  a  modern  tea-table  differs  widely  from  the  scan- 
dal of  former  times  :  the  fascination  of  a  lady's 
eyes  at  present  is  regarded  as  a  compliment :  but 
if  a  lady  formerly  should  be  accused  of  having 
witchcraft  in  her  eyes,  it  were  much  better  both  for 
her  soul  and  body  that  she  had  no  eyes  at  all. 

"  In  short,  Jane  Rouse  was  accused  of  witch- 
rraft ;  and  though  she  made  the  best  defence  she 
could,  it  was  all  to  no  purpose ;  she  was  taken  from 
her  own  bar  to  the  bar  of  the  Old  Bailey,  condemn- 
ed, and  executed  accordingly.  These  were  times 
indeed,  when  even  women  could  not  scold  in  safetyl 

"  Since  her  time  the  tavern  underwent  several 
revolutions,  according  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  or 
the  disposition  of  the  reigning  monarch.  It  was 
this  day  a  brothel,  and  the  next  a  conventicle  of 
enthusiasts.  It  was  one  year  noted  for  harbouring 
whigs,  and  the  next  infamous  for  a  retreat  to  to- 
nes. Some  years  ago  it  was  in  high  vogue,  but 
at  present  it  seems  declining.  This  only  may  be 
remarked  in  general,  that  whenever  taverns  flourish 
most,  the  times  are  then  most  extravagant  and 
luxurious."  "Lord!  Mrs.  Gtuickly,"  interrupted 
I,  "  you  have  really  deceived  me ;  I  expected  a  ro- 
mance, and  here  you  have  been  this  half  hour  giv- 
ing me  only  a  descrijjtion  of  the  spirit  of  the  times ; 
if  you  have  nothing  but  tedious  remarks  to  com- 
municate, seek  some  other  hearer;  1  am  determin- 
ed to  hearken  only  to  stories." 

I  had  scarcely  concluded,  when  my  eyes  and 
ears  seemed  open  to  my  landlord,  who  had  been  all 
this  while  giving  me  an  account  of  the  repairs  he 
had  made  in  the  house  ;  and  was  now  got  into  the 
story  of  the  cracked  glass  in  the  dining-room. 


ESSAY  VI. 

I  AM  fond  of  amusement  in  whatever  company 
it  is  to  be  found;  and  wit,  though  dressed  in  rags, 


is  ever  pleasing  to  me.  I  went  some  days  ago  to 
take  a  walk  in  St.  James's  Park,  about  the  hour 
in  which  company  leave  it  to  go  to  dinner.  There 
were  but  few  in  the  walks,  and  those  who  stayed 
seemed  by  their  looks  rather  more  willing  to  forget 
that  they  had  an  appetite  than  gain  one.  I  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  benches,  at  the  other  end  of 
which  was  seated  a  man  in  very  shabby  clothes. 

We  continued  to  groan,  to  hem,  and  to  cough,  as 
usual  upon  such  occasions;  and  at  last  ventured  upon 
conversation.  "I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  cried  I,  "but  I 
think  I  have  seen  you  before;  your  face  is  familiar  to 
me."  "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  he,  "  I  have  a  good  familiar 
face,  as  my  friends  tell  me.  I  am  as  well  known 
in  every  town  in  England  as  the  dromedary,  or  live 
crocorJile.  You  must  understand,  sir,  that  1  have 
been  these  sixteen  years  Merry  Andrew  to  a  pup- 
pet-show :  last  Bartholomew-fair  my  master  and  I 
quarrelled,  beat  each  other,  and  parted;  he  to  sell 
his  puppets  to  the  pincushion-makers  in  Rosemary- 
lane,  and  1  to  starve  in  St.  James's  Park." 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  a  person  of  your  appear- 
ance should  labour  under  any  difficulties." — "  O 
sir,"  returned  he,  "  my  appearance  is  very  much 
at  your  service ;  but,  though  I  can  not  boast  of  eat- 
ing much,  yet  there  are  few  that  are  merrier :  if  I 
had  twenty  thousand  a-year  I  should  be  very  mer- 
ry; and,  thank  the  Fates,  though  not  worth  a 
groat,  I  am  very  merry  still.  If  I  have  threepence 
in  my  pocket,  I  never  refuse  to  be  my  three-half- 
pence ;  and  if  I  have  no  money,  I  never  scorn  to  be 
treated  by  any  that  are  kind  enough  to  pay  my 
reckoning.  What  think  you,  sir,  of  a  steak  and  a 
tankard?  You  shall  treat  me  now ;  and  I  will  treat 
you  again  when  1  find  you  in  the  Park  in  love  with 
eating,  and  without  money  to  pay  for  a  dinner." 

As  I  never  refuse  a  small  expense  for  the  sake 
of  a  merry  companion,  we  instantly  adjourned  to  a 
neighbouring  ale-house,  and  in  a  few  moments  had 
a  frothing  tankard  and  a  smoking  steak  spread  on 
the  table  before  us.  It  is  impossible  to  express  how 
much  the  sight  of  such  good  cheer  improved  my 
companion's  vivacity.  "I  like  this  dinner,  sir," 
says  he,  "for  three  reasons:  first,  because  I  am  natu- 
rally fond  of  beef;  secondly,  because  I  am  hungry; 
and  thirdly  and  lastly,  because  I  get  it  for  nothing: 
no  meat  eats  as  sweet  as  that  for  which  we  do  not 
pay." 

He  therefore  now  fell  to,  and  his  appetite  seem- 
ed to  correspond  with  his  inclination.  After  din- 
ner was  over,  he  observed  that  the  steak  was 
tough;  and  yet,  sir,"  returns  he,  "bad  as  it  was,  it 
seemed  a  rump- steak  to  me.  O  the  delights  of 
poverty  and  a  good  appetite !  We  beggars  are  the 
very  fondUngs  of  nature ;  the  rich  she  treats  like 
an  arrant  step-mother ;  they  are  pleased  with  no- 
thing ;  cut  a  steak  from  what  part  you  will,  and  it 
is  insupportably  tough ;  dress  it  up  with  pickles, 
and  even  pickles  can  not  procure  you  an  appetit« 


488 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


But  the  whole  creation  is  filled  with  good  things 
for  the  beggar;  Calvert's  butt  outtastes  Cham- 
pagne, and  Sedgeley's  home-brewed  excels  Tokay. 
Joy,  joy,  my  blood,  though  our  estates  lie  nowhere, 
we  have  fortunes  wherever  we  go.  If  an  inunda- 
tion sweeps  away  half  the  grounds  of  Cornwall,  I 
am  content;  I  have  no  lands  there :  if  the  stocks 
sink,  that  gives  me  no  uneasiness ;  I  am  no  Jew." 
The  fellow's  vivacity,  joined  to  his  poverty,  I  own, 
raised  my  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  life 
and  circumstances ;  and  I  entreated  that  he  would 
indulge  my  desire.  "  That  I  will,  sir,"  said  he, 
•'  and  welcome ;  only  let  us  drink  to  prevent  our 
sleeping;  let  us  have  another  tankard  while  we  are 
awake ;  let  us  have  another  tankard  ;  for,  ah,  how 
charming  a  tankard  looks  when  full ! 

"  You  must  know,  then,  that  I  am  very  well  de- 
scended ;  my  ancestors  have  made  some  noise  in 
the  world ;  for  my  mother  cried  oysters,  and  my 
father  beat  a  drum  :  I  am  told  we  have  even  had 
some  trumpeters  in  our  family.  Many  a  nobleman 
can  not  show  so  respectable  a  genealogy ;  but  that 
is  neither  here  nor  there ;  as  I  was  their  only  child, 
my  father  designed  to  breed  me  up  to  his  own  em- 
ployment, which  was  that  of  drummer  to  a  pup- 
pet-show. Thus  the  whole  employment  of  my 
younger  years  was  that  of  interpreter  to  Punch  and 
King  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  But  though  my 
father  was  very  fond  of  instructing  me  in  beating 
all  the  marches  and  points  of  war,  I  made  no  very 
great  progress,  because  1  naturally  had  no  ear  for 
music;  so,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  I  went  and  listed 
for  a  soldier.  As  I  had  ever  hated  beating  a  drum, 
so  I  soon  found  that  I  disliked  carrying  a  musket 
also ;  neither  the  one  trade  nor  the  other  were  to 
my  taste,  for  I  was  by  nature  fond  of  being  a  gen- 
tleman: besides,  I  was  obliged  to  obey  my  captain; 
he  has  his  will,  I  have  mine,  and  you  have  yours : 
now  I  very  reasonably  concluded,  that  it  was  much 
more  comfortable  for  a  man  to  obey  his  own  will 
than  another's. 

"  The  life  of  a  soldier  soon  therefore  gave  me 
the  spleen ;  I  asked  leave  to  quit  the  service ;  but 
as  I  was  tall  and  strong,  my  captain  thanked  me 
for  my  kind  intention,  and  said,-  because  he  had  a 
regard  for  me,  we  should  not  part.  I  wrote  to  my 
father  a  very  dismal  penitent  letter,  and  desired 
that  he  would  raise  money  to  pay  for  my  discharge ; 
but  the  good  man  was  as  fond  of  drinking  as  I  was 
(sir,  my  service  to  you),  and  those  who  are  fond 
of  drinking  never  pay  for  other  people's  discharges : 
in  short,  he  never  answered  my  letter.  What  could 
be  done7  If  I  have  not  money,  said  I  to  myself, 
to  pay  for  my  discharge,  I  nmst  find  an  equivalent 
some  other  way ;  and  that  must  be  by  running 
away.  I  deserted,  and  that  answered  my  purpose 
every  bit  as  well  as  if  I  had  bought  my  discharge. 

"  Well,  I  was  now  fairly  rid  of  my  military  em- 
ployment; I  sold  my  soldier's  clothes,  bought  worse, 


and  in  order  not  to  be  overtaken,  took  the  most  un- 
frequented roads  possible.  One  evening  as  I  was 
entering  a  village,  I  perceived  a  man,  wnom  I  after 
wards  found  to  be  the  curate  of  the  parish,  thrown 
from  his  horse  in  a  miry  road,  and  almost  smother- 
ed in  the  mud.  He  desired  my  assistance ;  I  gave 
it,  and  drew  him  out  with  some  diflTiculty.  He 
thanked  me  for  my  trouble,  and  was  going  off;  but 
I  followed  him  home,  for  I  loved  always  to  have  a 
man  thank  me  at  his  own  door.  The  curate  ask- 
ed a  hundred  questions;  as  whose  son  I  was;  from 
whence  I  came ;  and  whether  I  would  be  faithful? 
I  answered  him  greatly  to  his  satisfaction ;  and 
gave  myself  one  of  the  best  characters  in  the  world 
for  sobriety  (sir,  I  have  the  honour  of  drinking 
your  health),  discretion,  and  fidelity.  To  make  a 
long  story  short,  he  wanted  a  servant,  and  hired 
me.  With  him  I  lived  but  two  months,  we  did 
not  much  like  each  other :  I  was  fond  of  eating, 
and  he  gave  me  but  little  to  eat ;  1  loved  a  pretty 
girl,  and  the  old  woman,  my  fellow-servant,  was 
ill-natured  and  ugly.  As  they  endeavoured  to 
starve  me  between  them,  I  made  a  pious  resolution 
to  prevent  their  committing  murder :  I  stole  the 
eggs  as  soon  as  they  were  laid  ;  I  emptied  every  un- 
finished bottle  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on ;  what- 
ever eatable  came  in  my  way  was  sure  to  disap- 
pear: in  short,  they  found  I  would  net  do;  so  I 
was  discharged  one  morning,  and  paid  three  shil- 
lings and  sixpence  for  two  months'  wages. 

"While  my  money  was  getting  ready,  I  employ- 
ed myself  in  making  preparations  for  my  departure : 
two  hens  were  hatching  in  an  out-house;  1  went 
and  took  the  eggs  from  habit,  and  not  to  separate 
the  parents  from  the  children,  I  lodged  hens  and 
all  in  my  knapsack.  After  this  piece  of  frugahty, 
I  returned  to  receive  my  money,  and  with  my  knap- 
sack on  my  back,  and  a  staff  in  my  hand,  I  bade 
adieu,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  to  my  old  benefactor. 
I  had  not  gone  far  from  the  house  when  I  heard 
behind  me  the  cry  of  Stop  thief!  but  this  only  in- 
creased my  dispatch :  it  would  have  been  foolish  to 
stop,  as  I  knew  the  voice  could  not  be  levelled  at 
me.  But  hold,  I  think  I  passed  those  two  months 
at  the  curate's  without  drinking.  Come,  the  times 
are  dry,  and  may  this  be  my  poison  if  ever  I  spent 
two  more  pious,  stupid  months  in  all  my  life. 

"  Well,  after  travelling  some  days,  whom  should 
I  light  upon  but  a  company  of  strolling  players. 
The  moment  I  saw  them  at  a  distance,  my  heart 
warmed  to  them ;  I  had  a  sort  of  natural  love  for 
every  thing  of  the  vagabond  order :  they  were  em- 
ployed in  settUng  their  baggage,  which  had  been 
overturned  in  a  narrow  way ;  I  oflfered  my  assist- 
ance, which  they  accepted  ;  and  we  soon  became 
so  well  acquainted,  that  they  took  me  as  a  servant. 
This  was  a  paradise  to  me ;  they  sung,  danced, 
drank,  eat,  and  travelled,  all  at  the  same  time.  By 
the  blood  of  the  Mirabels !  I  thought  I  had  never 


ESSAYS. 


489 


lived  till  then ;  I  grew  as  merry  as  a  grig,  and  laugh- 
ed at  every  word  that  was  spoken.  They  liked 
me  as  much  as  I  liked  them :  1  was  a  very  good 
figure,  as  you  see ;  and,  though  I  was  poor,  I  was 
not  modest. 

"  I  love  a  straggling  life  above  all  things  in  the 
world ;  sometimes  good,  sometimes  bad ;  to  be  warm 
to-day,  and  cold  to-morrow ;  to  eat  when  one  can 
get  it,  and  drink  when  (the  tankard  is  out)  it 
stands  before  me.  We  arrived  that  evening  at 
Tenterden,  and  took  a  large  room  at  the  Grey- 
hound ;  where  we  resolved  to  exhibit  Romeo  and 
JuUet,  with  the  funeral  procession,  the  grave,  and 
the  garden  scene.  Romeo  was  to  be  performed  by 
a  gentleman  from  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury- 
lane ;  Juliet,  by  a  lady  who  had  never  appeared  on 
any  stage  before ;  and  I  was  to  snuff  the  candles : 
all  excellent  in  our  way.  We  had  figures  enough, 
but  the  difficulty  was  to  dress  them.  The  same 
coat  that  served  Romeo,  turned  with  the  blue  lining 
outwards,  served  for  his  friend  Mercutio  :  a  large 
piece  of  crape  sufficed  at  once  for  Juliet's  petticoat 
and  pall :  a  pestle  and  mortar,  from  a  neighbouring 
apothecary's,  answered  all  the  purposes  of  a  bell ; 
and  our  landlord's  own  family,  wrapped  in  white 
sheets,  served  to  fill  up  the  procession.  In  short, 
there  were  but  three  figures  among  us  that  might 
be  said  to  be  dressed  with  any  propriety  :  I  mean 
the  nurse,  the  starved  apothecary,  and  myself.  Our 
performance  gave  universal  satisfaction  :  the  whole 
audience  were  enchanted  with  our  powers. 

"  There  is  one  rule  by  which  a  strolling  player 
may  be  ever  secure  of  success ;  that  is,  in  our  theatri- 
cal way  of  expressing  it,  to  make  a  great  deal  of 
the  character.  To  speak  and  act  as  in  common 
life  is  not  playing,  nor  is  it  what  people  come  to 
see :  natural  speaking,  like  sweet  wine,  runs  glibly 
over  the  palate,  and  scarcely  leaves  any  taste  be- 
hind it ;  but  being  high  in  a  part  resembles  vinegar, 
which  grates  upon  the  taste,  and  one  feels  it  while 
he  is  drinking.  To  please  in  town  or  country,  the 
way  is  to  cry,  wring,  cringe  into  attitudes,  mark 
the  emphasis,  slap  the  pockets,  and  labour  like  one 
in  the  fklling  sickness ;  that  is  the  way  to  work  for 
applause ;  that  is  the  way  to  gain  it. 

"  As  we  received  much  reputation  for  our  skill 
on  this  first  exhibition,  it  was  but  natural  for  me 
to  ascribe  part  of  the  success  to  myself:  I  snuffed 
the  candles,  and  let  me  tell  you,  that,  without  a 
candle-snuffer  the  piece  would  lose  half  its  embel- 
lishments. In  this  manner  we  continued  a  fort- 
night, and  drew  tolerable  houses,  but  the  evening 
before  our  intended  departure,  we  gave  out  our 
very  best  piece,  in  which  all  our  strength  was  to  be 
exerted.  We  had  great  expectations  from  this, 
and  even  doubled  our  prices,  when  behold  one  of 
the  principal  actors  fell  ill  of  a  violent  fever.  This 
was  a  stroke  like  thunder  to  our  little  company : 
they  were  resolved  to  go  in  a  body,  to  scold  the 


man  for  falling  sick  at  so  inconvenient  a  time,  and 
that  too  of  a  disorder  that  threatened  to  be  expen- 
sive ;  I  seized  the  moment,  and  offered  to  act  the 
part  myself  in  his  stead.  The  case  was  desperate ; 
they  accepted  my  offer ;  and  I  accordingly  sat  down, 
with  the  part  in  my  hand  and  a  tankard  before  me 
(sir,  your  health),  and  studied  the  character,  which 
was  to  be  rehearsed  the  next  day,  and  played  soon 
afler. 

"I  found  my  memory  excessively  helped  by 
drinking:  I  learned  my  part  with  astonishing 
rapidity,  and  bade  adieu  to  snuffing  candles  ever 
after.  I  found  that  nature  had  designed  me  for 
more  noble  employments,  and  I  was  resolved  to 
take  her  when  in  the  humour.  We  got  together 
in  order  to  rehearse ;  and  I  informed  my  com- 
panions, masters  now  no  longer,  of  the  surprising 
change  I  felt  within  me.  Let  the  sick  man,  said  I, 
be  under  no  uneasiness  to  get  well  again :  I'll  fill 
his  place  to  universal  satisfaction ;  he  may  even  die 
if  he  thinks  proper  j  I'll  engage  that  he  shall  never 
be  missed.  I  rehearsed  before  them,  strutted,  rant- 
ed, and  received  applause.  They  soon  gave  out 
that  a  new  actor  of  eminence  was  to  appear,  and 
immediately  all  the  genteel  places  were  bespoke. 
Before  I  ascended  the  stage,  however,  I  concluded 
within  myself,  that  as  1  brought  money  to  the 
house,  I  ought  to  have  my  share  in  the  profits. 
Gentlemen,  said  I,  addressing  our  company,  I  don't 
pretend  to  direct  you ;  far  be  it  from  me  to  treat 
you  with  so  much  ingratitude :  you  have  published 
my  name  in  the  bills  with  the  utmost  good -nature, 
and,  as  affairs  stand,  can  not  act  without  me  :  so, 
gentlemen,  to  show  you  my  gratitude,  I  expect  to 
be  paid  for  my  acting  as  much  as  any  of  you,  other- 
wise I  declare  off;  I'll  brandish  my  snuffers,  and 
clip  candles  as  usual.  This  was  a  very  disagree- 
able proposal,  but  they  found  that  it  was  impossible 
to  refuse  it ;  it  was  irresistible,  it  was  adamant : 
they  consented,  and  1  went  on  in  king  Bajazet ;  my 
frowning  brows  bound  with  a  stocking  stuffed  into 
a  turban,  while  on  my  captived  arms  I  brandished 
a  jack-chain.  Nature  seemed  to  have  fitted  me  for 
the  part ;  I  was  tall,  and  had  a  loud  voice  ;  my  very 
entrance  excited  universal  applause ;  I  looked 
round  on  the  audience  with  a  smile,  and  made  a 
most  loW  and  graceful  bow,  for  that  is  the  rule 
among  us.  As  it  was  a  very  passionate  part,  I  in- 
vigorated my  spirits  with  three  full  glasses  (the 
tankard  is  almost  out)  of  brandy.  By  Alia !  it  is 
almost  inconceivable  how  I  went  through  it; 
Tamerlane  was  but  a  fool  to  me ;  though  he  was 
sometimes  loud  enough  too,  yet  I  was  still  louder 
than  he:  but  then,  besides,  I  had  attitudes  in 
abundance ;  in  general  I  kept  my  arms  folded  up 
thus,  upon  the  pit  of  my  stomach  ;  it  is  the  way  at 
Drury-lane,  and  has  always  a  fine  effect.  The 
tankard  would  sink  to  the  bottom  before  I  could 
get  through  the  whole  of  my  merits :  in  short,  I 


490 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


came  off  like  a  prodigy ;  and  such  was  my  success, 
that  1  could  ravish  the  laurels  even  from  a  sirloin 
of  beef.  The  principal  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the 
town  came  to  me,  after  the  play  was  over,  to  com- 
pliment me  upon  my  success;  one  praised  my  voice, 
another  my  person:  upon  my  word,  says  the 
'squire's  lady,  he  will  make  one  of  the  finest  actors 
in  Europe ;  I  say  it,  and  I  think  I  am  something 
of  a  judge. — Praise  in  the  beginning  is  agreeable 
enough,  and  we  receive  it  as  a  favour ;  but  when 
it  comes  in  great  quantities,  we  regard  it  only  as  a 
debt,  which  nothing  but  our  merit  could  extort : 
instead  of  thanking  them,  I  internally  applauded 
myself.  We  were  desired  to  give  our  piece  a 
second  time;  we  obeyed;  and  I  was  applauded  even 
more  than  before. 

"  At  last  we  left  the  town,  in  order  to  be  at  a 
horse-race  at  some  distance  from  thence.  I  shall 
never  think  of  Tenterden  without  tears  of  grati- 
tude and  respect.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen 
there,  take  my  word  for  it,  are  very  good  judges  of 
plays  and  actors.  Come,  let  us  drink  their  healths, 
if  you  please,  sir.  We  quitted  the  town,  1  say  ; 
and  there  was  a  wide  diiference  between  my  com- 
ing in  and  going  out :  I  entered  the  town  a  candle- 
snuffer,  and  I  quitted  it  a  hero ! — Such  is  the  world; 
little  to-day.  and  great  to-morrow.  I  could  say  a 
great  deal  more  upon  that  subject,  something  truly 
sublime,  upon  the  ups  and  downs  of  fortune  ;  but 
it  would  give  us  both  the  spleen,  and  so  I  shall  pass 
it  over. 

"  The  races  were  ended  before  we  arrived  at  the 
next  town,  which  was  no  small  disappointment  to 
our  company  ;  however,  we  were  resolved. to  take 
all  we  could  get.  I  played  capital  characters  there 
too,  and  came  off  with  my  usual  brilliancy.  I 
sincerely  believe  I  should  have  been  the  first  actor 
in  Europe,  had  my  growing  merit  been  properly 
cultivated ;  but  there  came  an  unkindly  frost 
which  nipped  me  in  the  bud,  and  levelled  me  once 
more  down  to  the  common  standard  of  humanity. 
I  played  Sir  Harry  Wildair ;  all  the  country  ladies 
were  charmed :  if  I  but  drew  out  my  snuff-box, 
the  whole  house  was  in  a  roar  of  rapture  ;  when  I 
exercised  my  cudgel,  I  thought  they  would  have 
fallen  into  convulsions. 

"  There  was  here  a  lady  who  had  received  an 
education  of  nine  months  in  London,  and  this 
gave  her  pretensions  to  taste,  which  rendered  her 
the  indisputable  mistress  of  the  ceremonies  where- 
ever  she  came.  She  was  informed  of  my  merits ; 
every  body  praised  me,  yet  she  refused  at  first 
.going  to  see  me  perform :  she  could  not  conceive, 
she  said,  any  thing  but  stuff  from  a  stroller ;  talked 
something  in  praise  of  Garrick,  and  amazed  the 
ladies  with  her  skill  in  enunciations,  tones,  and 
cadences;  she  was  at  last,  however,  prevailed  upon 
to  go ;  and  it  was  privately  intimated  to  me  what 
.a  ]udge  was  to  be  present  at  my  next  exhibition. 


However,  no  way  intimidated,  I  came  on  in  Sir 
Harry,  one  hand  stuck  in  my  breeches,  and  the 
other  in  my  bosom,  as  usual  at  Drury-lane  ;  but 
instead  of  looking  at  me,  I  perceived  the  whole 
audience  had  their  eyes  turned  upon  the  lady  who 
had  been  nine  months  in  London  :  from  her  they 
expected  the  decision  which  was  to  secure  the  ge- 
neral's truncheon  in  my  hand,  or  sink  me  down 
into  a  theatrical  letter-carrier.  I  opened  my  snuff- 
box, and  took  snuff;  the  lady  was  solemn,  and  so 
were  the  rest ;  I  broke  my  cudgel  on  Alderman 
Smuggler's  back ;  still  gloomy,  melancholy  all,  the 
lady  groaned  and  shrugged  her  shoulders:  I  at- 
tempted, by  laughing  myselfj  to  excite  at  least  a 
smile  ;  but  the  devil  a  cheek  could  I  perceive 
wrinkled  into  sympathy ;  I  found  it  would  not  do. 
All  my  good  humour  now  became  forced;  my 
laughter  was  converted  into  hysteric  grinning;  and, 
while  I  pretended  spirits,  my  eye  showed  the  agony 
of  my  heart :  in  short,  the  lady  came  with  an  in- 
tention to  be  displeased,  and  displeased  she  was ; 
my  fame  expired ;  I  am  here,  and — (the  tankard 
is  no  more !)" 


ESSAY  vn. 

Whkn  Catharina  Alexowna,  was  made  em- 
press of  Russia,  the  women  were  in  an  actual  state 
of  bondage ;  but  she  undertook  to  introduce  mixed 
assemblies,  as  in  other  parts  of  Europe ;  she  alter- 
ed the  women's  dress  by  substituting  the  fashions 
of  England;  instead  of  furs,  she  brought  in  the 
use  of  taffeta  and  damask  ;  and  cornets  and  com- 
modes instead  of  caps  of  sable.  The  women  now 
found  themselves  no  longer  shut  up  in  separate 
apartments,  but  saw  company,  visited  each  other, 
and  were  present  at  every  entertainment. 

But  as  the  laws  to  this  effect  were  directed  to  a 
savage  people,  it  is  amusing  enough  to  see  the 
manner  in  which  the  ordinances  ran.  Assemblies 
were  quite  unknown  among  them;  the  czarina 
was  satisfied  with  introducing  them,  for  she  found 
it  impossible  to  render  them  polite.  An  ordinance 
was  therefore  published  according  to  their  notions 
of  breeding,  which,  as  it  is  a  curiosity,  and  has 
never  before  been  printed  that  we  know  of,  we 
shall  give  our  readers. 

"  L  The  person  at  whose  house  the  assembly  is 
to  be  kept,  shall  signify  the  same  by  hanging  out 
a  bill,  or  by  giving  some  other  public  notice,  by 
way  of  advertisement,  to  persons  of  both  sexes. 

"  n.  The  assembly  shall  not  be  open  sooner  than 
four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  nor  continue 
longer  than  ten  at  night. 

"ITT.  The  master  of  the  house  shall  not  ba 
obliged  to  meet  his  guests,  or  conduct  them  out,  ox 
keep  them  company;  but,  though  he  is  exempt 


ESSAYS. 


491 


from  all  this,  he  is  to  find  them  chairs,  candles, 
liquors,  and  all  other  necessaries  that  company 
may  ask  for :  he  is  likewise  to  provide  them  with 
cards,  dice,  and  every  necessary  for  gaming. 

"  IV.  There  shall  be  no  fixed  hour  for  coming 
or  going  away ;  it  is  enough  for  a  person  to  appear 
in  the  assembly. 

"  V.  Every  one  shall  be  free  to  sit,  walk,  or  game, 
as  he  pleases ;  nor  shall  any  one  go  about  to  hin- 
der him,  or  take  exceptions  at  what  he  does,  upon 
pain  of  emptying  the  great  eagle  (a  pint  bowl  full 
of  brandy) ;  it  shall  likewise  be  sufficient,  at  en- 
tering or  retiring,  to  salute- the  company. 

"VI.  Persons  of  distinction,  noblemen,  supe- 
rior officers,  merchants  and  tradesmen  of  note, 
head  workmen  (especially  carpenters),  and  persons 
employed  in  chancery,  are  to  have  liberty  to  enter 
the  assemblies ;  as  likewise  their wivesand children. 

"  VII.  A  particular  place  shall  be  assigned  the 
footmen,  except  those  of  the  house,  that  there  may 
be  room  enough  in  the  apartments  designed  for  the 
assembly. 

"  VIII.  No  ladies  are  to  get  drunk  under  any 
pretence  whatsoever;  nor  shall  gentlemen  be 
drunk  before  nine. 

IX.  Ladies  who  play  at  forfeitures,  questions 
and  commands,  etc.  shall  not  be  riotous :  no  gen- 
tleman shall  attempt  to  force  a  kiss,  and  no  person 
shall  offer  to  strike  a  woman  in  the  assembly, 
under  pain  of  future  exclusion." 

Such  are  the  statutes  upon  this  occasion,  which 
in  their  very  appearance  carry  an  air  of  ridicule 
and  satire.  But  politeness  must  enter  every  coun- 
try by  degrees ;  and  these  rules  resemble  the  breed- 
ing of  a  clown,  awkward  but  sincere. 


ESSAY  VIII. 

SaPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN   BY    THE    ORDINARY   OF 
NEWGATE. 

Man  is  a  most  frail  being,  incapable  of  direct- 
ing his  steps,  unacquainted  with  what  is  to  happen 
in  this  life  ;  and  perhaps  no  man  is  a  more  mani- 
fest instance  of  the  truth  of  this  maxim,  than  Mr. 
The.  Gibber,  just  now  gone  out  of  the  world. 
Such  a  variety  of  turns  of  fortune,  yet  such  a  per- 
severing uniformity  of  conduct,  appears  in  all  that 
happened  in  his  short  span,  that  the  whole  may  be 
looked  upon  as  one  regular  confusion  :  every  action 
of  his  life  was  matter  of  wonder  and  surprise,  and 
his  death  was  an  astonishment. 

This  gentleman  was  born  of  creditable  parents, 
who  gave  him  a  very  good  education,  and  a  great 
deal  of  good  learning,  so  that  he  could  read  and 
write  before  he  was  sixteen.  However,  he  early 
discovered  an  inclination  to  follow  lewd  courses : 


he  refused  to  take  the  advice  of  his  parents,  and 
pursued  the  bent  of  his  inclination  ;  he  played  at 
cards  on  Sundays ;  called  himself  a  gentleman  j 
fell  out  with  his  mother  and  laundress ;  and  even 
in  these  early  days  his  father  was  frequently  heard 
to  observe,  that  young  The. — would  be  hanged. 

As  he  advanced  in  years,  he  grew  more  fond  of 
pleasure ;  would  eat  an  ortolan  for  dinner,  though 
he  begged  the  guinea  that  bought  it;  and  was 
once  known  to  give  three  pounds  for  a  plate  of 
green  peas,  which  he  had  collected  over-night  as 
charity  for  a  friend  in  distress :  he  ran  into  debt 
with  every  body  that  would  trust  him,  and  none 
could  build  a  sconce  better  than  he  ;  so  that  at  last 
his  creditors  swore  with  one  accord  that  The. — 
would  be  hanged. 

But  as  getting  into  debt  by  a  man  who  had  no 
visible  means  but  impudence  for  subsistence,  is  a 
thing  that  every  reader  is  not  acquainted  with,  I 
must  explain  that  point  a  little,  and  that  to  his 
satisfaction. 

There  are  three  ways  of  getting  into  debt ;  first, 
by  pushing  a  face  ;  as  thus :  "You,  Mr.  Lutestring, 
send  me  home  six  yards  of  that  paduasoy,  damme ; 
— but,  harkee,  don't  think  I  ever  intend  to  pay  you 
for  it,  damme."  At  this  the  mercer  laughs  heart- 
ily, cuts  off  the  paduasoy,  and  sends  it  home; 
nor  is  he,  till  too  late,  surprised  to  find  the  gen- 
tleman had  said  nothing  but  truth,  and  kept  his 
word. 

The  second  method  of  running  into  debt  is  called 
fineering ;  which  is  getting  goods  made  up  in  such 
a  fashion  as  to  be  unfit  for  every  other  purchaser ; 
and  if  the  tradesman  refuses  to  give  them  credit, 
then  threaten  to  leave  them  upon  his  hands. 

But  the  third  and  best  method  is  called,  "  Being 
the  good  customer."  The  gentleman  first  buys 
some  trifle,  and  pays  for  it  in  ready  money ;  he 
comes  a  few  days  after  with  nothing  about  him 
but  bank  bills,  and  buys,  we  will  suppose,  a  six 
penny  tweezer-case ;  the  bills  are  too  great  to  be 
changed,  so  he  promises  to  return  punctually  the 
day  after  and  pay  for  what  he  has  bought.  In  this 
promise  he  is  punctual,  and  this  is  repeated  for 
eight  or  ten  times,  till  his  face  is  well  known,  and 
he  has  got  at  last  the  character  of  a  good  cus- 
tomer :  by  this  means  he  gets  credit  for  sometliing 
considerable,  and  then  never  pays  for  it. 

In  all  this,  the  young  man  who  is  the  mihappy 
ubject  of  our  present  reflections  was  very  expert ; 
and  could  face,  fineer,  and  bring  custom  to  a  shop 
with  any  man  in  England :  none  of  his  compan- 
ions could  exceed  him  in  this ;  and  his  very  com- 
panions at  last  said,  that  The. — ^would  be  hanged. 

As  he  grew  old  he  grew  never  the  better  :  he 
loved  ortolans  and  green  peas  as  before ;  he  drank 
gravy-soup  when  he  could  get  it,  and  always  thought 
his  oysters  tasted  best  when  he  got  them  for  no- 
thing, or  which  was  just  the  same,  when  he  bought 


499 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


them  upon  tick ;  thus  the  old  man  kept  up  the 
vices  of  the  youth,  and  what  he  wanted  in  power 
he  made  up  by  inclination ;  so  that  all  the  world 
thought,  that  old  The. — would  be  hanged. 

And  now,  reader,  1  have  brought  him  to  his  last 
scene ;  a  scene  where,  perhaps,  my  duty  should 
have  obliged  me  to  assist.  You  expect,  perhaps, 
his  dying  words,  and  the  tender  farewell  he  took 
of  his  wife  and  children ;  you  expect  an  account 
of  his  coffin  and  white  gloves,  his  i)ious  ejacula- 
tions, and  the  papers  he  left  behind  him.  In  this 
I  can  not  indulge  your  curiosity ;  for,  oh  !  the  mys- 
teries of  Fate,  The. — was  drowned ! 

"  Reader,"  as  Hervey  saith,  "  pause  and  pon- 
der ;  and  ponder  and  pause ;  who  knows  what  thy 
own  end  may  be  !" 


ESSAY  IX. 

I  VAKE  the  liberty  to  communicate  to  the  public 
a  few  loose  thoughts  upon  a  subject,  which,  though 
often  handled,  has  not  yet  in  my  opinion  been  fully 
discussed :  I  mean  national  concord,  or  unanimity, 
which  in  this  kingdom  has  been  generally  consider- 
ed as  a  bare  possibility,  that  existed  no  where  but 
in  speculation.  Such  a  union  is  perhaps  neither 
to  be  expected  nor  wished  for  in  a  country,  whose 
liberty  depends  rather  upon  the  genius  of  the  peo- 
ple, than  upon  any  precautions  which  they  have 
taken  in  a  constitutional  way  for  the  guard  and 
preservation  of  this  inestimable  blessing. 

There  is  a  very  honest  gentleman  with  whom  I 
have  been  acquainted  these  thirty  years,  during 
which  there  has  not  been  one  speech  uttered 
against  the  ministry  in  parliament,  nor  struggle  at 
an  election  for  a  burgess  to  serve  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  nor  a  pamphlet  published  in  opposition 
to  any  measure  of  the  administration,  nor  even  a 
private  censure  passed  in  his  hearing  upon  the 
misconduct  of  any  person  concerned  in  public  af- 
fairs, but  he  is  immediately  alarmed,  and  loudly 
exclaims  against  such  factious  doings,  in  order  to 
set  the  people  by  the  ears  together  at  such  a  deli- 
cate juncture.  "  At  any  other  time  (says  he)  such 
opposition  might  not  be  improper,  and  I  don't 
question  the  facts  that  are  alleged ;  but  at  this  crisis, 
sir,  to  inflame  the  nation! — the  man  deserves  to  be 
punished  as  a  traitor  to  his  country,"  In  a  word, 
according  to  this  gentleman's  opinion,  the  nation 
has  been  in  a  violent  crisis  at  any  time  these  thirty 
years ;  and  were  it  possible  for  him  to  Uve  another 
century,  he  would  never  find  any  period,  at  which 
a  man  might  with  safety  impugn  the  infallibihty  of 
a  minister. 

The  case  is  no  more  than  this :  my  honest  friend 
has  invested  his  whole  fortune  in  the  stocks,  on 
Government  security,  and  trembles  at  every  whiff 
of  popular  discontent.     "Were  every  British  sub- 


ject of  the  same  tame  and  timid  disposition.  Mag- 
na Charta  (to  use  the  coarse  phrase  of  Oliver 
Cromwell)  would  be  no  more  regarded  by  an  am- 
bitious prince  than  Magna  F — ta.  and  the  liber- 
ties of  England  expire  without  a  groan.  Opposi- 
tion, when  restrained  within  due  bounds,  is  the 
salubrious  gale  that  ventilates  the  opinions  of  the 
people,  which  might  otherwise  stagnate  into  the 
most  abject  submission.  It  may  be  said  to  purify 
the  atmosphere  of  politics ;  to  dispel  the  gross  va- 
pours raised  by  the  influence  of  ministerial  artifice 
and  corruption,  until  the  constitution,  like  a  mighty 
rock,  stands  full  disclosed  to  the  view  of  every  in- 
dividual who  dwells  within  the  shade  of  its  protec- 
tion. Even  when  this  gale  blows  with  augmented 
violence,  it  generally  tends  to  the  advantage  of  the 
commonwealth ;  it  awakes  the  apprehension,  and 
consequently  arouses  all  the  faculties  of  the  pilot 
at  the  helm,  who  redoubles  his  vigilance  and  cau- 
tion, exerts  his  utmost  skill,  and,  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  the  nature  of  the  navigation,  in  a 
little  time  learns  to  suit  his  canvass  to  the  rough- 
ness of  the  sea  and  the  trim  of  the  vessel.  With- 
out these  intervening  storms  of  opposition  to  exer- 
cise his  faculties,  he  would  become  enervate,  negli- 
gent, and  presumptuous ;  and  in  the  wantonness 
of  his  power,  trusting  to  some  deceitful  calm,  per- 
haps hazard  a  step  that  would  wreck  the  constitu- 
tion. Yet  there  is  a  measure  in  all  things.  A 
moderate  frost  will  fertilize  the  glebe  with  nitrous 
particles,  and  destroy  the  eggs  of  pernicious  insects 
that  prey  upon  the  infancy  of  the  year;  but  if  this 
frost  increases  in  severity  and  duration,  it  will  chill 
the  seeds,  and  even  freeze  up  the  roots  of  vegeta- 
bles ;  it  will  check  the  bloom,  nip  the  buds,  and 
blast  all  the  promise  of  the  spring.  The  vernal 
breeze  that  drives  the  fogs  before  it,  that  brushes 
the  cobwebs  from  the  boughs,  that  fans  the  air  and 
fosters  vegetation,  if  augmented  to  a  tempest,  will 
strip  the  leaves,  overthrow  the  tree,  and  desolate 
the  garden.  The  auspicious  gale  before  which  the 
trim  vessel  ploughs  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  while  the 
mariners  are  kept  alert  in  duty  and  in  spirits,  if 
converted  to  a  hurricane,  overwhelms  the  crew 
with  terror  and  confusion.  The  sails  are  rent,  the 
cordage  cracked,  the  masts  give  way  ;  the  master 
eyes  the  havock  with  mute  despair,  and  the  vessel 
founders  in  the  storm.  Opposition,  when  confined 
within  its  proper  channels,  sweeps  away  those 
beds  of  soil  and  banks  of  sand  which  corruptive 
power  had  gathered;  but  when  it  overflows  its 
banks,  and  deluges  the  plain,  its  course  is  marked 
by  ruin  and  devastation. 

The  opposition  necessary  in  a  free  state,  like 
that  of  Great  Britain,  is  not  at  all  incompatible 
with  that  national  concord  which  ought  to  unite 
the  people  on  all  emergencies,  in  which  the  general 
safety  is  at  stake.  It  is  the  jealousy  of  patriotism, 
not  the  rancour  of  party  ;  the  warmth  of  candocr. 


ESSAYS. 


493 


not  the  virulence  of  hate ;  a  transient  dispute  among 
friends,  not  an  implacable  feud  that  admits  of  no 
reconciliation.  The  history  of  all  ages  teems  with 
the  fatal  effects  of  internal  discord ;  and  were  his- 
tory and  tradition  annihilated,  common  sense  would 
plainly  point  out  the  mischiefs  that  must  arise 
from  want  of  harmony  and  national  union.  Every 
school-boy  can  have  recourse  to  the  fable  of  the 
rods,  which,  when  united  in  a  bundle,  no  strength 
could  bend ;  but  when  separated  into  single  twigs, 
a  child  could  break  with  ease. 


ESSAY  X. 

I  HAVE  spent  the  greater  part  of  my  life  in  mak- 
ing observations  on  men  and  things,  and  in  pro- 
jecting schemes  for  the  advantage  of  my  country  ; 
and  though  my  labours  met  with  an  ungrateful  re- 
turn, I  will  still  persist  in  my  endeavours  for  its 
service,  like  that  venerable,  unshaken,  and  neglect- 
ed patriot,  Mr.  Jacob  Henriquez,  who,  though  of 
the  Hebrew  nation,  hath  exhibited  a  shining  ex- 
ample of  Christian  fortitude  and  perseverance 
And  here  my  conscience  urges  me  to  confess,  that 
the  hint  upon  which  the  following  proposals  are 
built,  was  taken  from  an  advertisement  of  the  said 
patriot  Henriquez,  in  which  he  gave  the  public  to 
understand,  that  Heaven  had  indulged  him  with 
"  seven  blessed  daughters."  Blessed  they  are,  no 
doubt,  on  account  of  their  own  and  their  father's 
virtues  ;but  more  blessed  may  they  be,  if  the  scheme 
I  offer  should  be  adopted  by  the  legislature. 

The  proportion  which  the  number  of  females 
born  in  these  kingdoms  bears  to  the  male  children, 
is,  1  think,  supposed  to  be  as  thirteen  to  fourteen ; 
but  as  women  are  not  so  subject  as  the  other  sex 
to  accidents  and  intemperance,  in  numbering 
adults  we  shall  find  the  balance  on  the  female  side. 
If,  in  calculating  the  numbers  of  the  people,  we 
take  in  the  multitudes  that  emigrate  to  the  planta- 
tions, whence  they  never  return  ;  those  that  die  at 
sea,  and  malce  their  exit  at  Tyburn  ;  together  with 
the  consumption  of  the  present  war,  by  sea  and 
.land,  in  the  Atlantic,  Mediterranean,  in  the  Ger- 
man and  Indian  Oceans,  in  Old  France,  New 
France,  North  America,  the  Leeward  Islands, 
Germany,  Africa,  and  Asia,  we  may  fairly  state 
the  loss  of  men  during  the  war  at  one  hundred 
thousand.  If  this  be  the  case,  there  must  be  a  su- 
perplus  of  the  other  sex,  amounting  to  the  same 
number,  and  this  superplus  will  consist  of  women 
able  to  bear  arms ;  as  I  take  for  granted,  that  all 
those   who  are   fit  to  bear  children  are  Ukewise 


*  A  man  well  known  at  thisperiod  (1762),  as  well  as  during 
many  preceding  years,  for  the  numerous  schemes  he  was 
daily  offering  to  various  ministers  for  the  purpose  of  raising 
money  by  loans,  paying  off  the  national  encumbrances,  etc. 
etc.  none  of  which,  however,  were  ever  known  to  have  re- 
ceived the  smallest  notice. 


fit  to  bear  arms.  Now,  as  we  have  seen  the  na 
tion  governed  by  old  women,  I  hope  to  make  it  ap- 
pear that  it  may  be  defended  by  young  women ; 
and  surely  this  scheme  will  not  be  rejected  as  un- 
necessary at  such  a  juncture,*  when  our  armies, 
in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  are  in  want  of 
recruits ;  when  we  find  ourselves  entangled  in  a 
new  war  with  Spain,  on  the  eve  of  a  rupture  in 
Italy,  and  indeed  in  a  fair  way  of  being  obliged  to 
make  head  against  all  the  great  potentates  of  Eu- 
rope. 

But,  before  I  unfold  my  design,  it  may  be  ne- 
cessary to  obviate,  from  experience  as  well  as  ar- 
gument, the  objections  which  may  be  made  to  the 
delicate  frame  and  tender  disposition  of  the  female 
sex,  rendering  them  incapable  of  the  toils,  and  in- 
superably averse  to  the  horrors  of  war.  All  the 
world  has  heard  of  the  nation  of  Amazons,  who 
inhabited  the  banks  of  the  river  Thermodon  in 
Cappadocia ;  who  expelled  their  men  by  force  of 
arms,  defended  themselves  by  their  own  prowess, 
managed  the  reigns  of  government,  prosecuted  the 
operations  in  war,  and  held  the  other  sex  in  the  ut- 
most contempt.  We  are  informed  by  Homer,  that 
Penthesilea,  queen  of  the  Amazons,  acted  as  aux- 
iliary to  Priam,  and  fell,  valiantly  fighting  in  his 
cause,  before  the  walls  of  Troy.  Q,uintius  Curtius 
tells  us,  that  Thalestris  brought  one  hundred  armed 
Amazons  in  a  present  to  Alexander  the  Great 
Diodorus  Siculus  expressly  says,  there  was  a  na- 
tion of  female  warriors  in  Africa,  who  fought 
against  the  Libyan  Hercules.  We  read  in  the 
voyages  of  Columbus,  that  one  of  the  Caribbee 
Islands  was  possessed  by  a  tribe  of  female  warriors, 
who  kept  all  the  neighbouring  Indians  in  awe ; 
but  we  need  not  go  farther  than  our  own  age  and 
country  to  prove,  that  the  spirit  and  constitution 
of  the  fair  sex  are  equal  to  the  dangers  and  fatigues 
of  war.  Every  novice  who  has  read  the  authentic 
and  important  History  of  the  Pirates,  is  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  exploits  of  two  heroines,  called 
Mary  Read  and  Anne  Bonny.  I  myself  have  had 
the  honour  to  drink  with  Anne  Gassier,  alias  mo- 
ther Wade,  who  had  distinguished  herself  among 
the  Buccaneers  of  America,  and  in  her  old  age 
kept  a  punch-house  in  Port-Royal  of  Jamaica.  I 
have  likewise  conversed  with  Moll  Davis,  who  had 
served  as  a  dragoon  in  all  queen  Anne's  wars,  and 
was  admitted  on  the  pension  of  Chelsea.  The  late 
war  with  Spain,  and  even  the  present,  hath  pro- 
duced instances  of  females  enlisting  both  in  the  land 
and  sea  service,  and  behaving  with  remarkable 
bravery  in  the  disguise  of  the  other  sex.  And  who 
has  not  heard  of  the  celebrated  Jenny  Cameron, 
and  some  other  enterprising  ladies  of  North  Britain, 
who  attended  a  certain  Adventurer  in  all  his  ex- 
peditions, and  headed  their  respective  clans  In  a 


In  the  year  17C2. 


494 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


military  character  1  That  strength  of  body  is  often 
equal  to  the  courage  of  mind  implanted  in  the  fair 
sex,  will  not  be  denied  by  those  who  have  seen  the 
water-women  of  Plymouth ;  the  female  drudges 
of  Ireland,  Wales,  and  Scotland ,  the  fish- women 
of  Billingsgate;  the  weeders,  podders,  and  hoppers, 
who  swarm  in  the  fields;  and  the  hunters  who 
swagger  in  the  streets  of  London :  not  to  mention 
the  indefatigable  trulls  who  follow  the  camp,  and 
keep  up  with  the  line  of  march,  though  loaded  with 
bantlings  and  other  baggage. 

There  is  scarcely  a  street  in  this  metropolis 
without  one  or  more  viragos,  who  discipline  their 
husbands  and  domineer  over  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood. Many  months  are  not  elapsed  since  I  was 
witness  to  a  pitched  battle  between  two  athletic  fe- 
males, who  fought  with  equal  skill  and  fury  until 
one  of  them  gave  out,  after  having  sustained  seven 
falls  on  the  hard  stones.  They  were  both  stripped 
to  the  under  petticoat ;  their  breasts  were  carefully 
Bwathed  with  handkerchiefs ;  and  as  no  vestiges  of 
features  were  to  be  seen  in  either  when  I  came  up, 
I  imagined  the  combatants  were  of  the  other  sex, 
until  a  bystander  assured  me  of  the  contrary,  giv- 
ing me  to  understand,  that  the  conqueror  had  lain- 
in  about  five  weeks  of  twin-bastards,  begot  by  her 
second,  who  was  an  Irish  chairman.  When  I  see 
the  avenues  of  the  Strand  beset  every  night  with 
troops  of  fierce  Amazons,  who,  with  dreadful  im- 
precations, stop,  and  beat  and  plunder  passengers, 
I  can  not  help  wishing  that  such  martial  talents 
were  converted  to  the  benefit  of  the  public ;  and 
that  those  who  are  so  loaded  with  temporal  fire, 
and  so  little  afraid  of  eternal  fire,  should,  instead 
of  ruining  the  souls  and  bodies  of  their  fellow-citi- 
zens, be  put  in  a  way  of  turning  their  destructive 
qualities  against  the  enemies  of  the  nation. 

Having  thus  demonstrated  that  the  fair  sex  are 
not  deficient  in  strength  and  resolution,  I  would 
humbly  propose,  that-as  there  is  an  excess  on  their 
side  in  quantity  to  the  amount  of  one  hundred 
thousand,  part  of  that  number  may  be  employed 
in  recruiting  the  army  as  well  as  in  raising  thirty 
new  Amazonian  regiments,  to  be  commanded  by 
females,  and  serve  in  regimentals  adapted  to  their 
sex.  The  Amazons  of  old  appeared  with  the  left 
breast  bare,  an  open  jacket,  and  trowsers  that  de- 
scended no  farther  than  the  knee ;  the  right  breast 
was  destroyed,  that  it  might  not  impede  them  in 
bending  the  bow,  or  darting  the  javelin  :  but  there 
is  no  occasion  for  this  cruel  excision  in  the  present 
discipline,  as  we  have  seen  instances  of  women 
who  handle  the  musket,  without  finding  any  in- 
lionvenience  from  that  protuberance. 

As  the  sex  love  gaiety,  they  may  be  clothed  in 
vests  of  pink  satin  and  open  drawers  of  the  same, 
with  buskins  on  their  feet  and  legs,  their  hair  tied 
behind  and  floating  on  their  shoulders,  and  their 
hats  adorned  with  white  feathers :  tliey  may  be 


armed  with  light  carbines  and  long  bayonets,  with* 
out  the  encumbrance  of  swords  or  shoulder-belts. 
I  make  no  doubt  but  many  young  ladies  of  figure 
and  fashion  will  undertake  to  raise  companies  at 
their  own  expense,  provided  they  like  their  colo- 
nels; but  I  must  insist  upon  it,  if  this  scheme 
should  be  embraced,  that  Mr.  Henriquez's  seven 
blessed  daughters  may  be  provided  with  commis- 
sions, as  the  project  is  in  some  measure  owing  to 
the  hints  of  that  venerable  patriot.  I  moreover 
give  it  as  my  opinion,  that  Mrs.  Kitty  Fisher* 
shall  have  the  command  of  a  battalion,  and  the 
nomination  of  her  own  office'rs,  provided  she  will 
warrant  them  all  sound,  and  be  content  to  wear 
proper  badges  of  distinction. 

A  female  brigade,  properly  disciplined  and  ac- 
coutred, would  not,  I  am  persuaded,  be  afraid  to 
charge  a  numerous  body  of  the  enemy,  over  whom 
they  would  have  a  manifest  advantage ;  for  if  the 
barbarous  Scythians  were  ashamed  to  fight  with 
the  Amazons  who  invaded  them,  surely  the  French, 
who  pique  themselves  on  their  sensibility  and  de- 
votion to  the  fair  sex,  would  not  act  upon  the  of- 
fensive against  a  band  of  female  warriors,  arrayed 
in  all  the  charms  of  youth  and  beauty. 


ESSAY  XI. 

As  I  am  one  of  that  sauntering  tribe  of  mortals, 
who  spend  the  greatest  part  of  their  time  in  taverns, 
cofifee-houses,  and  other' places  of  public  resort,  I 
have  thereby  an  opportunity  of  observing  an  in- 
finite variety  of  characters,  which,  to  a  person  of  a 
contemplative  turn,  is  a  much  higher  entertain- 
ment than  a  view  of  all  the  curiosities  of  art  or  na- 
ture. In  one  of  these  my  late  rambles,  I  accident- 
ally fell  into  the  company  of  half  a  dozen  gentle- 
men, who  were  engaged  in  a  warm  dispute  about 
some  political  affair ;  the  decision  of  which,  as  they 
were  equally  divided  in  their  sentiments,  they 
thought  proper  to  refer  to  me,  which  naturally  drew 
me  in  for  a  share  of  the  conversation. 

Amongst  a  multiplicity  of  other  topics,  we  took 
occasion  to  talk  of  the  different  characters  of  the 
several  nations  of  Europe ;  when  one  of  the  gentle- 
men, cocking  his  hat,  and  assuming  such  an  air  of 
importance  as  if  he  had  possessed  all  the  merit  of 
the  English  nation  in  his  own  person,  declared,  that 
the  Dutch  were  a  parcel  of  avaricious  wretches ; 
the  French  a  set  of  flattering  sycophants ;  that  the 
Germans  were  drunken  sots,  and  beastly  gluttons ; 
and  the  Spaniards  proud,  haughty,  and  surly 
tyrants  ;  but  that  in  bravery,  generosity,  clemency, 
and  in  every  other  virtue,  the  English  excelled"all 
the  rest  of  the  world. 

This  very  learned  and  judicious  remark  was 


'  A  celebrated  courtezan  of  that  time. 


ESSA  FS. 


4if5 


received  with  a  general  smile  of  approbation  by  all 
the  company — all,  I  mean,  but  your  humble  ser- 
vant ;  who,  endeavouring  to  keep  my  gravity  as 
well  as  I  could,  and  reclining  my  head  upon  my 
arm,  continued  for  some  time  in  a  posture  of  affect- 
ed thoughtfulness,  as  if  I  had  been  musing  on 
something  else,  and  did  not  seem  to  attend  to  the 
subject  of  conversation ;  hoping  by  these  means  to 
avoid  the  disagreeable  necessity  of  explaining  my- 
self, and  thereby  depriving  the  gentleman  of  his 
imaginary  happiness. 

But  my  pseudo-patriot  had  no  mind  to  let  me 
escape  so  easily.  Not  satisfied  that  his  opinion 
should  pass  without  contradiction,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  have  it  ratified  by  the  suffrage  of  every 
one  in  the  company ;  for  which  purpose,  addressing 
himself  to  me  with  an  air  of  inexpressible  confi- 
dence, he  asked  me  if  I  was  not  of  the  same  way 
of  thinking.  As  I  am  never  forward  in  giving  my 
opinion,  especially  when  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  it  will  not  be  agreeable ;  so,  when  I  am  obliged 
to  give  it,  I  always  hold  it  for  a  maxim  to  speak 
my  real  sentiments.  I  therefore  told  him,  that,  for 
my  own  part,  1  should  not  have  ventured  to  talk 
in  such  a  peremptory  strain,  unless  I  had  made  the 
tour  of  Europe,  and  examined  the  manners  of  these 
several  nations  with  great  care  and  accuracy ;  that 
perhaps  a  more  impartial  judge  would  not  scruple 
to  affirm,  that  the  Dutch  were  more  frugal  and  in- 
dustrious, the  French  more  temperate  and  polite, 
the  Germans  more  hardy  and  patient  of  labour  and 
fatigue,  and  the  Spaniards  more  staid  and  sedate, 
than  the  EngUsh ;  who,  though  undoubtedly  brave 
and  generous,  were  at  the  same  time  rash,  head- 
strong, and  impetuous;  too  apt  to  be  elated  with 
prosperity,  and  to  despond  in  adversity. 

I  could  easily  perceive,  that  all  the  company  be- 
gan to  regard  me  with  a  jealous  eye  before  I  had 
finished  my  answer,  which  I  had  no  sooner  done, 
than  the  patriotic  gentleman  observed,  with  a  con- 
temptuous sneer,  that  he  was  greatly  surprised  how 
some  people  could  have  the  conscience  to  Uve  in  a 
country  which  they  did  not  love,  and  to  enjoy  the 
protection  of  a  government,  to  which  in  their 
hearts  they  were  inveterate  enemies.  Finding  that 
by  this  modest  declaration  of  my  sentiments  I  had 
forfeited  the  good  opinion  of  my  companions,  and 
given  them  occasion  to  call  my  political  principles 
in  question,  and  well  knowing  that  it  was  in  vain 
to  argue  with  men  who  were  so  very  full  of  them- 1 
selves,  I  threw  down  my  reckoning,  and  retired  | 
to  my  own  lodgings,  reflecting  on  the  absurd  and 
ridiculous  nature  of  national  prejudice  and  prepos- 
session. 

Among  all  the  famous  sayings  of  antiquity, 
there  is  none  that  does  greater  honour  to  the  author,  | 
or  affords  greater  pleasure  to  the  reader  (at  least  if 
he  be  a  person  of  a  generous  and  benevolent  heart),  j 
than  that  of  the  philosopher,  who,  being  asked 


what  "countryman  he  was,"  replied,  that  he  was 
"a  citizen  of  the  world."  How  few  are  there  to 
be  found  in  modern  times  who  can  say  the  same, 
or  whose  conduct  is  consistent  with  such  a  pro- 
fession !  We  are  now  become  so  much  English- 
men, Frenchmen,  Dutchmen,  Spaniards,  or  Ger- 
mans, that  we  are  no  longer  citizens  of  the  world ; 
so  much  the  natives  of  one  particular  spot,  or 
members  of  one  petty  society,  that  we  no  longer 
consider  ourselves  as  the  general  inhabitants  of  the 
globe,  or  members  of  that  grand  society  which  com- 
prehends the  whole  human  kind. 

Did  these  prejudices  prevail  only  among  tho 
meanest  and  lowest  of  the  people,  perhaps  they 
might  be  excused,  as  they  have  few,  if  any,  oppor- 
tunities of  correcting  them  by  reading,  travelling, 
or  conversing  with  foreigners ;  but  the  misfortune 
is,  that  they  infect  the  minds,  and  influence  the 
conduct,  even  of  our  gentlemen ;  of  those,  I  mean, 
who  have  every  title  to  this  appellation  but  an  ex- 
emption from  prejudice,  which,  however,  in  my 
opinion,  ought  to  be  regarded  as  the  characteristi- 
cal  mark  of  a  gentleman;  for  let  a  man's  birth  be 
ever  so  high,  his  station  ever  so  exalted,  or  his  for- 
tune ever  so  large,  yet  if  he  is  not  free  from  nation- 
al and  other  prejudices,  I  should  make  bold  to  tell 
him,  that  he  had  a  low  and  vulgar  mind,  and  had 
no  just  claim  to  the  character,  of  a  gentleman. 
And,  in  fact,  you  will  always  find  that  those  are 
most  apt  to  boast  of  national  merit,  who  have  little 
or  no  merit  of  their  own  to  depend  on ;  than  which, 
to  be  sure,  nothing  is  more  natural :  the  slender 
vine  twists  around  the  sturdy  oak,  for  no  other 
reason  in  the  world  but  because  it  has  not  strength 
sufficient  to  support  itself. 

Should  it  be  alleged  in  defence  of  national  pre- 
judice, that  it  is  the  natural  and  necessary  growth 
of  love  to  our  country,  and  that  therefore  the  form- 
er can"  not  be  destroyed  without  hurting  the  latter, 
I  answer,  that  this  is  a  gross  fallacy  and  delusion. 
That  it  is  the  growth  of  love  to  our  country,  I  will 
allow;  but  that  it  is  the  natural  and  necessary 
growth  of  it,  I  absolutely  deny.  Superstition  and 
enthusiasm  too  are  the  growth  of  religion ;  but  who 
ever  took  it  in  his  head  to  affirm,  that  they  are  the 
necessary  growth  of  this  noble  principle?  They 
are,  if  you  will,  the  bastard  sprouts  of  this  heavenly 
plant,  but  not  its  natural  and  genuine  branches, 
and  may  safely  enough  be  lopped  off,  without  do- 
ing an}?  harm  to  the  parent  stock  :  nay,  perhaps, 
till  once  they  are  lopped  off,  this  goodly  tree  can 
never  flourish  in  perfect  health  and  vigour. 

Is  it  not  very  possible  that  I  may  love  my  own 
country,  without  hating  the  natives  of  other  coun- 
tries? that  I  may  exert  the  most  heroic  bravery,  the 
most  undaunted  resolution,  in  defending  its  laws 
and  liberty,  without  despising  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  as  cowards  and  poltroons?  Most  certainly 
it  is ;  and  if  it  were  not — But  why  need  I  suppose 


496 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


what  is  absolutely  impossible? — But  if  it  were  not, 
I  must  own,  I  should  prefer  the  title  of  the  ancient 
philosopher,  viz.  a  citizen  of  the  world,  to  that  of 
an  Englishman,  a  Frenchman,  a  European,  or  to 
any  other  appellation  whatever. 


ESSAY  XII. 

Amidst  the  frivolous  pursuits  and  pernicious 
dissipations  of  the  present  age,  a  respect  for  the 
qualities  of  the  understanding  still  prevails  to  such 
a  degree,  that  almost  every  individual  pretends  to 
have  a  taste  for  the  Belles  Lettres.  The  spruce 
'prentice  sets  up  for  a  critic,  and  the  puny  beau 
piques  himself  upon  being  a  connoisseur.  With- 
out assigning  causes  for  this  universal  presumption, 
we  shall  proceed  to  observe,  that  if  it  was  attended 
with  no  other  inconvenience  than  that  of  exposing 
the  pretender  to  the  ridicule  of  those  few  who  can 
sift  his  pretensions,  it  might  be  unnecessary  to  un- 
deceive the  public,  or  to  endeavour  at  the  reforma- 
tion of  innocent  folly,  productive  of  no  evil  to  the 
commonwealth.  But  in  reality  this  folly  is  pro- 
ductive of  manifold  evils  to  the  community.  If  the 
reputation  of  taste  can  be  acquired,  without  the 
least  assistance  of  literature,  by  reading  modern 
^'  poems,  and  seeing  modern  plays,  what  person  will 
^  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  such  an  easy  qualifi- 
cation? Hence  the  youth  of  both  sexes  are  de- 
bauched to  diversion,  and  seduced  from  much  more 
profitable  occupations  into  idle  endeavours  after 
literary  fame ;  and  a  superficial  false  taste,  founded 
on  ignorance  and  conceit,  takes  possession  of  the 
public.  The  acquisition  of  learning,  the  study  of 
nature,  is  neglected  as  superfluous  labour ;  and  the 
best  faculties  of  the  mind  remain  unexercised,  and 
indeed  unopened,  by  the  power  of  thought  and  re- 
flection. False  taste  will  not  only  diffuse  itself 
through  all  our  amusements,  but  even  influence 

/our  moral  and  political  conduct ;  for  what  is  false 
taste,  but  want  of  perception  to  discern  propriety 
and  distinguish  beauty? 

It  has  been  often  alleged,  that  taste  is  a  natural 
talent,  as  independent  of  art  as  strong  eyes,  or  a 
delicate  sense  of  smelling  ;  an^,  without  all  doubt, 
the  principal  ingredient  in  the  composition  of  taste 
is  a  natural  sensibility,  without  which  it  can  not 
exist ;  but  it  differs  from  the  senses  in  this  particu- 
lar, that  they  are  finished  by  nature,  whereas  taste 
can  not  be  brought  to  perfection  without  proper 
cultivation ;  for  taste  pretends  to  judge  not  only  of 
nature  but  also  of  art ;  and  that  judgment  is  found- 
ed upon  observation  and  comparison. 

What  Horace  has  said  of  genius  is  still  more 
applicable  to  taste. 

Natura  fieret  laudabile  carmen,  an  arte, 
t^uaeeitum  est.  Ego  nee  studiiim  sine  divlte  rena, 


Nee  rude  quid  possit  video  Ingenium :  alteriue  sic 
Altera  poscit  opem  res,  et  conjiirat  amice. 

Hor.  Ars.  Poet. 

'Tis  long  disputed,  whether  poets  claim 
From  art  or  nature  their  best  right  to  fame ; 
But  art  if  not  enrich'd  by  nature's  vein, 
And  a  rude  genius  of  uncultured  strain, 
Are  useless  both ;  but  when  in  friendship  join'd, 
A  mutual  succour  in  each  other  find. 

Frandg. 

We  have  seen  genius  shine  without  the  help  of  t^ 
an-t,  but  taste  must  be  cultivated  by  art,  before  it 
will  produce  agreeable  fruit.  This,  however,  w» 
must  still  inculcate  with  Cluintilian,  that  study, 
precept,  and  observation,  will  nought  avail,  without 
the  assistance  of  nature :  Illud  tamen  imprimia 
testandum  est,  nihil  prcecepta  atque  artes  valere^ 
nisi  adjuvante  naiwd. 

Yet  even  though  nature  has  done  her  part,  by 
implanting  the  seeds  of  taste,  great  pains  must  be 
taken,  and  great  skill  exerted,  in  raising  them  to  a 
proper  pitch  of  vegetation.  The  judicious  tutor 
must  gradually  and  tenderly  unfold  the  mental 
faculties  of  the  youth  committed  to  his  charge.  He 
must  cherish  his  deUcate  perception;  store  his 
mind  with  proper  ideas ;  point  out  the  different 
channels  of  observation ;  teach  him  to  compare  ob- 
jects, to  establish  the  limits  of  right  and  wrong,  of 
truth  and  falsehood ;  to  distinguish  beauty  from 
tinsel,  and  grace  from  affectation ;  in  a  word,  to 
strengthen  and  improve  by  culture,  experience,  and 
instruction,  those  natural  powers  of  feeUng  and  sa- 
gacity which  constitute  the  faculty  called  taste,  and 
enable  the  professor  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  the 
Belles  Lettres. 

We  can  not  agree  in  opinion  with  those  who  ^^ 
imagine,  that  nature  has  been  equally  favourable 
to  all  men,  in  conferring  upon  them  a  fundamental 
capacity,  which  may  be  improved  to  all  the  refine- 
ment of  taste  and  criticism.  Every  day's  experience 
convinces  us  of  the  contrary.  Of  two  youths  edu- 
cated under  the  same  preceptor,  instructed  with 
the  same  care,  and  cultivated  with  the  same  as- 
siduity, one  shall  not  only  comprehend,  but  even 
anticipate  the  lessons  of  his  master,  by  dint  of  na- 
tural discernment,  while  the  other  toils  in  vain  to 
imbibe  the  least  tincture  of  instruction.  Such  in- 
deed is  the  distinction  between  genius  and  stu 
pidity,  which  every  man  has  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing among  his  friends  and  acquaintance.  Not  that 
we  ought  too  hastily  to  decide  upon  the  natural  ca- 
pacities of  children,  before  we  have  maturely  con- 
sidered the  peculiarity  of  disposition,  and  the  bias 
by  which  genius  may  be  strangely  warped  from 
the  common  path  of  education.  A  youth  incapa- 
ble of  retaining  one  rule  of  grammar,  or  of  acquiring 
the  least  knowledge  of  the  classics,  may  neverthe- 
less make  great  progress  in  mathematics ;  nay,  he 
may  have  a  strong  genius  for  the  matheniatioe 


ESSAYS. 


497 


without  being  able  to  comprehend  a  demon- 
stration of  Euclid;  because  his  mind  conceives  in 
a  peculiar  manner,  and  is  so  intent  upon  contem- 
plating the  object  in  one  particular  point  of  view, 
that  it  can  not  perceive  it  in  any  other.  We  have 
known  an  instance  of  a  boy,  who,  while  his  mas- 
ter complained  that  he  had  not  capacity  to  com- 
prehend the  properties  of  a  right-angled  triangle, 
had  actually,  in  private,  by  the  power  of  his  ge- 
nius, formed  a  mathematical  system  of  his  own, 
discovered  a  series  of  curious  theorems,  and  even 
applied  his  deductions  to  practical  machines  of 
surprising  construction.  Besides,  in  the  education 
of  youth,  we  ought  to  remember,  that  some  capa- 
cities are  like  the  'pyra  prcBcocia  ;  they  soon  blow, 
and  soon  attain  to  all  that  degree  of  maturity 
which  they  are  capable  of  acquiring ;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  geniuses  of  slow  growth, 
that  are  late  in  bursting  the  bud,  and  long  in  ri- 
pening. Yet  the  first  shall  yield  a  faint  blossom 
and  insipid  fruit;  whereas  the  produce  of  the 
other  shall  be  distinguished  and  admired  for  its 
well-concocted  juice  and  excellent  flavour.  We 
have  known  a  boy  of  five  years  of  age  sur- 
pnse  every  body  by  playing  on  the  violin  in  such 
a  manner  as  seemed  to  promise  a  prodigy  in  mu- 
sic. He  had  all  the  assistance  that  art  oould 
afford ;  by  the  age  of  ten  his  genius  was  at  the 
acme :  yet,  after  that  period,  notwithstanding  the 
most  intense  application,  he  never  gave  the  least 
signs  of  improvement.  At  six  he  was  admired  as 
a  miracle  of  music;  at  six-and-twenty  he  was 
neglected  as  an  ordinary  fiddler.  The  celebrated 
Dean  Swift  was  a  remarkable  instance  in  the  other 
extreme.  He  was  long  considered  as  an  incor- 
rigible dunce,  and  did  not  obtain  his  degree  at  the 
University  but  ex  speciali  gratia ;  yet,  when  his 
powers  began  to  unfold,  he  signalized  himself  by 
a  very  remarkable  superiority  of  genius.  When 
a  youth,  therefore,  appears  dull  of  apprehension, 
and  seems  to  derive  no  advantage  from  study  and 
instruction,  the  tutor  must  exercise  his  sagacity  in 
discovering  whether  the  soil  be  absolutely  barren, 
or  sown  with  seed  repugnant  to  its  nature,  or  of 
such  a  quality  as  requires  repeated  culture  and 
length  of  time  to  set  its  juices  in  fermentation. 
These  observations,  however,  relate  to  capacity  in 


from  taste.  Capacity  implies  the  power  of  retaiji 
ing  what  is  received ;  taste  is  the  power  of  relish- 
ing or  rejecting  whatever  is  offered  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  imagination.  A  man  may  have 
capacity  to  acquire  what  is  called  learning  and 
philosophy ;  but  he  must  have  also  sensibility,  be- 
fore he  feels  those  emotions  with  which  taste  re- 
ceives the  impressions  of  beauty. 

Natural  taste  is  apt  to  be  seduced  and  debauched 
by  vicious  precept  and  bad  example.     There  is  a 
dangerous  tinsel  in  false  taste,  by  which  the  un- 
32 


wary  mind  and  young  imagination  are  often  fasci- 
nated. Nothing  has  been  so  often  explained,  and 
yet  so  little  understood,  as  simplicity  in  writing. 
Simplicity  in  this  acceptation  has  a  larger  signifi- 
cation than  either  the  d^rxooy  of  the  Greeks,  or  the 
simplex  of  the  Latins ;  for  it  implies  beauty.  It 
is  the  avhooy  xai  iufuf  of  Demetrius  Phalereus,  the 
simplex  munditiis  of  Horace,  and  expressed  by 
one  word,  naivete^  in  the  French  language.  It  is, 
in  fact,  no  other  than  beautiful  nature,  without  af- 
fectation or  extraneous  ornament.  In  statuary,  it 
is  the  Venus  of  Medicis  ;  in  architecture,  the  Pan- 
theon. It  would  be  an  endless  task  to  enumerate 
all  the  instances  of  this  natural  simplicity  that  oc- 
cur in  poetry  and  painting,  among  the  ancients 
and  moderns.  We  shall  only  mention  two  exam- 
ples of  it,  the  beauty  of  which  consists  in  the  pa- 
thetic. 

Anaxagoras  the  philosopher,  and  preceptor  of 
Pericles,  being  told  that  both  his  sons  were  dead, 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  after  a  short 
pause,  consoled  himself  with  a  reflection  couched 
in  three  words,  nhn  ^movs  yrymaime,  "  I  knew 
they  were  mortal."  The  other  instance  we  select 
from  the  tragedy  of  Macbeth.  The  gallant  Mac- 
duflf,  being  informed  that  his  wife  and  children 
were  murdered  by  order  of  the  tyrant,  pulls  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  his  internal  agony  bursts  out 
into  an  exclamation  of  four  words,  the  most  ex- 
pressive perhaps  that  ever  were  uttered :  "  He  has 
no  children."  This  is  the  energetic  language  of 
simple  nature,  which  is  now  grown  into  disrepute. 
By  the  present  mode  of  education,  we  are  forci- 
bly warped  from  the  bias  of  nature,  and  all  sim- 
plicity in  manners  is  rejected.  We  are  taught  to 
disguise  and  distort  our  sentiments,  until  the 
faculty  of  thinking  is  diverted  into  an  unnatural 
channel ;  and  we  not  only  relinquish  and  forget, 
but  also  become  incapable  of  our  original  disposi- 
tions. We  are  totally  changed  into  creatures  of 
art  and  affectation.  Our  perception  is  abused,  and 
even  our  senses  are  perverted.  Our  minds  lose 
their  native  force  and  flavour.  The  imagination, 
sweated  by  artificial  fire,  produces  nought  but  vapid 
bloom.  The  genius,  instead  of  growing  like  a 
vigorous  tree,  extending  its  branches  on  every  side, 
and  bearing  delicious  fruit,  resembles  a  stunted 


general,  which  we  ought  carefully  to  distinguish  ^ew,  tortured  into  some  wretched  form,  projecting 
fi.^rv,  tocf^      r'-,r^o^;tx7  imniioa  fVio  nnw^r  nf  rotainJf  jjo  shadc,  displaying  no  flower,  diffusing  no  frag- 


rance, yielding  no  fruit,  and  affording  nothing  but 
a  barren  conceit  for  the  amusement  of  the  idle 
spectator. 

Thus  debauched  from  nature,  how  can  we  rel- 
ish her  genuine  productions  1  As  well  might  a 
man  distinguish  objects  through  a  prism,  that  pre- 
sents nothing  but  a  variety  of  colours  to  the  eye ; 
or  a  maid  pining  in  the  green  sickness  prefer  a 
biscuit  to  a  cinder.  It  has  been  often  alleged,  that 
the  passions  can  never  be  wholly  deposited;  and 


498 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


that,  by  appealing  to  these,  a  good  writer  will  al- 
ways be  able  to  force  himself  into  the  hearts  of  his 
readers :  but  even  the  strongest  passions  are  weak- 
ened, nay,  sometimes  totally  extinguished,  by  mu- 
tual opposition,  dissipation  and  acquired  insensi 
bility.  How  often  at  the  theatre  is  the  tear  of 
sympathy  and  the  burst  of  laughter  repressed  by 
a  ridiculous  species  of  pride,  refusing  approbation 
to  the  author  and  actor,  and  renouncing  society 
with  the  audience  !  This  seeming  insensibility  is 
not  owing  to  any  original  defect.  Nature  has 
stretched  the  string,  though  it  has  long  ceased  to 
vibrate.  It  may  have  been  displaced  and  distract 
ed  by  the  violence  of  pride ;  it  may  have  lost  its 
tone  through  long  disuse;  or  be  so  twisted  or 
overstrained  as  to  produce  the  most  jarring  dis- 
cords. 

If  so  little  regard  is  paid  to  nature  when  she 
knocks  so  powerfully  at  the  breast,  she  must  be  al- 
together neglected  and  despised  in  her  calmer  mood 
of  serene  tranquillity,  when  nothing  appears  to 
recommend  her  but  simplicity,  jferopriety,  and  in- 
nocence. A  person  must  have  delicate  feelings 
that  can  taste  the  celebrated  repartee  in  Terence  : 
Homo  sum;  nihil  humani  a  me  alienum  puto : 
"1  am  a  man  ;  therefore  think  I  have  an  interest 
in  every  thing  that  concerns  humanity."  A  clear 
blue  sky,  spangled  with  stars,  will  prove  an  insipid 
object  to  eyes  accustomed  to  the  glare  of  torches 
and  tapers,  gilding  and  glitter ;  eyes  that  will  turn 
with  disgust  from  the  green  mantle  of  the  spring, 
so  gorgeously  adorned  with  buds  and  foliage,  flow- 
ers and  blossoms,  to  contemplate  a  gaudy  silken 
robe,  striped  and  intersected  with  unfriendly  tints, 
that  fritter  the  masses  of  light,  and  distract  the  vi- 
sion, pinked  into  the  most  fantastic  forms,  flounced, 
and  furbelowed,  and  fringed  with  all  the  littleness 
of  art  unknown  to  elegance. 

Those  ears  that  are  offended  by  the  notes  of  the 
thrush,  the  blackbird,  and  the  nightingale,  will  be 
regaled  and  ravished  by  the  squeaking  fiddle  touch- 
ed by  a  musician,  who  has  no  other  genius  than 
that  which  lies  in  his  fingers ;  they  will  even  be 
entertained  with  the  rattling  of  coaches,  and  the 
alarming  knock,  by  which  the  doors  of  fashionable 
people  are  so  loudly  distinguished.  The  sense  of 
smelUng,  that  delights  in  the  scent  of  excrementi- 
tious  animal  juices,  such  as  musk,  civet,  and  uri- 
nous salts,  will  loath  the  fragrance  of  new-mown 
hay,  the  sweet-brier,  the  honey-suckle,  and  the 
rose.  The  organs  that  are  gratified  with  the  taste 
of  sickly  veal  bled  into  a  palsy,  crammed  fowls, 
and  dropsical  brawn,  peas  without  substance, 
peaches  without  taste,  and  pine-apples  without  fla- 
vour, will  certainly  nauseate  the  native,  genuine, 
and  salutary  taste  of  Welsh  beef,  Banstead  mut- 
ton, and  barn-door  fowls,  whose  juices  are  con- 
cocted by  a  natural  digestion,  and  whose  flesh  is 


consolidated  by  free  air  and  exercise.  In  such  a 
total  perversion  of  the  senses,  the  ideas  must  be 
misrepresented  5  the  powers  of  the  imagination 
disordered ;  and  the  judgment,  of  consequence,  un- 
sound. The  disease  is  attended  with  a  false  appe- 
tite, which  tte  natural  food  of  the  mind  will  not 
satisfy.  It  will  prefer  Ovid  to  TibuUus,  and  the 
rant  of  Lee  to  the  tenderness  of  Otway.  The 
soul  sinks  into  a  kind  of  sleepy  idiotism,  and  is  di- 
verted by  toys  and  baubles,  which  can  only  be 
pleasing  to  the  most  superficial  curiosity.  It  is  en- 
livened by  a  quick  succession  of  trivial  objects,  that 
glisten  and  dance  before  the  eye ;  and,  like  an  in- 
fant, is  kept  awake  and  inspirited  by  the  sound  of 
a  rattle.  It  must  not  only  be  dazzled  and  aroused, 
but  also  cheated,  hurried,  and  perplexed,  by  the 
artifice  of  deception,  business,  intricacy,  and  in- 
trigue ;  a  kind  of  low  juggle,  which  may  be  termed 
the  legerdemain  of  genius. 

In  this  state  of  depravity  the  mind  can  not  enjoy, 
nor  indeed  distinguish  the  charms  of  natural  amd 
moral  beauty  and  decorum.  The  ingenuous  blush 
of  native  innocence,  the  plain  language  of  ancient 
faith  and  sincerity,  the  cheerful  resignation  to  the 
will  of  Heaven,  the  mutual  affection  of  the  chari- 
ties, the  voluntary  respect  paid  to  superior  dignity 
or  station,  the  virtue  of  beneficence,  extended  even 
to  the  brute  creation,  nay  the  very  crimson  glow 
of  health,  and  swelling  lines  of  beauty,  are  de- 
spised, detested,  scorned,  and  ridiculed,  as  ignorance, 
rudeness,  rusticity,  and  superstition.  Thus  we 
see  how  moral  and  natural  beauty  are  connected ; 
and  of  what  importance  it  is,  even  to  the  forma- 
tion of  taste,  that  the  manners  should  be  severely 
superintended.  This  is  a  task  which  ought  to 
take  the  lead  of  science ;  for  we  will  venture  to 
say,  that  virtue  is  the  foundation  of  taste;  or 
rather,  that  virtue  and  taste  are  built  upon  the  same 
foundation  of  sensibility,  and  can  not  be  disjoined 
withdut  offering  violence  to  both.  But  virtue  must 
be  informed,  and  taste  instructed,  otherwise  they 
will  both  remain  imperfect  and  ineffectual : 

Qui  didicit  patriae  quid  debeat,  et  quid  amicia, 
Quo  sit  amore  parens,  quo  frater  amandus,  et  hospes^ 
Quod  sit  Cbnscripti,  quod  judicis  officium,  qua 
Partes  in  bellum  missi  ducis ;  ille  prifecto 
Reddere  personse  scit  convenientia  cuique. 

Horace. 

The  critic,  who  with  nice  discernment  knows, 
What  to  his  country  and  his  friends  he  owes; 
How  various  nature  warms  the  human  breast, 
To  love  the  parent,' brother,  friend,  or  guest; 
What  the  great  functions  of  our  judges  are, 
Of  senators,  and  generals  sent  to  war; 
He  can  distinguish,  with  unerring  art, 
The  strokes  peculiar  to  each  different  part. 

Thus  we  see  taste,  is  composed  of  nature  im- 
proved by  art ;  of  feeling  tutored  by  instruction. 


ESSAYS. 


499 


ESSAY  XIII. 

Hiving  explained  what  we  conceive  to  be  true 
taste,  and  in  some  measure  accounted  for  the  pre- 
valence of  vitiated  taste,  we  should  proceed  to  point 
out  the  most  effectual  manner,  in  which  a  natural 
capacity  may  be  improved  into  a  delicacy  of  judg- 
ment, and  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  Bel- 
les Lettres.  We  shall  take  it  for  granted,  that 
proper  means  have  been  used  to  form  the  manners, 
and  attach  the  mind  to  virtue.  The  heart,  culti- 
vated by  precept  and  warmed  by  example,  improves 
in  sensibility,  which  is  the  foundation  of  taste.  By 
distinguishing  the  influence  and  scope  of  morality, 
and  cherishing  the  ideas  of  benevolence,  it  acquires 
a  habit  of  sympathy,  which  tenderly  feels  respon- 
sive, like  the  vibration  of  unisons,  every  touch  of 
moral  beauty.  Hence  it  is  that  a  man  of  a  social 
heart,  entendered  by  "tlie  practrce  of  virtue,  is 
avvakened  to  the  most  pathetic  emotions  by  every 
uncommon  instance  of  generosity,  compassion,  and 
greatness  of  soul.  Is  there  any  man  so  dead  to 
sentiment,  so  lost  to  humanity,  as  to  read  unmov- 
ed the  generous  behaviour  of  the  Romans  to  the 
states  of  Greece,  as  it  is  recounted  by  Livy,  or  em- 
bellished by  Thomson  in  his  poem  of  Liberty  1 
Speaking  of  Greece  in  the  decHne  of  her  power, 
when  her  freedom  no  longer  existed,  he  says : 

As  at  her  Isthmian  games,  a  fading  pomp ! 
Her  full  assembled  youth  innumerous  swarm'd, 
On  a  tribunal  raised  Flaminius*  sat ; 
A  victor  he  from  tlie  deep  phalanx  pierced 
Of  iron-coated  Macedon,  and  back 
The  Grecian  tyrant  to  his  bounds  repell'd : 
In  the  high  thoughtless  gaiety  of  game, 
While  sport  alone  their  unambitious  hearts 
Possese'd ;  the  sudden  trumpet  sounding  hoarse, 
Bade  silence  o'er  the  bright  assembly  reign. 
Then  thus  a  herald—"  To  the  states  of  Greece 
The  Roman  people,  unconfined,  restore 
Their  countries,  cities,  liberties,  and  laws  ; 
Taxes  remit,  and  garrisons  withdraw." 
The  crowd,  astonish'd  half,  and  half  inform'd, 
Stared  dubious  round,  some  question'd,  some  exclaim'd 
(Like  one  who,  dreaming  between  hope  and  fear, 
Is  lost  in  anxious  joy)  "  Be  that  again 
—Be  that  again  proclaim'd  distinct  and  loud !' 
Loud  and  distinct  it  was  again  proclaim'd; 
And  still  as  midnight  in  the  rural  shade, 
When  the  gale  slumbers,  they  the  words  devour'd. 
Awhile  severe  amazement  held  them  mute. 
Then  bursting  broad,  the  boundless  shout  to  heaven 
From  many  a  thousand  hearts  ecstatic  sprung ! 
On  every  hand  rebellowed  to  them  joy ; 
ilie  swelling  sea,  the  rocks  and  vocal  hills- 
Like  Bacchanals  they  flew. 
Each  other  straining  in  a  strict  embrace, 
Nor  strain'd  a  slave ;  and  loud  exclaims,  till  night, 
Round  the  proconsid's  tent  repeated  rung. 

To  one  acquainted  with  the  genius  of  Greece,  the 
chariacter  and  disposition  of  that  polished  people,  ad- 


His  real  name  was  Quintua  Flaminius. 


mired  for  science,  renowned  for  unextinguishable 
love  of  freedom,  nothing  can  be  more  aflfecting  than 
this  instance  of  generous  magnanimity  of  the  Ro- 
man people,  in  restoring  them  unasked  to  the  full 
fruition  of  those  liberties  which  they  had  so  un- 
fortunately lost. 

The  mind  of  sensibility  is  equally  struck  by  tbd 
generous  confidence  of  Alexander,  who  drinks 
without  hesitation  the  potion  presented  by  his  phy- 
sician Philip,  even  after  he  had  received  intima- 
tion that  poison  was  contained  in  the  cup ;  a  ribble 
and  pathetic  scene  !  which  hath  acquired  new  dig- 
nity and  expression  under  the  inimitable  pencil  of 
a  Le  Sueur.  Humanity  is  melted  into  tears  of 
tender  admiration,  by  the  deportment  of  Henry 
IV.  of  France,  while  his  rebellious  subjects  com- 
pelled him  to  form  the  blockade  of  his  capital.  In 
chastising  his  enemies,  he  could  not  but  remem  ■ 
ber  they  were  his  people  ;  and  knowing  they  were 
reduced  to  the  extremity  of  famine,  he  generously 
connived  at  the  methods  practised  to  supply  them 
with  provision.  Chancing  one  day  to  meet  two 
peasants,  who  had  been  detected  in  these  practices, 
as  they  were  led  to  execution  they  implored  his 
clemency,  declaring  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  they 
had  no  other  way  to  procure  subsistence  for  their 
wives  and  children ;  he  pardoned  them  on  the  spot, 
and  giving  them  all  the  money  that  was  in  his 
purse,  "  Henry  of  Bearne  is  poor,"  said  he,  "  had 
he  more  money  to  aJfTord,  you  should  have  it — go 
home  to  your  families  in  peace  j  and  remember 
your  duty  to  God,  and  your  allegiance  to  your  sove- 
reign." Innumerable  examples  of  the  same  kind 
may  be  selected  from  history,  both  ancient  and 
modern,  the  study  of  which  we  would  therefore 
strenuously  recommend. 

Historical  knowledge  indeed  becomes  necessary 
on  many  other  accounts,  which  in  its  place  we  will 
explain ;  but  as  the  formation  of  the  heart  is  of 
the  first  consequence,  and  should  precede  the  cul- 
tivation of  the  understanding,  such  striking  in- 
stances of  superior  virtue  ought  to  be  culled  for  the 
perusal  of  the  young  pupil,  who  will  read  them 
with  eagerness,  and  revolve  them  with  pleasure. 
Thus  the  young  mind  becomes  enamoured  of  moral 
beauty,  and  the  passions  are  listed  on  the  side  of 
humanity.  Meanwhile  knowledge  of  a  different 
species  will  go  hand  in  hand  with  the  advances  of 
morality,  and  the  understanding  be  gradually  ex- 
tended. Virtue  and  sentiment  reciprocally  assist 
each  other,  and  both  conduce  to  the  improvement 
of  perception.  While  the  scholar's  chief  attention 
is  employed  in  learning  the  Latin  and  Greek  lan- 
guages, and  this  is  generally  the  task  of  childhood 
and  early  youth,  it  is  even  then  the  business  of 
the  preceptor  to  give  his  mind  a  turn  for  observa- 
tion, to  direct  his  powers  of  discernment,  to  point 
out  the  distinguishing  marks  of  character,  and 
dwell  upon  the  charms  of  moral  and  intellectual 


/■ 


500 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


beauty,  as  they  may  chance  to  occur  in  the  classics 
that  are  used  for  his  instruction.  In  reading  Cor- 
nelius Nepos,  and  Plutarch's  Lives,  even  with  a 
view  to  grammatical  improvement  only,  he  will  in- 
sensibly imbibe,  and  learn  to  compare  ideas  of 
greater  importance.  He  will  become  enamoured 
of  virtue  and  patriotism,  and  acquire  a  detestation 
for  vice,  cruelty,  and  corruption.  The  perusal  of 
the  Roman  story  in  the  works  of  Florus,  Sallust, 
Livy,  and  Tacitus,  will  irresistibly  engage  his  at- 
tention, expand  his  conception,  cherish  his  memo- 
ry, exercise  his  judgment,  and  warm  him  with  a 
noble  spirit  of  emulation.  He  will  contemplate 
with  love  and  admiration  the  disinterested  can- 
dour of  Aristides,  surnamed  the  Just,  whom  the 
guilty  cabals  of  his  rival  Themistocles  exiled  from 
his  ungrateful  country,  by  a  sentence  of  Ostracism. 
He  will  be  surprised  to  learn,  that  one  of  his  fellow- 
citizens,  an  iUiterate  artisan,  bribed  by  his  enemies, 
chancing  to  meet  him  in  the  street  without  know- 
ing his  person,  desired  he  would  write  Aristides  on 
his  shell  (which  was  the  method  those  plebeians 
used  to  vote  against  delinquents),  when  the  inno- 
cent patriot  wrote  his  own  name  without  com- 
plaint or  expostulation.  He  will  with  equal  as- 
tonishment applaud  the  inflexible  integrity  ofFa- 
bricius,  who  preferred  the  poverty  of  innocence  to 
all  the  pomp  of  affluence,  with  which  Pyrrhus 
endeavoured  to  seduce  him  from  the  arms  of  his 
country.  He  will  approve  with  transport  the  no- 
ble generosity  of  his  soul  in  rejecting  the  proposal 
of  that  prince's  physician,  who  offered  to  take 
him  offby  poison ;  and  in  sending  the  caitifFbound 
to  his  sovereign,  whom  he  would  have  so  basely 
and  cruelly  betrayed. 

In  reading  the  ancient  authors,  even  for  the  pur- 
poses of  school  education,  the  unformed  taste  will 
begin  to  relish  the  irresistible  energy,  greatness, 
and  sublimity  of  Homer ;  the  serene  majesty,  the 
melody,  and  pathos  of  Virgil ;  the  tenderness  of 
Sappho  and  Tibullus  ;  the  elegance  and  propriety 
of  Terence ;  the  grace,  vivacity,  satire,  and  senti- 
ment of  Horace. 

Nothing  will  more  conduce  to  the  improvement 
of  the  scholar  in  his  knowledge  of  the  languages, 
as  well  as  in  taste  and  morality,  than  his  being 
obliged  to  translate  choice  parts  and  passages  of 
the  most  approved  classics,  both  poetry  and  prose, 
especially  the  latter ;  such  as  the  orations  of  De- 
mosthenes and  Isocrates,  the  treatise  of  Longinus 
on  the  Sublime,  the  Commentaries  of  Caesar,  the 
Epistles  of  Cicero  and  the  younger  Pliny,  and  the 
two  celebrated  speeches  in  the  Catilinarian  con- 
spiracy by  Sallust.  By  this  practice  he  will  be- 
come more  intimate  with  the  beauties  of  the  writ- 
ing, and  the  idioms  of  the  language,  from  which  he 
translates ;  at  the  same  time  it  will  form  his  style, 
tnd  by  exercising  his  talent  of  expression,  make 
iim  a  more  perfect  master  of  his  mother  tongue.  1 


Cicero  tells  us,  that  in  translating  two  orationSi 
which  the  most  celebrated  orators  of  Greece  pro- 
nounced against  each  other,  he  performed  this  task, 
not  as  a  servile  interpreter,  but  as  an  orator,  pre- 
serving the  sentiments,  forms,  and  figures  of  the 
original,  but  adapting  the  expression  to  the  taste 
and  manners  of  the  Romans :  In  quibus  non  ver- 
bum  pro  verho  necesse  habui  reddere,  sed  genus 
omnium  verborum  vimque  servavi;  "in  which  I 
did  not  think  it  was  necessary  to  translate  literally 
word  for  word,  but  I  preserved  the  natural  and  full 
scope  of  the  whole."  Of  the  same  opinion  was 
Horace,  who  says,  in  his  Art  of  Poetry, 

Nee  verbum  verbo  ciyabis  reddere  fidua 
Intei'pres 

Nor  word  for  word  translate  with  painful  care — 

Nevertheless,  in  taking  the  liberty  here  granted,  we 
are  apt  to  run  into  the  other  extreme,  and  substi- 
tute equivalent  thoughts  and  phrases,  till  hardly 
any  features  of  the  original  remain.  The  meta- 
phors of  figures,  especially  in  poetry,  ought  to  be 
as  religiously  preserved  as  the  images  of  painting, 
which  we  can  not  alter  or  exchange  without  de- 
stroying, or  injuring  at  least,  the  character  and 
style  of  the  original. 

In  this  manner  the  preceptor  will  sow  the  seeds 
of  that  taste,  which  will  soon  germinate,  rise,  blos- 
som, and  produce  perfect  fruit  by  dint  of  future  care 
and  cultivation.  In  order  to  restrain  the  luxu- 
riancy  of  the  young  imagination,  which  is  apt  to 
run  riot,  to  enlarge  the  stock  of  ideas,  exercise  the 
reason,  and  ripen  the  judgment,  the  pupil  must  be 
engaged  in  the  severer  study  of  science.  He  must 
learn  geometry,  which  Plato  recommends  for 
strengthening  the  mind,  and  enabling  it  to  think 
with  precision.  He  must  be  made  acquainted  with 
geography  and  chronology,  and  trace  philosophy 
through  all  her  branches.  Without  geography  and 
chronology,  he  will  not  be  able  to  acquire  a  distinct 
idea  of  history ;  nor  judge  of  the  propriety  of  many 
interesting  scenes,  and  a  thousand  allusions,  that 
present  themselves  in  the  works  of  genius.  No- 
thing opens  the  mind  so  much  as  the  researches 
of  philosophy ;  they  inspire  us  with  sublime  con- 
ceptions of  the  Creator,  and  subject,  as  it  were,  all 
nature  to  our  command.  These  bestow  that  liberal 
turn  of  thinking,  and  in  a  great  measure  contribute 
to  that  universality,  in  learning,  by  which  a  man 
of  taste  ought  to  be  eminently  distinguished.  But! 
history  is  the  inexhaustible  source  from  which  he  f 
will  derive  his  most  useful  knowledge  respecting 
the  progress  of  the  human  mind,  the  constitution  \ 
of  government,  the  rise  and  decline  of  empires,  the 
revolution  of  arts,  the  variety  of  character,  and  the 
vicissitudes  of  fortune. 

The  knowledge  of  history  enables  the  poet  not 
only  to  paint  characters,  but  also  to  describe  mag- 
nificent and  interesting  scenes  of  battle  and  adven- 


ESSAYS. 


501 


ture.  Not  that  the  poet  or  painter  ought  to  be  re- 
strained to  the  letter  of  historical  truth.  History 
represents  what  has  really  happened  in  nature ;  the 
other  arts  exhibit  what  might  have  happened,  with 
such  exaggeration  of  circumstance  and  feature  as 
may  be  deemed  an  improvement  on  nature  :  but 
this  exaggeration  must  not  be  carried  beyond  the 
bounds  of  probability;  and  these,  generally  speak- 
ing, the  knowledge  of  history  will  ascertain.  It 
would  be  extremely  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
find  a  man  actually  existing,  whose  proportions 
should  answer  to  those  of  the  Greek  statue  distin- 
guished by  the  name  of  the  Apollo  of  Belvedere ; 
or  tp  produce  a  woman  similar  in  proportion  of 
parts  to  the  other  celebrated  piece  called  the  Venus 
de  Medicis;  therefore  it  may  be  truly  affirmed, 
that  they  are  not  conformable  to  the  real  standard 
of  nature :  nevertheless  every  artist  will  own,  that 
they  are  the  very  archetypes  of  grace,  elegance, 
and  symmetry ;  and  every  judging  eye  must  be- 
hold them  with  admiration,  as  improvements  on 
the  lines  and  lineaments  of  nature.  The  truth  is, 
the  sculptor  or  statuary  composed  the  various  pro- 
portions in  nature  from  a  great  number  of  different 
subjects,  every  individual  of  which  he  found  im- 
perfect or  defective  in  some  one  particular,  though 
beautiful  in  all  the  rest ;  and  from  these  observa- 
tions, corroborated  by  taste  and  judgment,  he  form- 
an  ideal  pattern,  according  to  which  his  idea  was 
modelled,  and  produced  in  execution. 

Every  body  knows  the  story  of  Zeuxis,  the  fa- 
mous painter  of  Heraclea,  who,  according  to  Pliny, 
invented  the  chiaro  oscuro,  or  disposition  of  light 
and  shade,  among  the  ancients,  and  excelled  all 
his  contemporaries  in  the  chromatique,  or  art  of 
colouring.  This  great  artist  being  employed  to 
draw  a  perfect  beauty  in  the  character  of  Helen,  to 
be  placed  in  the  temple  of  Juno,  culled  out  five  of 
the  most  beautiful  damsels  the  city  could  produce, 
and  selecting  what  was  excellent  in  each,  com- 
bined them  in  one  picture  according  to  the  predis- 
position of  his  fancy,  so  that  it  shone  forth  an 
amazing  model  of  perfection.*  In  Uke  manner 
every  man  of  genius,  regulated  by  true  taste,  En- 
tertains in  his  imagination  an  ideal  beauty,  con- 
ceived and  cultivated  as  an  improvement  upon  na- 
ture :  and  this  we  refer  to  the  article  of  invention. 
It  is  the  business  of  art  to  imitate  nature,  but  not 
with  a  servile  pencil ;  and  to  choose  those  attitudes 
arid  dispositions  only,  which  are  beautiful  and  en- 
gnging.  With  this  view,  we  must  avoid  all  dis- 
agreeable prospects  of  nature  which  excite  the 


*  Praebete  igitur  mihi  quseso,  inqult,  ex  istis  virginibus 
formosissimas,  dum  pingo  id,  quod  poUicitus  sum  vobis,  ut 
mutum  in  simulacrum  ex  animali  exemplo  Veritas  transfera- 
tur.— Die  autem  quinque  delegit. — Neque  enim  putavit  om- 
nia, quae  quaereret  ad  venustatem,  uno  in  corpore  se  reperire 
posse ;  ideo  quod  nihil  simplici  in  genere  omnibus  ex  partibus 
perfectum  natura  expolivit.— Cic.  lib.  ii.  de  Inv.  cap.  i. 


ideas  of  abhorrence  and  disgust.  For  example,  a 
painter  would  not  find  his  account  in  exhibiting 
the  resemblance  of  a  dead  carcass  half  consumed 
by  vermin,  or  of  swine  wallowing  in  ordure,  or  of 
a  beggar  lousing  himself  on  a  dunghill,  though 
these  scenes  should  be  painted  ever  so  naturally, 
and  all  the  world  must  allow  that  the  scenes  were 
taken  from  nature,  because  the  merit  of  the  imita- 
tion would  be  greatly  overbalanced  by  the  vile 
choice  of  the  artist.  There  are  nevertheless  many 
scenes  of  horror,  which  please  in  the  representa 
tion,  from  a  certain  interesting  greatness,  which 
we  shall  endeavour  to  explain,  when  we  come  to 
consider  the  sublime. 

Were  we  to  judge  every  production  by  the  rigor- 
ous rules  of  nature,  we  should  reject  the  Iliad  of 
Homer,  the  ^neid  of  Virgil,  and  every  celebrated 
tragedy  of  antiquity  and  the  present  times,  because 
there  is  no  such  thing  in  nature  as  a  Hector  or 
Turnus  talking  in  hexameter,  or  an  Othello  in 
blank  verse :  we  should  condemn  the  Hercules  of 
Sophocles,  and  the  Miser  of  Moliere,  because  we 
never  knew  a  hero  so  strong  as  the  one,  or  a  wretch 
so  sordid  as  the  other.     But  if  we  consider  poetry  7 
as  an  elevation  of  natural  dialogue,  as  a  delightful  ( 
vehicle  for  conveying  the' noblest  sentiments  of  he-  1 
roism  and  patriot  virtue,  to  regale  the  sense  with  . 
the  sounds  of  musical  expression,  while  the  fancy 
is  ravished  with  enchanting  images,  and  the  heart 
warmed  to  rapture  and  ecstasy,  we  must  allow  that 
poetry  is  a  perfection  to  which  nature  would  glad- 
ly aspire ;  and  that  though  it  surpasses,  it  does  not 
deviate  from  her,  provided  the  characters  are  mark- 
ed with  propriety  and  sustained  by  genius.  Charac 
ters  therefore,  both  in  poetry  and  painting,  may  be 
a  little  overcharged  or  exaggerated  without  offer- 
ing violence  to  nature ;  nay,  they  must  be  exag- 
gerated in  order  to  be  striking,  and  to  preserve  the 
idea  of  imitation,  whence  the  reader  and  spectator 
derive  in  many  instances  their  chief  delight.     If   -' 
we  meet  a  common  acquaintance  in  the  street,  we 
see  him  without  emotion;  but  should  we  chance  to 
spy  his  portrait  well  executed,  we  are  struck  with 
pleasing  admiration.     In  this  case   the  pleasure 
arises  entirely  from  the  imitation.     We  every  day 
hear  unmoved  the  natives  of  Ireland  and  Scotland 
speaking  their  own  dialects ;  but  should  an  Eng 
lish  mimic  either,  we  are  apt  to  burst  out  into  a 
loud  laugh  of  applause,  being  surprised  and  tickled 
by  the  imitation  alone;  though,  at  the  same  time, 
we  can  not  but  allow  that  the  imitation  is  imperfect. 
We  are  more  affected  by  reading  Shakspeare's  de- 
scription of  Dover  Cliff,  and  Otway's  picture  of 
the  Old  Hag,  than  we  should  be  were  we  actually 
placed  on  the  summit  of  the  one,  or  met  in  reality 
with  such  a  beldame  as  the  other :  because  in  read- 
ing these  descriptions  we  refer  to  our  own  experi- 
ence, and  perceive  with  surprise  the  justness  of  the 
imitations.    But  if  it  is  so  close  as  to  be  mistaken 


502 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


for  nature,  the  pleasure  then  will  cease,  because 
the  fAtfMffit  or  imitation  no  longer  appears. 

Aristotle  says,  that  all  poetry  and  music  is  imi 
tation,*  whether  epic,  tragic,  or  comic,  whether 
vocal  or  instrumental,  from  the  pipe  or  the  lyre. 
He  observes,  that  in  man  there  is  a  propensity  to 
imitate  even  from  his  infancy ;  that  the  first  per- 
ceptions of  the  rnind  are  acquired  by  imitation ;  and 
seems  to  think,  that  the  pleasure  derived  from  imi- 
tation is  the  gratification  of  an  appetite  implanted 
by  nature.  We  should  rather  think  the  pleasure 
it  gives  arises  from  the  mind's  contemplating  that 
excellency  of  art  which  thus  rivals  nature,  and 
seems  to  vie  with  her  in  creating  such  a  striking 
resemblance  of  her  works.  Thus  the  arts  may  be 
justly  termed  imitative,  even  in  the  article  of  in- 
vention :  for  in  forming  a  character,  contriving  an 
incident,  and  describing  a  scene,  he  must  still  keep 
nature  in  view,  and  refer  every  particular  of  his 
invention  to  her  standard ;  otherwise  his  produc- 
tion will  be  destitute  of  truth  and  probability, 
without  which  the  beauties  of  imitation  can  not 
subsist.  It  will  be  a  monster  of  incongruity,  such 
as  Horace  alludes  to,  in  the  beginning  of  his  Epistle 
to  the  Pisos : 

Humano  capiti  cervicem  pictor  equinam 
Jungere  si  velit,  et  varias  inducere  plumas 
Undique  collatis  membris,  ut  turpiter  atrum 
Desinat  in  piscem,  mulier  formosa  superne : 
Spectatum  admissi  risum  teneatis,  amici  1 

Suppose  a  painter  to  a  human  head 
Should  join  a  horse's  neck,  and  wildly  spread 
The  various  plumage  of  the  feather'd  kind 
O'er  limbs  of  different  beasts,  absurdly  join'd; 
Or  if  he  gave  to  view  a  beauteous  maid 
Above  the  waist  with  every  charm  array'd; 
Should  a  foul  fish  her  lower  parts  unfold, 
Would  you  not  laugh  such  pictures  to  behold? 

The  magazine  of  nature  supplies  all  those  images 
which  compose  the  most  beautiful  imitations.  This 
the  artist  examines  occasionally,  as  he  would  con- 
sult a  collection  of  masterly  sketches;  and  selecting 
particulars  for  his  purpose,  mingles  the  ideas  with 
a  kind  of  enthusiasm,  or  to  d-uoy,  which  is  that  gift 
of  Heaven  we  call  genius,  and  finally  produces 
such  a  whole  as  commands  admiration  and  ap- 
plause. 


ESSAY  XIV. 

The  study  of  polite  Uterature  is  generally  sup- 
posed to  include  all  the  liberal  arts  of  poetry,  paint- 


tueuoiS'ia.  Kcu  »  S'lQupoifA^oTrotfnix.n,  km  th;  civkitikh  « 
TTXiiati    KM   KiQapia-rtKus  Tattron    <xToy^etvov<rn   ouffcu 


ing,  sculpture,  music,  eloquence,  and  architecture. 
All  these  are  founded  on  imitation ;  and  all  of  them 
mutually  assist  and  illustrate  each  other.  But  as 
painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  architecture,  can 
not  be  perfectly  attained  without  long  practice  of 
manual  operation,  we  shall  distinguish  them  from 
poetry  and  eloquence,  which  depend  entirely  on 
the  faculties  of  the  mind;  and  on  these  last,  as  on 
the  arts  which  immediately  constitute  the  Belles 
Lettres,  employ  our  attention  in  the  present  in- 
quiry :  or  if  it  should  run  to  a  greater  length  than 
we  propose,  it  shall  be  confined  to  poetry  alone ;  a 
subject  that  comprehends  in  its  full  extent  the 
province  of  taste,  or  what  is  called  polite  literature ; 
and  differs  essentially  from  eloquence,  both  in  its 
end  and  origin. 

Poetry  sprang  from  ease,  and  was  consecrated 
to  pleasure ;  whereas  eloquence  arose  from  neces- 
sity, and  aims  at  conviction.  When  we  say  poetry- 
sprang  from  ease,  perhaps  we  ought  to  except  that 
species  of  it  which  owed  its  rise  to  mspiration  and 
enthusiasm,  and  properly  belonged  to  the  culture 
of  religion.  In  the  first  ages  of  mankind,  and  even 
in  the  original  state  of  nature,  the  unlettered  mind 
must  have  been  struck  with  sublime  conceptions, 
with  admiration  and  awe,  by  those  great  phenome- 
na, which,  though  every  day  repeated,  can  never 
be  viewed  without  internal  emotion.  Those 
would  break  forth  in  exclamations  expressive  of 
the  passion  produced,  whether  surprise  or  grati- 
tude, terror  or  exultation.  The  rising,  the  ap- 
parent course,  the  setting,  and  seeming  renova- 
tion of  the  sun ;  the  revolution  of  light  and  dark- 
ness; the  splendour,  change,  and  circuit  of  the 
moon,  and  the  canopy  of  heaven  bespangled  with 
stars,  must  have  produced  expressions  of  wonder 
and  adoration.  "O  glorious  luminary!  great 
eye  of  the  world!  source  of  that  light  which  guides 
my  steps !  of  that  heat  which  warms  me  when 
chilled  with  cold!  of  that  influence  which  cheers 
the  face  of  nature!  whither  dost  thou  retire  every 
evening  with  the  shades  ?  whence  dost  thou  spring 
every  morning  with  renovated  lustre,  and  never 
fading  glory?  Art  not  thou  the  ruler,  the  creator, 
the  god,  of  all  I  behold?  I  adore  thee,  as  thy  child, 
thy  slave,  thy  suppliant !  I  crave  thy  protection, 
and  the  continuance  of  thy  goodness!  Leave  me 
not  to  perish  with  cold,  or  to  wander  solitary  in 
utter  darkness!  Return,  return,  after  thy  wonted 
absence,  drive  before  thee  the  gloomy  clouds  that 
would  obscure  the  face  of  nature.  The  birds  begin 
to  warble,  and  every  animal  is  filled  with  gladness 
at  thy  approach :  even  the  trees,  the  herbs,  and  the 
flowers,  seem  to  rejoice  with  fresher  beauties,  and 
send  forth  a  grateful  incense  to  thy  power,  whence 
their  origin  is  derived !"  A  number  of  individuals 
inspired  with  the  same  ideas,  would  join  in  these 
orisons,  which  would  be  accompanied  with  corres- 
ponding gesticulations  of  the  body.     They  would 


ESSAYS. 


503 


be  improved  by  practice,  and  grow  regular  from 
repetition.  Tiie  sounds  and  gestures  would  natu- 
rally fall  into  measured  cadence.  Thus  the  song 
ttnd  dance  will  be  produced;  and,  a  system  of 
worship  being  formed,  the  muse  would  be  conse- 
crated to  the  purposes  of  religion. 

Hence  those  forms  of  thanksgivings,  and  lita- 
nies of  supplication,  with  which  the  religious  rites 
of  all  nations,  even  the  most  barbarous,  are  at  this 
day  celebrated  in  every  quarter  of  the  known  world. 
Indeed  this  is  a  circumstance  in  which  all  nations 
surprisingly  agree,  how  much  soever  they  may 
differ  in  every  other  article  of  laws,  customs,  man- 
ners, and  rehgion.  The  ancient  Egyptians  cele- 
brated the  festivals  of  their  god  Apis  with  hymns 
and  dances.  The  superstition  of  the  Greeks,  part- 
ly derived  from  the  Egyptians,  abounded  with  po- 
etical ceremonies,  such  as  choruses  and  hymns, 
sung  and  danced  at  their  apotheoses,  sacrifices, 
games,  and  divinations.  The  Romans  had  their 
carmen  secular e^  and  Salian  priests,  who  on  cer- 
tain festivals  sung  and  danced  through  the  streets 
of  Rome.  The  Israelites  were  famous  for  this  kind 
of  exultation :  "  And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the 
sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her  hand,  and  all 
the  women  went  out  after  her,  with  timbrels  and 
with  dances,  and  Miriam  answered  them,  Sing  ye 
to  the  Lord,"  etc. — "  And  David  danced  before  the 
Lord  with  all  his  might." — The  psalms  composed 
by  this  monarch,  the  songs  of  Deborah  and  Isaiah, 
are  further  confirmations  of  what  we  have  ad  vanced. 

From  the  Phoenicians  the  Greeks  borrowed  the 
cursed  Orthyan  song,  when  they  sacrificed  their 
children  to  Diana.  The  poetry  of  the  bards  con- 
stituted great  part  of  the  religious  ceremonies  among 
the  Gauls  and  Britons,  and  the  carousals  of  the 
Goths  were  religious  institutions,  celebrated  with 
songs  of  triumph.  The  Mahometan  Dervise  dances 
to  the  sound  of  the  flute,  and  whirls  himself  round 
until  he  grows  giddy,  and  falls  into  a  trance.  The 
Marabous  compose  hymns  in  praise  of  Allah.  The 
Chinese  celebrate  their  grand  festivals  with  pro- 
cessions of  idols,  songs,  and  instrumental  music. 
The  Tartars,  Samoiedes,  Laplanders,  Negroes, 
even  the  CafTres  called  Hottentots,  solemnize  their 
worship  (such  as  it  is)  with  songs  and  dancing ; 
so  that  we  may  venture  to  say,  poetry  is  the  uni- 
versal vehicle  in  which  all  nations  have  expressed 
their  most  sublime  conceptions. 

Poetry  was,  in  all  appearance,  previous  to  any 
concerted  plan  of  worship,  and  to  every  establish- 
ed system  of  legislation.  When  certain  individuals, 
by  dint  of  superior  prowess  or  understanding,  had 
acquired  the  veneration  of  their  fellow-savages,  and 
erected  themselvss  into  divinities  on  the  ignorance 
and  superstition  of  mankind  ;  then  mythology  took 
place,  and  such  a  swarm  of  deities  arose  as  pro- 
duced a  religion  replete  with  the  most  shocking  ab- 
surdities.   Those  whom  their  superior  talents  had 


deified,  were  found  to  be  still  actuated  by  the  most 
brutal  passions  of  human  nature ;  and  in  all  proba- 
bility their  votaries  were  glad  to  find  such  exam 
pies,  to  countenance  their  own  vicious  inclinations. 
Thus  fornication,  incest,  rape,  and  even  bestiality, 
were  sanctified  by  the  amours  of  Jupiter,  Pan, 
Mars,  Venus  and  Apollo.  Theft  was  patronized 
by  Mercury ;  drunkenness  by  Bacchus ;  and  cru 
elty  by  Diana.  The  same  heroes  and  legislators, 
those  who  delivered  their  country,  founded  cities, 
established  societies,  invented  useful  arts,  or  con- 
tributed in  Q.ny  eminent  degree  to  the  security  and 
happiness  of  their  fellow-creatures  were  inspired  by 
the  same  lusts  and  appetites  which  domineered 
among  the  inferior  classes  of  mankind ;  therefore 
every  vice  incident  to  human  nature  was  celebrat 
ed  in  the  worship  of  one  or  other  of  these  divini- 
ties, and  every  infirmity  consecrated  by  public 
feast  and  solemn  sacrifice.  In  these  institutions 
the  poet  bore  a  principal  share.  It  was  his  genius 
that  contrived  the  plan,  that  executed  the  form  of 
worship,  and  recorded  in  verse  the  origin  and  ad- 
ventures of  their  gods  and  demigods.  Hence 
the  impurities  and  horrors  of  certain  rites ;  the 
groves  of  Paphos  and  Baal  Peor ;  the  orgies  of 
Bacchus;  the  human  sacrifices  to  Moloch  and 
Diana.  Hence  the  theogony  of  Hesiod ;  the 
theology  of  Homer ;  and  those  innumerable  max- 
ims scattered  through  the  ancient  poets,  invit- 
ing mankind  to  gratify  their  sensual  appetites,  in 
imitation  of  the  gods,  who  were  certainly  the  best 
judges  of  happiness.  It  is  well  known,  that  Plato 
expelled  Homer  from  hiscommonwealth  on  account 
of  the  infamous  characters  by  which  he  has  distin- 
guished his  deities,  as  well  as  for  some  depraved 
sentiments  which  he  found  diflTused  through  the 
course  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  Cicero  enters  into 
the  spirit  of  Plato,  and  exclaims,  in  his  first  book, 
"De  Natura  Deorum:" — Nee  multa  absurdiora 
sunt  ea,  quce,  poetarumTocibus  fusa,  ipsa  suavitate 
nocuerunt:  qui,  et  ira  inflammatos,  et  lihidinefu- 
rentes,  induxerunt  Deos,  feceruntque  ut  eorum 
bella,  pugnas,  preelia,  vulnera  videremus:  odia 
prceierea,  dissidia,  discordias,  ortus,  interritus^ 
querelas,  lamentationes,  effusas  in  omni  intem- 
perantid  lihidines,  adiilteria,  vincula,  cum  huma- 
no  genere  concubitus,  mortalesque  ex  immortali 
procreatos.  "  Nor  are  those  things  much  more  ab- 
surd, which,  flowing  from  the  poet's  tongue,  have 
done  mischief,  even  by  the  sweetness  of  his  expres- 
sion. The  poets  have  introduced  gods  inflamed 
with  anger,  and  enraged  with  lust ;  and  even  pro* 
duced  before  our  eyes  their  wars,  their  wranglings, 
their  duels,  and  their  wounds.  They  have  ex- 
posed, besides,  their  antipathies,  animosities,  and 
dissensions ;  their  origin  and  death ;  their  com- 
plaints and  lamentations ;  their  appetites,  indulged 
to  all  manner  of  excess,  their  adulteries,  their  fet- 
ters, their  amorous  commerce  with  the  human  spe* 


1 


504 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


cies,  and  from  immortal  parents  derived  a  mortal 
offspring." 

As  the  festivals  of  the  gods  necessarily  produced 
good  cheer,  which  often  carried  to  riot  and  de- 
bauchery, mirth  of  consequence  prevailed ;  and 
this  was  always  attended  with  buffoonery.  Taunts 
and  jokes,  and  raillery  and  repartee,  would  neces- 
sarily ensue ;  and  individuals  would  contend  for 
the  victory  in  wit  and  genius.  These  contests 
would  in  time  be  reduced  to  some  regulations,  for 
the  entertainment  of  the  people  thus  assembled 
and  some  prize  would  be  decreed  to  him  who  was 
judged  to  excel  his  rivals.  The  candidates  for 
fame  and  profit,  being  thus  stimulated,  would  task 
their  talents,  and  naturally  recommend  these  alter- 
nate recriminations  to  the  audience,  by  clothing 
them  with  a  kind  of  poetical  measure,  which 
should  bear  a  near  resemblance  to  prose.  Thus, 
as  the  solemn  service  of  the  day  was  composed  in 
the  most  sublime  species  of  poetry,  such  as  the  ode 
or  hymn,  the  subsequent  altercation  was  carried  on 
in  iambics,  and  gave  rise  to  satire.  We  are  told 
by  the  Stagirite,  that  the  highest  species  of  poetry 
was  employed  in  celebrating  great  actions,  but  the 
humbler  sort  used  in  this  kind  of  contention;* 
and  that  in  the  ages  of  antiquity  there  were  some 
bards  that  professed  heroics,  and  some  that  pre- 
tended to  iambics  only. 

Of  fji.iv  ^fioiKcey,  ol  S'i  iO-fxCm  TroinTau. 

To  these  rude  beginnings  we  not  only  owe  the 
birth  of  satire,  but  likewise  the  origin  of  dramatic 
poetry.  Tragedy  herself,  which  afterwards  at- 
tained to  such  dignity  as  to  rival  the  epic  muse, 
was  at  first  no  other  than  a  trial  of  crambo,  or  iam- 
bics, between  two  peasants,  and  a  goat  was  the 
prize,  as  Horace  calls  it,  vile  certamen  oh  hircum, 
"  a  mean  contest  for  a  he-goat."  Hence  the  name 
rpayaS'iA,  signifying  the  goat-song,  from  rpaycc 
hircus,  and  aS^a  carmen. 

Carmine  qui  iragico  vilem  certavit  ob  hircum, 
Mox  etiam  agrestes  satyros  nudavit,  et  asper 
Incolumi  gravitate  jocum  tentavit,  eo  quod 
Blecebris  erat  et  grata  novitate  morandus 
Spectator,  functusque  sacris,  et  potus  et  exlex. 

Harat. 

The  tragic  bard,  a  goat  his  hurnbfe  prize, 

Bade  satyrs  naked  and  uncouth  arise ; 

His  muse  severe,  secure  and  u^dismay'd, 

The  rustic  joke  in  solemn  strain  convey'd ; 

For  novelty  alone  he  knew  could  charm 

A  lawless  crowd,  with  wine  and  feasting  warm. 

Satire  then  was  originally  a  clownish  dialogue 
in  loose  iambics,  so  called  because  the  actors  were 


ol  [xtf  yap  (rtfxyo'rtpotj  tclz  KAXag  ijuiuouvTo  Trpct^tic 


disguised  like  satyrs,  who  not  only  recited  the  praises 
of  Bacchus,  or  some  other  deity,  but  interspersed 
their  hymns  with  sarcastic  jokes  and  altercation. 
Of  this  kind  is  the  Cyclop  of  Euripides,  in  which 
Ulysses  is  the  principal  actor.  The  Romans  also 
had  their  Atellance  or  interludes  of  the  same  na- 
ture, so  called  from  the  city  of  Atella,  where  they 
were  first  acted ;  but  these  were  highly  poUshed 
in  comparison  of  the  original  entertainment,  which 
was  altogether  rude  and  innocent.  Indeed,  the 
Cyclop  itself,  though  composed  by  the  accomplish- 
ed Euripides,  abounds  with  such  impurity  as  ought 
not  to  appear  on  the  stage  of  any  civilized  nation. 

It  is  very  remarkable,  that  the  Atella7ice,  which 
were  in  effect  tragi-comedies,  grew  into  such  esteem 
among  the  Romans,  that  the  performers  in  these 
pieces  enjoyed  several  privileges  which  were  re- 
fused to  the  ordinary  actors.  They  were  not  obliged 
to  unmask,  like  the  other  players,  when  their  ac- 
tion was  disagreeable  to  the  audience.  They  were 
admitted  into  the  army,  and  enjoyed  the  privileges 
of  free  citizens,  without  incurring  that  disgrace 
which  was  affixed  to  the  characters  of  other  actors.* 
The  poet  Laberius,  who  was  of  equestrian  order, 
being  pressed  by  Julius  Ceesar  to  act  a  part  in  his 
own  performance,  complied  with  great  reluctance, 
and  complained  of  the  dishonour  he  had  incurred 
in  his  prologue  preserved  by  Macrobius,  which  is 
one  of  the  most  elegant  morsels  of  antiquity. 

Tragedy  and  comedy  flowed  from  the  same 
fountain,  though  their  streams  were  soon  divided. 
The  same  entertainment  which  under  the  name 
of  tragedy,  was  rudely  exhibited  by  clowns,  for 
the  prize  of  a  goat,  near  some  rural  altar  of  Bac- 
chus, assumed  the  appellation  of  comedy  when  it 
was  transferred  into  cities,  and  represented  with  a 
little  more  decorum  in  a  cart  or  wagon  that  strol- 
led from  street  to  street,  as  the  name  KUfxeeS'tti  im- 
plies, being  derived  from  xm/ah  a  street,  and  coS"*)  a 
poem.  To  this  origin  Horace  alludes  in  these  lines : 

Dicitur  et  plaustris  vexisse  poemata  Thespia, 
Quse  canerent  agerentque  peruncti  fscibus  era. 

Thespis,  inventor  of  dramatic  art, 

Convey'd  his  vagrant  actors  in  a  cart : 

High  o'er  the  crowd  the  mimic  art  appear'd, 

And  play'd  and  sung,  with  lees  of  wine  besmear'd. 

Thespis  is  called  the  inventor  of  the  dramatic 
art,  because  he  raised  the  subject  from  clownish 
altercation  to  the  character  and  exploits  of  some 
hero ;  he  improved  the  language  and  versification, 
and  relieved  the  chorus  by  the  dialogue  of  two 
actors.  This  was  the  first  advance  towards  thai 
consummation  of  genius  and  art  which  constitutes 
what  is  now  called  a  perfect  tragedy.     The  next 


*  Cum  artem  ludicram,  scenamque  totam  probro  ducerent 
genus  id  hominum  non  modo  honore  civium  reliquorum  ca- 
rere,  sed  etiam  tribu  moveri  notatione  censoria  voluerunL — 
I  Cic.  apud.  S.  Aug.  de  Oivit.  Dei. 


ESSAYS. 


505 


great  improver  was  iEschylus,  of  whom  the  same 
critic  says, 

Post  hunc  personae  pallaeque  repertor  honestae 
jEschylus,  et  modicis  instravit  pulpita  tignis ; 
Et  docuit  magnumque  loqui,  nitique  cothurno. 

Then  JEschylus  a  decent  vizard  used ; 
Built  a  low  stage ;  the  flowing  robe  diffused. 
In  language  more  sublime  two  actors  rage, 
And  in  the  graceful  buskin  tread  the  stage. 

The  dialogue  which  Thespis  introduced  was 
called  the  episode,  because  it  was  an  addition  to 
the  former  subject,  namely,  the  praises  of  Bac- 
chus ;  so  that  now  tragedy  consisted  of  two  dis- 
tinct parts,  independent  of  each  other ;  the  old  re- 
citative, which  was  the  chorus,  sung  in  honour  of 
the  gods ;  and  the  episode,  which  turned  upon  the 
adventures  of  some  hero.  This  episode  being 
found  very  agreeable  to  the  people,  ^schylus,  who 
lived  about  half  a  century  after  Thespis,  still  im- 
proved the  drama,  united  the  chorus  to  the  episode, 
so  as  to  make  them  both  parts  or  members  of  one 
fable,  multiplied  the  actors,  contrived  the  stage,  and 
introduced  the  decorations  of  the  theatre ;  so  that 
Sophocles,  who  succeeded  ^schylus,  had  but  one 
step  to  surmount  in  order  to  bring  the  drama  to 
perfection.  Thus  tragedy  was  gradually  detached 
from  its  original  institution,  which  was  entirely 
religious.  The  priests  of  Bacchus  loudly  com- 
plained of  this  innovation  by  means  of  the  episode, 
which  was  foreign  to  the  intention  of  the  chorus ; 
and  hence  arose  the  proverb  of  Nihil  ad  Dyonysi- 
um,  "  Nothing  to  the  purpose."  Plutarch  himself 
mentions  the  episode  as  a  perversion  of  tragedy 
from  the  honour  of  the  gods  to  the  passions  of  men. 
But,  notwithstanding  all  opposition,  the  new  tra- 
gedy succeeded  to  admiration;  because  it  was  found 
the  most  pleasing  vehicle  of  conveying  moral 
truths,  of  meUorating  the  heart,  and  extending  the 
interests  of  humanity. 

Comedy,  according  to  Aristotle,  is  the  younger 
sister  of  tragedy.  As  the  first  originally  turned 
upon  the  praises  of  the  gods,  the  latter  dwelt  on 
the  follies  and  vices  of  mankind.  Such,  we  mean, 
was  the  scope  of  that  species  of  poetry  which  ac- 
quired the  name  of  comedy,  in  contradistinction  to 
the  tragic  muse ;  for  in  the  beginning  they  were  the 
same.  The  foundation  upon  which  comedy  was 
built,  we  have  already  explained  to  be  the  practice 
of  satirical  repartee  or  altercation,  in  which  indi- 
viduals exposed  the  follies  and  frailties  of  each 
other  on  public  occasions  of  worship  and  festivity. 

The  first  regular  plan  of  comedy  is  said  to  have 
been  the  Margites  of  Homer,  exposing  the  idle- 
ness and  folly  of  a  worthless  character ;  but  of  this 
performance  we  have  no  remains.  That  division 
which  is  termed  the  ancient  comedy,  belongs  to 
the  labours  of  Eupolis,  Cratinus,  and  Aristopha- 
nes, who  were  contemporaries,  and  flourished  at 
Athens  about  four  hundred  and  thirty  years  be- 


fore the  Christian  era.  Such  was  the  license  of 
the  muse  at  this  period,  that  far  from  lashing  vice 
in  general  characters,  she  boldly  exhibited  the  ex- 
act portrait  of  every  individual  who  had  rendered 
himself  remarkable  or  notorious  by  his  crimes, 
folly,  or  debauchery.  She  assumed  every  circum- 
stance of  his  external  appearance,  his  very  attire, 
air,  manner,  and  even  his  name ;  according  to  the 
observation  of  Horace, 


-Poetae 


-quorum  comoedia  prisca  virorum  ( 


Si  quis  erat  dignus  describi,  quod  malus,  aut  fur, 
Quod  moechus  Ibret,  aut  sicarius,  aut  alioqui 
Famosus,  multa  cum  libertate  notabant. 

The  comic  poets,  in  its  earliest  age, 

Who  formed  the  manners  of  the  Grecian  stage — 

Was  there  a  villain  who  might  justly  claim 

A  better  right  of  being  damn'd  to  fame, 

Rake,  cut-throat,  thief,  whatever  was  his  crime, 

They  boldly  stigmatized  the  wretch  in  rhyme. 

Eupolis  is  said  to  have  satirized  Alcibiades  in  this 
manner,  and  to  have  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  the  re 
sentment  of  that  powerful  Athenian ;  but  others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  the  Hellespont,  during  a 
war  against  the  Lacedemonians ;  and  that  in  con- 
sequence of  this  accident  the  Athenians  passed  a 
decree,  that  no  poet  should  ever  bear  arms. 

The  comedies  of  Cratinus  are  recommended  by 
Cluintilian  for  their  eloqence ;  and  Plutarch  tells  us 
that  even  Pericles  himself  could  not  escape  the 
censure  of  this  poet. 

Aristophanes,  of  whom  there  are  eleven  come- 
dies still  extant,  enjoyed  such  a  pre-eminence  of 
reputation,  that  the  Athenians  by  a  public  decree 
honoured  him  with  a  crown  made  of  consecrated 
olive-tree,  which  grew  in  the  citadel,  for  his  care 
and  success  in  detecting  and  exposing  the  vices  of 
those  who  governed  the  commonwealth.  Yet  this 
poet,  whether  impelled  by  mere  wantonness  of 
genius,  or  actuated  by  malice  and  envy,  could  not 
refrain  from  employing  the  shafts  of  his  ridicule 
against  Socrates,  the  most  venerable  character  of 
Pagan  antiquity.  In  the  comedy  of  the  Clouds, 
this  virtuous  philosopher  was  exhibited  on  the 
stage  under  his  own  name,  in  a  cloak  exactly  re- 
sembling that  which  Socrates  wore,  in  a  mask  mo- 
delled from  his  features,  disputing  publicly  on  the 
nature  of  right  and  wrong.  This  was  undoubted- 
ly an  instance  of  the  most  flagrant  licentiousness ; 
and  what  renders  it  the  more  extraordinary,  the 
audience  received  it  with  great  applause,  even 
while  Socrates  himself  sat  publicly  in  the  theatre. 
The  truth  -is,  the  Athenians  were  so  fond  of  ridi- 
cule, that  they  relished  it  even  when  employed 
against  the  gods  themselves,  some  of  whose  cha- 
racters were  very  roughly  handled  by  Aristopha- 
nes and  his  rivals  in  reputation. 

We  might  here  draw  a  parallel  between  the  in- 
habitants of  Athens  and  the  natives  of  England; 


506 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


in  point  of  constitution,  genius,  and  disposition. 
Athens  was  a  free  state  like  England,  that  piqued 
itself  upon  the  influence  of  the  democracy.  Like 
England,  its  wealth  and  strength  depended  upon 
its  maritime  power :  and  it  generally  acted  as  um- 
pire in  the  disputes  that  arose  among  its  neigh- 
bours. The  people  of  Athens,  like  those  of  Eng- 
land, were  remarkably  ingenious,  and  made  great 
progress  in  the  arts  and  sciences.  They  excelled 
in  poetry,  history,  philosophy,  mechanics,  and 
manufactures;  they  were  acute,  discerning,  dis- 
putatious, fickle,  wavering,  rash,  and  combustible, 
and,  above  all  other  nations  in  Europe,  addicted  to 
ridicule ;  a  character  which  the  English  inherit  in 
a  very  remarkable  degree. 
I  If  we  may  judge  from  the  writings  of  Aristo- 

phanes, his  chief  aim  was  to  gratify  the  spleen  and 
excite  the  mirth  of  his  audience ;  of  an  audience 
too,  that  would  seem  to  have  been  uninformed  by 
taste,  and  altogether  ignorant  of  decorum ;  for  his 
pieces  are  replete  with  the  most  extravagant  ab- 
surdities, virulent  slander,  impiety,  impurities,  and 
low  buffoonery.  The  comic  muse,  not  contented 
with  being  allowed  to  make  free  with  the  gods  and 
philosophers,  applied  her  scourge  so  severely  to  the 
magistrates  of  the  commonwealth,  that  it  was 
thought  proper  to  restrain  her  within  bounds  by  a 
law,  enacting,  that  no  person  should  be  stigmatized 
under  his  real  name ;  and  thus  the  chorus  was  si- 
lenced. In  order  to  elude  the  penalty  of  this  law, 
and  gratify  the  taste  of  the  people,  the  poets,  began 
to  substitute  fictitious  names,  under  which  they  ex- 
hibited particular  characters  in  such  lively  colours, 
that  the  resemblance  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken 
or  overlooked.  This  practice  gave  rise  to  what  is 
called  the  middle  comedy,  which  was  but  of  short 
duration ;  for  the  legislature,  perceiving  that  the  first 
law  had  not  removed  the  grievance  against  which 
it  was  provided,  issued  a  second  ordinance,  forbid- 
ding, under  severe  penalties,  any  real  or  family  oc- 
currences to  be  represented.  This  restriction  was 
the  immediate  cause  of  improving  comedy  into  a 
general  mirror,  held  forth  to  reflect  the  various  fol- 
lies and  foibles  incident  to  human  nature ;  a  species 
of  writing  called  the  riew  comedy,  introduced  by 
Diphilus  and  Menander,  of  whose  works  nothing 
but  a  few  fragments  remain. 


ESSAY  XV. 

Having  communicated  our  sentiments  touching 
the  origin  of  poetry,  by  tracing  tragedy  and  comedy 
to  their  common  source,  we  shall  now  endeavour 
to  point  out  the  criteria  by  which  poetry  is  distin- 
guished from  every  other  species  of  writing.  In 
common  with  other  arts,  such  as  statuary  and  paint- 
ing, it  comprehends  imitation,  invention,  composi- 


tion, and  enthusiasm.  Imitation  is  indeed  the  ba- 
sis of  all  the  liberal  arts ;  invention  and  enthusiasm 
constitute  genius,  in  whatever  manner  it  may  be 
displayed.  Eloquence  of  all  sorts  admits  of  enthu- 
siasm. TuUy  says,  an  orator  should  be  vekemens 
ut  procella,  excitatus  ut  torrens,  incensus  ut  ful- 
men;  tonat,  fulgurat,  et  rapidis  eloquentias  Jlvc- 
tibus  cuncta  proruit  et  proturhat.  "  Violent  as  a 
tempest,  impetuous  as  a  torrent,  and  glowing  in- 
tense like  the  red  bolt  of  heaven,  he  thunders, 
lightens,  overthrows,  and  bears  down  all  before 
him,  by  the  irresistible  tide  of  eloquence."  This 
is  the  mens  diviniar  atqtbe  os  magna  sonaturum 
of  Horace.    This  is  the  talent, 

^Meum  qui  pectus  inaniter  angit, 

Irritat,  mulcet,  falsis  terroribus  implet, 
Ut  magus. 

With  passions  not  my  own  who  fires  my  heart; 
Who  with  unreal  terrors  fills  my  breast 
As  with  a  magic  influence  possess'd. 

We  are  told,  that  Michael  Angelo  Buonaroti  used 
to  work  at  his  statues  in  a  fit  of  enthusiasm,  during 
which  he  made  the  fragments  of  the  stone  fly  about 
him  with  surprising  violence.  The  celebrated 
Lully  being  one  day  blamed  for  setting  nothing  to 
music  but  the  languid  verses  of  Cluinault,  was  ani- 
mated with  the  reproach,  and  running  in  a  fit  of 
enthusiasm  to  his  harpsichord,  sung  in  recitative, 
and  accompanied  four  pathetic  lines  from  the  Iphi- 
genia  of  Racine,  with  such  expression  as  filled  the 
hearers  with  astonishment  and  horror. 

Though  versification  be  one  of  the  criteria  that 
distinguish  poetry  from  prose^  yet  it  is  not  the  sole 
mark  of  distinction.  Were  the  histories  of  Poly- 
bius  and  Livy  simply  turned  into  verse,  they  would 
not  become  poems ;  because  they  would  be  desti- 
tute of  those  figures,  embellishments,  and  flights 
of  imagination,  which  display  the  poet's  art  and 
invention.  On  the  other  hand,  we  have  many  pro- 
ductions that  justly  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  poetry, 
without  having  the  advantage  of  versification;  wit- 
ness the  Psalms  of  David,  the  Song  of  Solomon, 
with  many  beautiful  hymns,  descriptions,  and 
rhapsodies,  to  be  found  in  diflferent  parts  of  the 
Old  Testament,  some  of  them  the  immediate  pro- 
duction of  divine  inspiration ;  witness  the  Celtic 
fragments  which  have  lately  appeared  in  the  Eng- 
lish language,  and  are  certainly  replete  with  poeti- 
cal merit.  But  though  good  versification  alone  will 
not  constitute  poetry,  bad  versification  alone  will 
certainly  degrade  and  render  disgustful  the  sub- 
limest  sentiments  and  finest  flowers  of  imagination. 
This  humiliating  power  of  bad  verse  appears  in 
many  translations  of  the  ancient  poets  ;  in  Ogilby's 
Homer,  Trapp's  Virgil,  and  frequently  in  Creech's 
Horace.  This  last  indeed  is  not  wholly  devoid 
of  spirit ;  but  it  seldom  rises  above  mediocrity,  and, 
as  Horace  says, 


ESSAYS. 


507 


— Mediocribus  esse  poetia 

Non  homines,  non  Di,  non  conceasere  colunuMB. 

But  Grod  and  man,  and  letter'd  post  denies, 
That  poets  ever  are  of  middling  size. 

How  is  that  beautiful  ode,  beginning  with  Jua- 
twn  et  tenacem  propositi  viruTn^  chilled  and  tamed 
by  the  following  translation : 

He  who  by  principle  is  sway'd, 

In  truth  and  justice  still  the  same, 
Is  neither  of  the  crowd  afraid, 

Though  civil  broils  the  state  inflame ; 
Nor  to  a  haughty  tyrant's  frown  will  stoop, 
Nor  to  a  raging  storm,  when  all  the  winds  are  up. 

Should  nature  with  convulsions  shake. 

Struck  with  the  fiery  bolts  of  Jove, 
The  final  doom  and  dreadful  crack 

Can  not  his  constant  courage  move. 

That  long  Alexandrine — "Nor  to  a  raging 
storm,  when  all  the  winds  are  up,"  is  drawling, 
feeble,  swoln  with  a  pleonasm  or  tautology,  as  well 
as  deficient  in  the  rhyme;  and  as  for  the  "dread- 
ful crack,"  in  the  next  stanza,  instead  of  exciting 
terror,  it  conveys  a  low  and  ludicrous  idea.  How 
much  more  elegant  and  energetic  is  this  paraphrase 
of  the  same  ode,  inserted  in  one  of  the  volumes  of 
Hume's  History  of  England. 

The  man  whose  mind,  on  virtue  bent, 
Pursues  some  greatly  good  intent 

With  undiverted  aim, 
Serene  beholds  the  augry  crowd ; 
Nor  can  their  clamours  fierce  and  loud 

His  stubborn  honour  tame. 

Nor  the  proud  tyrant's  fiercest  threat, 
Nor  storms  that  from  their  dark  retreat 

The  lawless  surges  wake ; 
Nor  Jove's  dread  bolt,  that  shakes  the  pde, 
The  firmer  purpose  of  his  soul 

With  all  its  power  can  shake. 

Should  nature's  frame  in  ruins  fall, 

id  Chaos  o'er  the  sinking  ball 
3ume  primeval  sway, 
His  courage  chance  and  fate  defies, 
Nor  feels  the  wreck  of  earth  and  skies 

Obstruct  its  destined  way. 

If  poetry  exists  independent  of  versification,  it 
will  naturally  be  asked,  how  then  is  it  to  be  dis- 
tinguished'? Undoubtedly  by  its  own  peculiar 
expression ;  it  has  a  language  of  its  own,  which 
speaks  so  feelingly  to  the  heart,  and  so  pleasingly 
to  the  imagination,  that  its  meaning  can  not  pos- 
sibly be  misunderstood  by  any  person  of  delicate 
sensations.  It  is  a  species  of  painting  with  words, 
in  which  the  figures  are  happily  conceived,  ingeni- 
ously arranged,  afFectingly  expressed,  and  recom- 
mended with  all  the  warmth  and  harmony  of 
colouring:  it  consists  of  imagery,  description,  meta- 
phors, similes,  and  sentiments,  adapted  with  pro- 
priety to  the  subject,  so  contrived  and  executed  as  j 
to  soothe  the  ear,  surprise  and  delight  the  fancy,  i 


mend  and  melt  the  heart,  elevate  the  mind,  and 
please  the  understanding.     According  to  Flaccus : 

Aut  prodesse  volunt,  aut  delectare  poetae ; 
Aut  simul  et  jucunda  et  idonea  dicere  vit». 

Poets  would  profit  or  delight  mankind, 

And  with  th'  amusing  show  th'  instructive  join'4 

Omne  tulit  punctum,  qui  miscuit  utile  dulcl, 
Lectorem  delectando,  pariterque  monendo. 

Profit  and  pleasure  mingled  thus  with  art. 
To  soothe  the  fancy  and  improve  the  heart. 

Tropes  and  figures  are  likewise  liberally  used  in 
rhetoric :  and  some  of  the  most  celebrated  orators 
have  owned  themselves  much  indebted  to  the  poets. 
Theophrastus  expressly  recommends  the  poets  for 
this  purpose.  From  their  source,  the  spirit  and 
energy  of  the  pathetic,  the  sublime,  and  the  beauti- 
ful, are  derived.*  But  these  figures  must  be  more 
sparingly  used  in  rhetoric  than  in  poetry,  and  even 
then  mingled  with  argumentation,  and  a  detail  of 
facts  altogether  different  from  poetical  narration. 
The  poet,  instead  of  simply  relating  the  incident, 
strikes  off  a  glowing  picture  of  the  scene,  and  ex- 
hibits it  in  the  most  lively  colours  to  the  eye  of  the 
imagination.  "It  is  reported  that  Homer  was 
Wind,"  says  TuUy  in  his  Tusculan  duestions, 
"yet  his  poetry  is  no  other  than  painting.  What 
country,  what  climate,  what  ideas,  battles,  commo- 
tions, and  contests  of  men,  as  well  as  of  wild  beasts, 
has  he  not  painted  in  such  a  manner  as  to  bring 
before  our  eyes  those  very  scenes,  which  he  him- 
self could  not  behold !"t  We  cannot  therefore 
subscribe  to  the  opinion  of  some  ingenious  critics, 
who  have  blamed  Mr.  Pope  for  deviating  in  some 
instances  from  the  simplicity  of  Homer,  in  his 
translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  For  example, 
the  Grecian  bard  says  simply,  the  sun  rose ;  and 
his  translator  gives  us  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  sun 
rising.  Homer  mentions  a  person  who  played 
upon  the  lyre ;  the  translator  sets  him  before  us 
warbling  to  the  silver  strings.  If  this  be  a  devia- 
tion, it  is  at  the  same  time  an  improvement.  Homer 
himself,  as  Cicero  observes  above,  is  full  of  this 
kind  of  painting,  and  particularly  fond  of  descrip- 
tion, even  in  situations  where  the  action  seems  to 
require  haste.  Neptune,  observing  from  Samo- 
thrace  the  discomfiture  of  the  Grecians  before  Troy, 
flies  to  their  assistance,  and  might  have  been  waft- 
ed thither  in  half  a  line :  but  the  bard  describes 
him,  first,  descending  the  mountain  on  which  he 
sat ;  secondly,  striding  towards  his  palace  at  ^gae, 
and  yoking  his  horses ;  thirdly,  he  describes  him 


*  Namque  ab  his  (scilicet  poetis)  et  in  rebus  spiritus,  et  in 
verbis  sublimitas,  et  in  affectibus  motus  omnis,  et  in  petsonis 
decor  petitur.—  Quintilian,  1.  x. 

t  Quffi  regio,  quae  ora,  quae  species  formiB,  quae  pugna,  qui 
motus  hominum,  qui  ferarum,  non  ita  expictus  est,  ut  qua 
ipse  non  viderit,  nos  ut  videramus,  efiecerit! 


508 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


putting  on  his  armour ;  and  lastly,  ascending  his 
car,  and  driving  along  the  surface  of  the  sea.  Far 
from  being  disgusted  by  these  delays,  we  are  de- 
lighted with  the  particulars  of  the  description 
Nothing  can  be  more  sublime  than  the  circum- 
stance of  the  mountain's  trembling  beneath  the 
footsteps  of  an  immortal : 

.    .    .    Tfit/uii  <r'  cvfiict  iu.Ax.fia.  km  vx>f 
Hofffftv  xjTt  aBsLVctrot<rt  noa-swstaivof  icvTOs. 

But  his  passage  to  the  Grecian  fleet  is  altogether 
transporting. 

BwcT'  txctav  ini  ku  fAotr,  etc. 

He  mounts  the  car,  the  golden  scourge  applies, 
He  sits  superior,  and  the  chariot  flies ;  0 

His  whirling  wheels  the  glassy  surface  sweep : 
Th'  enormous  monsters,  rolling  o'er  the  deep, 
Gambol  around  him  on  the  watery  way. 
And  heavy  whales  in  awkward  measures  play : 
The  sea  subsiding  spreads  a  level  plain. 
Exults  and  crowns  the  monarch  of  the  main  ; 
The  parting  waves  before  his  coursers  fly ; 
The  wondering  waters  leave  his  axle  dry. 

With  great  veneration  for  the  memory  of  Mr. 
Pope,  we  can  not  help  objecting  to  some  lines  of 
this  translation.  We  have  no  idea  of  the  sea's  ex- 
ulting and  crowning  Neptune,  after  it  had  sub- 
sided into  a  level  plain.  There  is  no  such  image 
in  the  original.  Homer  says,  the  whales  exulted, 
and  knew  or  owned  their  king ;  and  that  the  sea 
parted  with  joy:  ynBoa-Jvn  cTg  ^uKoia-c-ct  SinxTiLTo. 
Neither  is  there  a  word  of  the  wondering  waters  : 
we  therefore  think  the  lines  might  be  thus  altered 
to  advantage : 

They  knew  and  own'd  the  monarch  of  the  main : 
The  sea  subsiding  spreads  a  level  plain ; 
The  curling  waves  before  his  coursers  fly, 
The  parting  surface  leaves  his  brazen  axle  dry. 

Besides  the  metaphors,  similes,  and  allusions  of 
poetry,  there  is  an  infinite  variety  of  tropes,  or  turns 
of  expression,  occasionally  disseminated  through 
works  of  genius,  which  serve  to  animate  the  whole, 
and  distinguish  the  glowing  effusiojis  of  real  in- 
spiration from  the  cold  efforts  of  mere  science. 
These  tropes  consist  of  a  certain  happy  choice  and 
arrangement  of  words,  by  which  ideas  are  artfully 
disclosed  in  a  great  variety  of  attitudes,  of  epithets, 
and  compound  epithets;  of  sounds  collected  in 
order  to  echo  the  sense  conveyed ;  of  apostrophes ; 
and,  above  all,  the  enchanting  use  of  the  prosopo- 
poeia, which  is  a  kind  of  magic,  by  which  the  poet 
gives  life  and  motion  to  every  inanimate  part  of 
nature.  Homer,  describing  the  wrath  of  Agamem- 
non, in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad,  strikes  ofi"  a 
glowing  image  in  two  words : 

.  .  ,  0(r(Ti  tT'  a  TTvpi  Ku/u?riroiivTi  itxruv. 
—And  from  his-eyeballsjKos/i'd  the  living Jire. 


This  indeed  is  a  figure,  which  has  been  copietl 
by  Virgil,  and  almost  all  the  poets  of  every  age — 
oculis  micat  acrihus  ignis — ignescunt  irse :  auHs 
dolor  ossibus  ardet.  Milton,  describing  Satan  in 
Hell,  says. 

With  head  uplift  above  the  wave,  and  eye 
That  sparkling  blazed ! — 

—He  spake :  and  to  confirm  his  words  out  flew 
MillioriB  of  flaming  swords,  drawn  from  the  thighs 
Of  mighty  cherubim.    The  sudden  blaze 
Far  round  illumined  Hell- 
There  are  certain  words  in  every  language  par- 
ticularly adapted  to  the  poetical  expression ;  some 
from  the  image  or  idea  they  convey  to  the  imagi- 
nation ;  and  some  from  the  effect  they  have  upon 
the  ear.     The  first  are  ixw\y  figurative ;  the  others 
may  be  called  emphatical. — Rollin  observes,  that 
Virgil  has  upon  many  occasions  poetized  (if  we 
may  be  allowed  the  expression)  a  whole  sentence 
by  means  of  the  same  word,  which  is  pendere. 

Ite  mese,  felix  quondam  pecus,  ite  capellae, 
Non  ego  voe  posthac,  viridi  projectus  in  ajitro, 
Dumosa  pendere  procul  de  rupe  videbo. 

At  ease  reclined  beneath  the  verdant  shade, 
No  more  shall  I  behold  my  happy  flock 
Aloft  /lang  browsing  on  the  tufted  rock. 

Here  the  word  pendere  wonderfully  improves 
the  landscape,  and  renders  the  whole  passage 
beautifully  picturesque.  The  same  figurative  verb 
we  meet  with  in  many  different  parts  of  the 
^neid. 

Hi  summo  in  flactu  pendent,  his  unda  dehiscens 
Terram  inter  fiuctus  aperit. 

These  on  the  mountain  billow  hung;  to  those 
The  yaioning  waves  thy  yellow  sand  disclose. 

In  this  instance,  the  words  pendent  and  dehis- 
cens, hung  and  yawning,  are  equally  poetical. 
Addison  seems  to  have  had  this  passage  in  his  eye, 
when  he  wrote  his  Hymn,  which  is  inserted  in 
the  Spectator : 

—For  though  in  dreadful  worlds  we  hung, 
High  on  the  broken  wave. 

And  in  another  piece  of  a  like  nature,  in  the 
same  collection : 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustain'd 

And  all  my  wants  redi'ess'd. 
When  in  tlie  silent  womb  I  lay, 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

Shakspeare,  in  his  admired  description  of  Dovei 
cliff,  uses  the  same  expression : 

. Half  way  down 

Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire — dreadful  trade ! 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  the  follow- 
ing picture,  in  which  Milton  has  introduced  the 
same  expressive  tint : 


ESSAYS. 


509 


He,  on  his  side, 

Leaning  half  raised,  with  looks  of  cordial  love 
Hung  over  her  enamour'd. 

We  shall  give  one  example  more  from  Virgil,  to 
show  in  what  a  variety  of  scenes  it  may  appear 
with  propriety  and  effect.  In  describing  the  pro- 
gress of  Dido's  passion  for  ^neas,  the  Poet  says, 

Diacos  iterum  demens  audire  labores 
Exposcit,  pendetque  iterum  narrantis  ab  ore. 

The  v^oes  of  Troy  once  more  she  begg'd  to  hear ; 
Once  more  the  mournful  tale  employ'd  his  tongue. 
While  in  fond  rapture  on  his  liito'  she  hung. 

The  reader  will  perceive  in  all  these  instances, 
Shut  no  other  word  could  be  substituted  with  equal 
energy ;  indeed  no  other  word  could  be  used  with- 
out degrading  the  sense,  and  defacing  the  image. 
There  are  many  other  verbs  of  poetical  import 
fetched  from  nature,  and  from  art,  which  the  poet 
uses  to  advantage,  both  in  a  literal  and  metaphori- 
cal sense  ;  and  these  have  been  always  translated 
for  the  same  purpose  from  one  language  to  ano- 
ther ;  such  as  quasso,  concutio,  cio,  suscito,  lento, 
scevio,  manoyjluo,  ardeo,  mico,  aro,  to  shake,  to 
wake,  to  rouse,  to  soothe,  to  rage,  to  flow,  to  shine 
or  blaze,  to  plough. — Gluassantia  tectum  limina — 
JEneas,  casu,  concussus  acerbo — ^re  ciere  viros, 
Martemque  accendere  cantu — jEneas  acuit  Mar- 
tern  et  se  suscitat  ira — Impium  lenite  clamorem. 
Lenibant  curas — Ne  ssevi  magna  sacerdos — Su- 
dor ad  imos  manabat  solos — Suspensceque  din 
lachrymce  fluxere  per  or  a — Juvenali  ardebat 
amore — Micat  cereus  ensis — Nullum  marls  cequor 
arandum.  It  will  be  unnecessary  to  insert  exam- 
ples of  the  same  nature  from  the  English  poets. 

The  words  we  term  emphatical,  are  such  as  by 
their  sound  express  the  sense  they  are  intended  to 
convey  :  and  with  these  the  Greek  abounds,  above 
all  other  languages,  not  ordy  from  its  natural  copi- 
ousness, flexibility,  and  significance,  but  also  from 
the  variety  of  its  dialects,  which  enables  a  writer 
to  vary  his  terminations  occasionally  as  the  nature 
of  the  subject  requires,  without  offending  the  most 
delicate  ear,  or  incurring  the  imputation  of  adopt- 
ing vulgar  provincial  expressions.  Every  smat- 
terer  in  Greek  can  repeat 

B«  (T'  UKicev  TTetpet  Qivu  7roXv<}>Koti7-Coio  Bctxaa-a-HC, 

in  which  the  last  two  words  wonderfully  echo  to 
the  sense,  conveying  the  idea  of  the  sea  dashing  on 
the  shore.  How  much  more  significant  in  sound 
than  that  beautiful  image  of  Shakspeare — 

The  sea  that  on  the  unnumber'd  pebbles  beats. 

And  yet,  if  we  consider  the  strictness  of  pro- 
priety, this  last  expression  would  seem  to  have 
been  selected  on  purpose  to  concur  with  the  other 
crcumstances,  which  are  brought  together  to  as- 


certain the  vast  height  of  Dover  cliff ;  for  the  poet 
adds,  "  can  not  be  heard  so  high."  The  place 
where  Glo'ster  stood  was  so  high  above  the  surface 
of  the  sea,  that  the  ^xoia-Coc,  or  dashing,  could 
not  be  heard ;  and  therefore  an  enthusiastic  admir- 
er of  Shakspeare  might  with  some  plausibility 
affirm,  the  poet  had  chosen  an  expression  in  which- 
that  sound  is  not  at  all  conveyed. 

In  the  very  same  page  of  Homer's  Iliad  we 
meet  with  two  other  striking  instances  of  the  same 
sort  of  beauty.  Apollo,  incensed  at  the  insults  his 
priest  had  sustained,  descends  from  the  top  of  Olym- 
pus, with  his  bow  and  quiver  rattling  on  his  shoul- 
der as  he  moved  along ; 

Here  the  sound  of  the  word  EK\cty^a.v  admirably  ex» 
presses  the  clanking  of  armour ;  as  the  third  line 
after  this  surprisingly  imitates  the  twanging  of  a 
bow. 

Aim  cTs  KXctyyn  yiVfr  upyvfiioio  Biolo, 

Inshrill-ton'd  murmurs  sung  the  twanging  bow. 

Many  beauties  of  the  same  kind  are  scattered 
through  Homer,  Pindar,  and  Theocritus,  such  as 
the  fiofAdvo-a.  /uiXiTcm,  susurrans  apicula ;  the 
rtJy  -liBvpta-fAa,  dulcem  susurrum;  and  the  /ushta-J'i- 
Tcti,  for  the  sighing  of  the  pine. 

The  Latin  language  teems  with  sounds  adapted  to 
every  situation,  and  the  English  is  not  destitute  of 
this  significant  energy.  We  have  the  cooing  turtle, 
the  sighing  reed,  the  warbling  rivulet,  the  sliding 
stream,  the  whispering  breeze,  the  glance,  the 
gleam,  the  flash,  the  bickering  flame,  the  dashing 
wave,  the  gushing  spring,  the  howling  blast,  the 
rattling  storm,  the  pattering  shower,  the  crimp 
earth,  the  mouldering  tower,  the  twanging  bow- 
string, the  clanging  arms,  the  clanking  chains, 
the  txcinkling  stars,  the  tinkling  chords,  the  trick' 
ling  drops,  the  twittering  swallow,  the  cawing 
rook,  the  screeching  owl ;  and  a  thousand  other 
words  and  epithets,  wonderfully  suited  to  the  sense 
they  imply. 

Among  the  select  passages  of  poetry  which  we 
shall  insert  by  way  of  illustration,  the  reader  will 
find  instances  of  all  the  different  tropes  and  figures 
which  the  best  authors  have  adopted  in  the  variety 
of  their  poetical  works,  as  well  as  of  the  apostrophe, 
abrupt  transition,  repetition,  and  prosopopoeia. 

In  the  mean  time  it  will  be  necessary  still  fur- 
ther to  analyze  those  principles  which  constitute 
the  essence  of  poetical  merit ;  to  display  those  de- 
lightful parterres  that  teem  with  the  fairest  flowers 
of  imaginatian ;  and  distinguish  between  the  gaudy 
offspring  of  a  cold  insipid  fancy,  and  the  glowing 
progeny,  dlflusing  sweets,  produced  and  invigo- 
rated by  the  sun  of  genflis. 


m 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ESSAY  XVI. 

Or  all  the  implements  of  poetry,  the  metaphor 
is  the  most  generally  and  successfully  used,  and 
indeed  may  be  termed  the  Muse's"  caduceus,  by 
the  power  of  which  she  enchants  all  nature.  The 
metaphor  is  a  shorter  simile,  or  rather  a  kind  of 
magical  coat,  by  which  the  same  idea  assumes  a 
thousand  different  appearances.  Thus  the  word 
plough,  which  originally  belongs  to  agriculture, 
being  metaphorically  used,  represents  the  motion 
of  a  ship  at  sea,  and  the  effects  of  old  age  upon  the 
human  countenance — 

— Ploughed  the  bosom  of  the  deep — 
And  time  had  plough'd  his  venerable  front. 

Almost  every  verb,  noun  substantive,  or  term  of 
art  in  any  language,  may  be  in  this  manner  ap- 
plied to  a  variety  of  subjects  with  admirable  effect; 
but  the  danger  is  in  sowing  metaphors  too  thick 
'  so  as  to  distract  the  imagination  of  the  reader,  and 
incur  the  imputation  of  deserting  nature,  in  order 
to  hunt  after  conceits.  Every  day  produces  poems 
of  all  kinds,  so  inflated  with  metaphor,  that  they 
may  be  compared  to  the  gaudy  bubbles  blown  up 
from  a  solution  of  soap.  Longinus  is  of  opinion, 
that  a  multitude  of  metaphors  is  never  excusable, 
except  in  those  cases  when  the  passions  are  rous- 
ed, and  like  a  winter  torrent  rush  down  impetu- 
ous, sweeping  them  with  collective  force  along. 
He  brings  an  instance  of  the  following  quotation 
from  Demosthenes;  "Men,"  says  he,  "profli- 
gates, miscreants,  and  flatterers,  who  having  seve- 
rally preyed  upon  the  bowels  of  their  country,  at 
length  betrayed  her  liberty,  first  to  Philip,  and  now 
again  to  Alexander ;  who,  placing  the  chief  felici- 
ty of  Ufe  in  the  indulgence  of  infamous  lusts  and 
appetites,  overturned  in  the  dust  that  freedom  and 
independence  which  was  the  chief  aim  and  end  of 
all  our  worthy  ancestors."* 

Aristotle  and  Theophrastus  seem  to  think  it  is 
rather  too  bold  and  hazardous  to  use  metaphors  so 
freely,  without  interposing  some  mitigating  phrase, 
such  as  "  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,"  or 
some  equivalent  excuse.  At  the  same  time  Lon- 
ginus finds  fault  with  Plato  for  hazarding  some 
metaphors,  which  indeed  appear  to  be  equally  af- 
fected and  extravagant,  when  he  says,  "  The  go- 
vernment of  a  state  should  not  resemble  a  bowl  of 
hot  fermenting  wine,  but  a  cool  and  moderate  be- 


iix,{iamtpiit<riu.iVot  Tstf  IctvTUV  iKAo-TOi  Tfet'vpiS'cti.  tuv 
iKwBifidcv  TTfioTriTraKOTi?,  vfiortiov  ^iKiTTTra,  vvv  J^'  Ax«|- 
ctvS'po).  rn  yoLCTpt    uirpovvTH  khi  <tois  cua-^iffTois  fnv 

fvSMfAOVlUV,     TJJVtT'     iKivBifilttV,     KSU      TO     fXnJ'tlftt     f^iiV 

cTifl-^cTJfV  clUJTm,  a  ton  TTpoTipon,  'Ef^MTtv  opotTonaya- 
6m  naetv  xAt  KAVovts,  etc* 


verage  chastised  hy  the  sober  deity," — a  metaphor 
that  signifies  nothing  more  than  "  mixed  or  low- 
ered with  water."  Demetrius  Phalereus  justly 
observes,  that  though  a  judicious  use  of  metaphors 
wonderfully  raises,  sublimes,  and  adorns  oratory 
or  elocution,  yet  they  should  seem  to  flow  natural- 
ly from  the  subject ;  and  too  great  a  redundancy  of 
them  inflates  the  discourse  to  a  mere  rhapsody. 
The  same  observation  will  hold  in  poetry ;  and  the 
more  liberal  or  sparing  use  of  them  will  depend  in 
a  great  measure  on  the  nature  of  the  subject. 

Passion  itself  is  very  figurative,  and  often  bursts 
out  into  metaphors ;  but  in  touching  the  pathos, 
the  poet  must  be  perfectly  well  acquainted  with 
the  emotions  of  the  human  soul,  and  carefully  dis- 
tinguish between  those  metaphors  which  rise  glow- 
ing from  the  heart,  and  those  cold  conceits  which 
are  engendered  in  the  fancy.  Should  one  of  these 
last  unfortunately  intervene,  it  will  be  apt  to  de- 
stroy the  whole  effect  of  the  most  pathetical  inci- 
dent or  situation.  Indeed  it  requires  the  most 
delicate  taste,  and  a  consummate  knowledge  of  pro- 
priety, to  employ  metaphors  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  avoid  what  the  ancients  call  the  to  -^v^oy,  the 
frigid,  or  false  sublime.  Instances  of  this  kind 
were  frequent  even  among  the  correct  ancients. 
Sappho  herself  is  blamed  for  using  the  hyperbole 
XiUKortpoi  ^lovoc,  whiter  than  snow.  Demetrius  is 
so  nice  as  to  be  disgusted  at  the  simile  of  swift  as 
the  wind ;  though,  in  speaking  of  a  race-horse,  we 
know  from  experience  that  this  is  not  even  an  hy- 
perbole. He  would  have  had  more  reason  to  censure 
that  kind  of  metaphor  which  Aristotle  styles  xatT* 
ivspyuitY,  exhibiting  things  inanimate  as  endued  with 
sense  and  reason ;  such  as  that  of  the  sharp- pointed 
arrow,  eager  to  take  wing  among  the  crowd. 
O'  ^uCiXus  *«<6'  o/mt\ov  vnTTTio-Qcu  /usYtduvm.  Not  but 
that  in  descriptive  poetry  this  figure  is  often  allow- 
ed and  admired.  The  crxiel  sword,  the  ruthless 
dagger,  the  ruffian  blast,  are  epithets  which  fre- 
quently occur.  The  faithful  bosom  of  the  earth, 
the  joyous  boughs,  the  trees  that  admire  their  im- 
ages reflected  in  the  stream,  and  many  other  exam- 
ples of  this  kind,  are  found  disseminated  through 
the  works  of  our  best  modern  poets  ;  yet  still  they 
must  be  sheltered  under  the  privilege  of  the  poetica 
licentia ;  and,  expect  in  poetry,  they  would  give 
offence. 

More  chaste  metaphors  are  freely  used  in  all 
kinds  of  writing  ;  more  sparingly  in  history,  and 
more  abundantly  in  rhetoric :  we  have  seen  that 
Plato  indulges  in  them  even  to  excess.  The  ora- 
tions of  Demosthenes  are  animated  and  even  in- 
flamed with  metaphors,  some  of  them  so  bold  as 
even  to  entail  upon  him  the  censure  of  the  critics. 
TtTs  T»  UvBuvt  TCf>'p»ropt  'ptovri  *tf6'  v/ixcen. — "Then 
I  did  not  yield  to  Python  the  orator,  when  heover- 
Jlowed  you  with  a  tide  of  eloquence."  Cicero  is 
still  more  hberal  in  the  use  of  them  :  he  ransacks 


ESSAYS. 


511 


all  nature,  and  pours  forth  a  redundancy  of  figures, 
even  with  a  lavish  hand.  Even  the  chaste  Xeno- 
phon,  who  generally  illustrates  his  subject  by  way 
of  simile,  sometimes  ventures  to  produce  an  ex- 
pressive metaphor,  such  as,  part  of  the  phalanx 
Jiuctuated  in  the  march ;  and  indeed  nothing  can 
be  more  significant  than  this  word  t^iKu/unvt,  to 
represent  a  body  of  men  staggered,  and  on  the 
point  of  giving  way.  Armstrong  has  used  the 
word  fluctuate  with  admirable  efficacy,  in  his  phi- 
losopliical  poem,  entitled,  The  Art  of  Preserving 
Health. 

O !  when  the  growling  winds  contend,  and  all 
The  sounding  forest  fluctuates  in  the  storm, 
To  sink  in  warm  repose,  and  hear  the  din 
Howl  o'er  the  steady  battlements 

The  word  fluctuate  on  this  occasion  not  only 
exhibits  an  idea  of  struggling,  but  also  echoes  to 
the  sense  like  the  «4»/i/^8v  h  (aakh  of  Homer;  which, 
by  the  by,  it  is  impossible  to  render  into  English, 
for  the  verb  <;>pto-a-a  signifies  not  only  to  stand  erect 
like  prickles,  as  a  grove  of  lances,  but  also  to  make 
a  noise  like  the  crashing  of  armour,  the  hissing  of 
javehns,  and  the  splinters  of  spears. 

Over  and  above  an  excess  of  figures,  a  young 
author  is  apt  to  run  into  a  confusion  of  mixed  me- 
taphors, which  leave  the  sense  disjointed,  and  dis- 
tract the  imagination :  Shakspeare  himself  is  often 
guilty  of  these  irregularities.  The  soliloquy  in 
Hamlet,  which  we  have  so  often  heard  extolled  in 
terms  of  admiration,  is,  in  our  opinion,  a  heap  of 
absurdities,  whether  we  consider  the  situation,  the 
sentiment,  the  argumentation,  or  the  poetry.  Ham- 
let is  informed  by  the  Ghost,  that  his  father  was 
murdered,  and  therefore  he  is  tempted  to  murder 
himself,  even  after  he  had  promised  to  take  ven- 
geance on  the  usurper,  and  expressed  the  utmost 
eagerness  to  achieve  this  enterprise.  It  does  not 
appear  that  he  had  the  least  reason  to  wish  for 
death ;  but  every  motive  which  may  be  supposed 
to  influence  the  mind  of  a  young  prince,  concurred 
to  render  life  desirable — revenge  towards  the  usur- 
per ;  love  for  the  fair  Ophelia ;  and  the  ambition 
of  reigning.  Besides,  when  he  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  dying  without  being  accessary  to  his  own 
death ;  when  he  had  nothing  to  do  but,  in  obe- 
dience to  his  uncle's  command,  to  allow  himself  to 
be  conveyed  quietly  to  England,  where  he  was 
sure  of  suffering  death ;  instead  of  amusing  him- 
self with  meditations  on  mortality,  he  very  wisely 
consulted  the  means  of  self-preservation,  turned 
the  tables  upon  his  attendants,  and  returned  to 
Denmark.  But  granting  him  to  have  been  re- 
duced to  the  lowest  state  of  despondence,  surround- 
ed with  nothing  but  horror  and  despair,  sick  of 
this  life,  and  eager  to  tempt  futurity,  we  shall  see 
how  far  he  argues  like  a  philosopher. 
'  In  order  to  support  this  general  charge  against 


an  author  so  universally  held  in  veneration,  whose 
very  errors  have  helped  to  sanctify  his  character 
among  the  multitude,  we  will  descend  to  particu- 
lars, and  analyze  this  famous  soliloquy. 

Hamlet,  having  assumed  the  disguise  of  madness, 
as  a  cloak  under  which  he  might  the  more  effec- 
tually revenge  his  father's  death  upon  the  murderer 
and  usurper,  appears  alwie  upon  the  stage  in  a 
pensive  and  melancholy  attitude,  ami  communes 
with  himself  in  these  words : 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  that  is  the  question  r— 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  ; 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And, by  opposing,  end  them?— To  die,— to  sleep,— 
No  more ;— and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ach,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocka 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,— 'tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.    To  die ; — to  sleep ; — 
To  sleep !  perchance  to  dream ;—  ay,  there's  tha  rul* 
tot  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come. 
When  we  are  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 

Must  give  us  pause : There's  the  respect, 

That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life : 

For  who  would  heax  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely  . 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  th'  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin?  Who  would  fardels  hear, 

To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life ; 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 

The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 

No  traveller  returns,— puzzles  the  will : 

And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 

Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  aJI ; 

And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 

Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 

And  enteiprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 

With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry. 

And  lose  the  name  of  action. 


We  have  already  observed,  that  there  is  not  any 
apparent  circumstance  in  the  fate  or  situation  of 
Hamlet,  that  should  prompt  him  to  harbour  one 
thought  of  self-murder:  and  therefore  these  ex- 
pressions of  despair  imply  an  impropriety  in  point 
of  character.  But  supposing  his  condition  was 
truly  desperate,  and  he  saw  no  possibility  of  repose 
but  in  the  uncertain  harbour  of  death,  let  us  see  in 
what  manner  he  argues  on  that  subject.  The 
question  is,  "  To  be,  or  not  to  be ; "  to  die  by  my 
own  hand,  or  live  and  suffer  the  miseries  of  life. 
He  proceeds  to  explain  the  alternative  in  these 
terms,  "  Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer, 
or  endure  the  frowns  of  fortune,  or  to  take  arms, 
and  by  opposing,  end  them.^'  Here  he  deviates 
from  his  first  proposition,  and  death  is  no  longer 
the  question.  The  only  doubt  is,  whether  he  will 
stoop  to  misfortune,  or  exert  his  faculties  in  order 
to  surmount  it    This  surely  is  the  obvious  mean 


512 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


ing,  and  indeed  the  only  meaning  that  can  be  im- 
plied to  these  words, 


Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortiuiej 
Or  to  take  aims  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing,  end  them? 

He  now  drops  this  idea,  and  reverts  to  his  reason- 
ing on  death,  in  the  course  of  which  he  owns  him- 
self deterred  from  suicide  by  the  thoughts  of  what 
may  follow  death ; 

^The  dread  of  something  after  death, — 

The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  retiurns.— 

This  might  be  a  good  argument  in  a  Heathen 
or  Pagan,  and  such  indeed  Hamlet  really  was;  but 
Shakspeare  has  already  represented  him  as  a  good 
Catholic,  who  must  have  been  acquainted  with 
the  truths  of  revealed  religion,  and  says  expressly 
in  this  very  play, 

Had  not  the  everlasting  fix'd 

His  canon  'gainst  self-murder. 

Moreover,  he  had  just  been  conversing  with  his 
father's  spirit  piping  hot  from  purgatory,  which 
we  presume  is  not  within  the  bourn  of  this  world. 
The  dread  of  what  may  happen  after  death, 
says  he, 

Makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of. 

This  declaration  at  least  implies  some  knowledge 
of  the  other  world,  and  expressly  asserts,  that  there 
must  be  ills  in  that  world,  though  what  kind  of  ills 
they  are,  we  do  not  know.  The  argument,  there^ 
fore,  may  be  reduced  to  this  lemma :  this  world 
abounds  with  ills  which  I  feel ;  the  •  other  world 
abounds  with  ills,  the  nature  of  which  I  do  not 
know;  therefore,  I  will  rather  bear  those  ills  I 
have,  "  than  fly  to  others  which  I  know  not  of; 
a  deduction  amounting  to  a  certainty,  with  respect 
to  the  only  circumstance  that  could  create  a  doubt, 
namely,  whether  in  death  he  should  rest  from  his 
misery ;  and  if  he  was  certain  there  were  evils  in 
the  next  world,  as  well  as  in  this,  he  had  no  room 
to  reason  at  all  about  the  matter.  What  alone 
could  justify  his  thinking  on  this  subject,  would 
have  been  the  hope  of  flying  from  the  ills  of  this 
world,  without  encountering  j^ny  otfiers  in  the 
next. 

Nor  is  Hamlet  more  accurate  in  the  following 
reflection  : 

Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all. 

A  bad  conscience  will  make  us  cowards ;  but  a 
good  conscience  will  make  us  brave.  It  does  not 
appear  that  any  thing  lay  heavy  on  his  conscience; 
ojid  from  the  premises  we  can  not  help  inferring,  i 
that  conscience  in  this  case  was  entirely  out  of  the 


question.  Hamlet  was  deterred  from  suicide  by  a 
full  conviction,  that,  in  flying  from  one  sea  of 
troubles  which  he  did  know,  he  should  fall  into 
another  which  he  did  not  know. 

His  whole  chain  of  reasoning,  therefore,  seems 
inconsistent  and  incongruous.  "I  am  doubtful 
whether  I  should  live,  or  do  violence  upon  my  own 
life :  for  I  knew  not  whether  it  is  more  honourable 
to  bear  misfortune  patiently,  than  to  exert  myself 
in  opposing  misfortune,  and  by  opposing,  end  it." 
Let  us  throw  it  into  the  form  of  a  syllogism,  it  will 
stand  thus:  " I  am  oppressed  with  ills;  I  know 
not  whether  it  is  more  honourable  to  bear  those  ills 
patiently,  or  to  end  them  by  taking  arms  against 
them :  ergo,  I  am  doubtful  whether  I  should  slay 
myself  or  live.  To  die,  is  no  more  than  to  sleep; 
and  to  say  that  by  a  sleep  we  end  the  heart-ache," 
etc.  "  'tis  a  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wish'd." 
Now  to  say  it  was  of  no  consequence  unless  it  had 
been  true.  "  I  am  afraid  of  the  dreams  that  may 
happen  in  that  sleep  of  death ;  and  I  choose  rather 
to  bear  those  ills  I  have  in  this  life,  than  to  fly  to 
other  ills  in  that  undiscovered  country,  from  whose 
bourn  no  traveller  ever  returns.  I  have  ills  that 
are  almost  insupportable  in  this  life.  I  know  not 
what  is  in  the  next,  because  it  is  an  undiscovered 
country :  ergo,  I'd  rather  bear  those  ills  I  have, 
than  fly  to  others  which  I  know  not  of."  Here 
the  conclusion  is  by  no  means  warranted  by  the 
premises.  "I  am  sore  afflicted  in  this  Ufe ;  but  I 
will  rather  bear  the  afflictions  of  this  life,  than 
plunge  myself  in  the  afflictions  of  another  life: 
ergo,  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all."  But 
this  conclusion  would  justify  the  logician  in  say- 
ing, negatur  consequens;  for  it  is  entirely  de- 
tached both  from  the  major  and  minor  propo- 
sition. 

This  soliloquy  is  not  less  exceptionable  in  the 
propriety  of  expression,  than  in  the  chain  of  argu- 
mentation. "  To  die — to  sleep — no  more,"  con- 
tains an  ambiguity,  which  all  the  art  of  punctua- 
tion can  not  remove  :  for  it  may  signify  that  "  to 
die,"  is  to  sleep  no  more ;  or  the  expression  "no 
more,"  may  be  considered  as  an  abrupt  apostrophe 
in  thinking,  as  if  he  meant  to  say  "  no  more  of  that 
reflection." 

"Ay,  there's  the  rub,"  is  a  vulgarism  beneath 
the  dignity  of  Hamlet's  character,  and  the  words 
that  follow  leave  the  sense  imperfect : 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause. 

Not  the  dreams  that  might  come,  but  the  fear  of 
what  dreams  might  come,  occasioned  the  pause  or 
hesitation.  Respect  in  the  same  line  may  be  al- 
lowed to  pass  for  consideration :  but 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  contumely 


ESSAYS. 


513 


according  to  the  invariable  acceptation  of  the  words 
torong  and  contumeiy,  can  signify  nothing  but 
the  wrongs  sustained  by  the  oppressor,  and  the 
contumely  or  abuse  thrown  upon  the  proud  man ; 
though  it  is  plain  that  Shakspeare  used  them  in  a 
different  sense :  neither  is  the  word  spurn  a  sub- 
stantive, yet  as  such  he  has  inserted  it  in  these  lines : 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 
That  patient  merit  of  tli'  unworthy  takes. 

If  we  consider  the  metaphors  of  the  soliloquy, 
we  shall  find  them  jumbled  together  in  a  strange 
confusion. 

If  the  metaphors  were  reduced  to  painting,  we 
should  find  it  a  very  difficult  task,  if  not  altogether 
impracticable,  to  represent  with  any  propriety  out- 
rageous fortune  using  her  sUngs  and  arrows,  be- 
tween which  indeed  there  is  no  sort  of  analogy  in 
nature.  Neither  can  any  figure  be  more  ridiculous- 
ly absurd  than  that  of  a  man  taking  arms  against 
a  sea,  exclusive  of  the  incongruous  medley  of  slings, 
arrows,  and  seas,  justled  within  the  compass  of 
one  reflection.  What  follows  is  a  strange  rhapsody 
of  broken  images  of  sleeping,  dreaming,  and  shift- 
ing off  a  coil,  which  last  conveys  no  idea  that  can 
be  represented  on  canvass.  A  man  may  be  ex- 
hibited shuffling  off  his  garments  or  his  chains : 
but  how  he  should  shufile  off  a  coil,  which  is  an- 
other term  for  noise  and  tumult,  we  cannot  com- 
preliend.  Then  we  have  "long-lived  calamity 
and  " time  armed  with  whips  and  scorns;"  and 
"  patient  merit  spurned  at  by  unworthiness ; "  and 
"  misery  with  a  bare  bodkin  going  to  make  his  own 
quietus,"  which  at  best  is  but  a  mean  metaphor. 
These  are  followed  by  figures  "sweating  under 
fawlels  of  burdens,"  "  puzzled  with  doubts,"  "shak- 
ing with  fears,"  and  "flying  from  evils."  Finally 
we  see  "  resolution  sickUed  o'er  with  pale  thought," 
a  conception  Uke  that  of  representing  health  by 
sickness ;  and  a  "  current  of  pith  turned  awry  so 
as  to  lose  the  name  of  action,"  which  is  both  an 
error  in  fancy,  and  a  solecism  in  sense.  In 
word,  this  soliloquy  may  be  compared  to  the 
JEgri  somnia,  and  the  Tabula,  cujus  vance  fin- 
gentur  species. 

But  while  we  censure  the  chaos  of  broken,  in- 
congruous metaphors,  we  ought  also  to  caution  the 
young  poet  against  the  opposite  extreme  of  pursu- 
ing a  metaphor,  until  the  spirit  is  quite  exhausted 
in  a  succession  of  cold  conceits ;  such  as  we  see  in 
,  the  following  letter,  said  to  be  sent  by  Tamerlane 
to  the  Turkish  emperor  Bajazet.  "  Where  is  the 
monarch  that  dares  oppose  our  arms?  Where  is 
the  potentate  who  doth  not  glory  in  being  number- 
ed among  our  vassals'?  As  for  thee,  descended 
from  a  Turcoman  mariner,  since  the  vessel  of  thy 
unbounded  ambition  hath  been  wrecked  in  the 
gulf  of  thy  self-love,  it  would  be  proper  that  thou 
Bhouldest  furl  the  sails  of  thy  temerit}',  and  cast 
33 


the  anchor  of  repentance  in  the  port  of  sincerity 
and  justice,  which  is  the  harbour  of  safety ;  lest 
the  tempest  of  our  vengeance  make  thee  perish  in 
the  sea  of  that  punishment  thou  hast  deserved." 

But  if  these  laboured  conceits  are  ridiculous  in 
poetry,  they  are  still  more  inexcusable  in  prose : 
such  as  we  find  them  frequently  occur  in  Strada's 
Bellum  Belgicum.  Vix  descenderat  a  proBtorid 
navi  Cccsar  ;  cumfceda  ilico  exorta  in  portu  tem- 
pestas;  classem  impetu  disjecit,  prcstoriam  havsit; 
quasi  non  vecturam  amplius  Cccsar  em  Ccc&aris- 
que  fortunam.  "  Caesar  had  scarcely  set  his  feet 
on  shore,  when  a  terrible  tempest  arising,  shatter- 
ed the  fleet  even  in  the  harbour,  and  sent  to  the 
bottom  the  praetorian  ship,  as  if  he  resolved  it 
should  no  longer  carry  Csesar  and  his  fortunes." 

Yet  this  is  modest  in  comparison  of  the  follow- 
ing flowers:  Alii,  pulsis  e  tormento  catenis  dis' 
cerpti  sectique,  diinidiato  corpore  pngnabant  sibi 
superstites,  ac  peremtce  partis  ultores.  "  Others, 
dissevered  and  cut  in  twain  by  chain-shot,  fought 
with  one-half  of  their  bodies  that  remained,  in  re- 
venge of  the  other  half  that  was  slain." 

Homer,  Horace,  and  even  the  chaste  Vii^il,  is 
not  free  from  conceits.  The  latter,  speaking  of  a 
man's  hand  cut  off  in  battle,  says, 

Te  decisa  suum,  Laride,  dextera  quaerit; 
Semianimesque  micant  digit!,  ferruraque  retractant : 

thus  enduing  the  amputated  hand  with  sense  and 
voUtion.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  a  violent  figure,  and 
hath  been  justly  condemned  by  some  accurate  cri- 
tics ;  but  we  think  they  are  too  severe  in  extending 
the  same  censure  to  some  other  passages  in  the 
most  admired  authors. 
Virgil,  in  his  sixth  Eclogue,  says. 

Omnia  qua,  Phoebo  quondam  meditantc,  beattw 
Audiit  Eurotas,  jussitque  edlscere  laUros, 
Ille  canit. 

Whate'er,  when  Phoebus  bless'd  the  Arcadian  plain 
Eurotas  heard  and  taught  his  bays  the  straia 
The  senior  sung— 

And  Pope  has  copied  the  conceit  in  his  Pastorala^ 

Thames  heard  the  numbers  as  he  flow'd  along, 
And  bade  his  willows  learn  the  mourning  song. 


Vida  thus  begins  his  first  Eclogue, 

Dicite,  vos  musae,  et  juvenum  memorate  querela* 

Dicite :  nam  motas  ipeas  ad  carmina  cautea, 

Et  requi  sse  suos  perhibent  vaga  flumina  curaus. 

Say,  heavenly  muse,  their  youthful  frays  reheaise , 
Begin,  ye  daughters  of  immortal  verse ; 
Exulting  rocks  have  own'd  the  power  of  song, 
And  rivers  listen'd  as  they  flow'd  along. 

Ratine  adopts  the  same  bold  figure  in  his  Phaadra 
Le  flot  qui  I'apportarecule  epouvant* : 
The  ware  that  bore  him.  backwards  Bbrunk  appali'd. 


514 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Even  MUton  has  indulged  himself  in  the  same 
license  of  expression — 

As  when  to  them  who  sail 

Beyond  the  Cape  of  Hope,  and  now  are  past 

Mozambic,  off  at  sea  north-east  winds  blow 

Sabaean  odour  from  the  spicy  shore 

Of  Araby  the  blest ;  with  such  delay 

Well  pleased  they  slack  their  course,  and  many  a  league, 

Cheer'd  with  the  grateful  smell,  old  ocean  smiles. 

Shakspeare  says, 

^I've  seen 

Th'  ambitious  ocean  swell,  and  rage,  and  foam, 
To  be  exalted  with  the  threat'ning  clouds. 

And  indeed  more  correct  writers,  both  ancient 
and  modern,  abound  with  the  same  kind  of  figure, 
which  is  reconciled  to  propriety,  and  even  invested 
with  beauty,  by  the  efficacy  of  the  prosopopoeia, 
which  personifies  the  object.  Thus,  when  Virgil 
says  Enipeus  heard  the  sons  of  Apollo,  he  raises 
up,  as  by  enchantment,  the  idea  of  a  river  god 
crowned  with  sedges,  his  head  raised  above  the 
stream,  and  in  his  countenance  the  expression  of 
pleased  attention.  By  the  same  magic  we  see,  in 
the  couplet  quoted  from  Pope's  Pastorals,  old  father 
Thames  leaning  upon  his  urn,  and  listening  to  the 
poet's  strain. 

Thus  in  the  regions  of  poetry,  all  nature,  even 
the  passions  and  afiections  of  the  mind,  may  be 
personified  into  picturesque  figures  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  the  reader.  Ocean  smiles  or  frowns, 
as  the  sea  is  calm  or  tempestuous ;  a  Triton  rules 
on  every  angry  billow;  every  mountain  has  its 
Nymph ;  every  stream  its  Na^ad ;  every  tree  its 
Hamadryad ;  and  every  art  its  Genius.  We  can 
not  therefore  assent  to  those  who  censure  Thomson 
as  licentious  for  using  the  following  figure : 

O  vale  of  bliss !  O  softly  swelling  hills ! 
On  which  the  power  of  cultivation  lies, 
And  joys  to  see  the  wonders  of  his  toil. 

We  can  not  conceive  a  more  beautiful  image 
than  that  of  the  genius  of  agriculture  distinguished 
by  the  implements  of  his  art,  imbrowned  with  la- 
bour, glowing  with  health,  crowned  with  a  garland 
of  foliage,  flowers,  and  fruit,  lying  stretched  at  his 
ease  on  the  brow  of  a  gentle  swelling  hill,  and  con- 
templating with  pleasure  the  happy  effects  of  his 
awn  industry. 

Neither  can  we  join  issue  against  Shakspeare 
for  this  comparison,  which  hath  Ukewise  incurred 
the  censure  of  the  critics : 

The  noble  sister  of  Poplicola, 

The  moon  of  Rome ;  chaste  as  the  icicle 
That's  curdled  by  the  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  hangs  on  Dian's  temple— 

This  is  no  more  than  illustrating  a  quality  of  the 
mind,  by  comparing  it  with  a  sensible  object.     If 


there  is  no  impropriety  in  saying  such  a  man  is 
true  as  steel,  firm  as  a  rock,  inflexible  as  an  oak, 
unsteady  as  the  ocean ;  or  in  describing  a  disposi- 
tion cold  as  ice,  or  fickle  as  the  wind ; — and  these 
expressions  are  justified  by  constant  practice ; — we 
shall  hazard  an  assertion,  that  the  comparison  of  a 
chaste  woman  to  an  icicle  is  proper  and  picturesque, 
as  it  obtains  only  in  the  circumstances  of  cold  and 
purity:  but  that  the  addition  of  its  being  curdled 
from  the  purest  snow,  and  hanging  on  the  temple 
of  Diana,  the  patroness  of  virginity,  heightens  the 
whole  into  a  most  beautiful  simile,  that  gives  a  very 
respectable  and  amiable  idea  of  the  character  in 
question. 

The  simile  is  no  more  than  an  extended  meta- 
phor, introduced  to  illustrate  and  beautify  the  sub- 
ject ;  it  ought  to  be  apt,  striking,  properly  pursued, 
and  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  poetical  melody. 
But  a  simile  of  this  kind  ought  never  to  proceed 
from  the  mouth  of  a  person  under  any  great  agita- 
tion of  spirit;  such  as  a  tragic  character  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  distracted  by- contending  cares, 
or  agonizing  in  the  pangs  of  death.  The  language^ 
of  passion  will  not  admit  simile,  which  is  alway*j 
the  result  of  study  and  deliberation.  We  will  not 
allow  a  hero  the  privilege  of  a  dying  swan,  which 
is  said  to  chant  its  approaching  fate  in  the  most 
melodious  strain;  and  therefore  nothing  can  be 
more  ridiculously  unnatural,  than  the  representa- 
tion of  a  lover  dying  upon  the  stage  with  a  laboured 
simile  in  his  mouth. 

The  orientals,  whose  language  was  extremely 
figurative,  have  been  very  careless  in  the  choice  of 
their  similes;  provided  the  resemblance  obtained 
in  one  circumstance,  they  minded  not  whether  they 
disagreed  with  the  subject  in  every  other  respect. 
Many  instances  of  this  defect  in  congruity  may  be 
culled  from  the  most  sublime  parts  of  Scripture. 

Homer  has  been  blamed  for  the  bad  choice  of  his 
similes  on  some  particular  occasions.  He  com- 
pares Ajax  to  an  ass  in  the  Iliad,  and  Ulysses  to  a 
steak  broiling  on  the  coals  in  the  Odyssey.  His 
admirers  have  endeavoured  to  excuse  him,  by  re- 
minding us  of  the  simplicity  of  the  age  in  which  he 
wrote ;  but  they  have  not  been  able  to  prove  that 
any  ideas  of  dignity  or  importance  were,  even  in 
those  days,  affixed  to  the  character  of  an  ass,  or  the 
quality  of  a  beef-coUop ;  therefore,  they  were  very 
improper  illustrations  for  any  situation,  in  which  a 
hero  ought  to  be  represented. 

Virgil  has  degraded  the  vdfe  of  king  Latinus,  by 
comparing  her,  when  she  was  actuated  by  the  Fu- 
ry, to  a  top  which  the  boys  lash  for  diversion. 
This  doubtless  is  a  low  image,  though  in  other  re- 
spects the  comparison  is  not  destitute  of  propriety; 
but  he  is  much  more  justly  censured  for  the  follow- 1 
ing  simile,  which  has  no  sort  of  reference  to  the 
subject.    Speaking  of  Turnup  he  says, 


ESSAYS. 


515 


-Medio  dux  a^mine  Turnus 


Vertiturarma  tenons,  et  toto  verdce  supra  est. 
Ceu  septem  surgens  sedatis  amnibus  altus 
Per  taciturn  Ganges :  aut  pingui  flumine  Nilus 
Cum  refluit  campis,  et  jam  se  condidit  alveo. 

But  Turnus,  chief  amidst  the  warrior  train, 

In  armour  towers  the  tallest  on  the  plain. 

Tlie  Ganges  thus  by  seven  rich  streams  supplied, 

A  mighty  mass  devolves  in  silent  pride : 

Thus  Nilus  pours  from  his  prolific  urn, 

When  from  the  fields  o'erflow'd  his  vagrant  streams  return. 

These  no  doubt  are  majestic  images ;  but  they  bear 
no  sort  of  resemblance  to  a  hero  glittering  in  ar- 
mour at  the  head  of  his  forces. 

Horace  has  been  ridiculed  by  some  shrewd  critics 
for  this  comparison,  which,  however,  we  think  is 
more  defensible  than  the  former.  Addressing  him- 
self to  Munatius  Plancus,  he  says : 

Albus  ut  obscuro  deterget  nubila  ccelo 
SiEpe  Notus,  neque  parturit  imbres 

Perpetuos :  sic  tu  sapiens  finire  memento 
Tristitiam,  vitseque  laborea 

Molli,  Plance,  mero. 

As  Notus  often,  when  the  welkin  lowers, 

Sweeps  oS"  the  clouds,  nor  teems  perpetual  showers, 

So  let  thy  wisdom,  free  from  anxious  strife, 

In  mellow  wine  dissolve  the  cares  of  fife.         Dunkin. 

The  analogy,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  very 
striking ;  but  nevertheless  it  is  not  altogether  void 
of  propriety.  The  poet  reasons  thus :  as  the  south 
wind,  though  generally  attended  with  rain,  is  often 
known  to  dispel  the  clouds,  and  render  the  weather 
serene ;  so  do  you,  though  generally  on  the  rack 
of  thought,  remember  to  relax  sometimes,  and  drown 
your  cares  in  wine.  As  the  south  wind  is  not  al- 
ways moist,  so  you  ought  not  always  to  be  dry. 

A  few  instances  of  inaccuracy,  or  mediocrity,  can 
never  derogate  from  the  superlative  merit  of  Homer 
and  Virgil,  whose  poems  are  the  great  magazines, 
replete  with  every  species  of  beauty  and  magnifi- 
eence,  particularly  abounding  with  similes,  which 
astonish,  delight,  and  transport  the  reader. 

Every  simile  ought  not  only  to  be  well  adapted 
to  the  subject,  but  also  to  include  every  excellence 
of  description,  and  to  be  coloured  with  the  warmest 
tints  of  poetry.  Nothing  can  be  more  happily  hit 
off  than  the  following  in  the  Georgics,  to  which  the 
poet  compares  Orpheus  lamenting  his  lost  Eurydice. 

Qualis  populea  moerens  Philomela  sub  umbra 
Amissos  queritur  foetus,  quos  durus  arator 
Observansnidoimplumesdetraxit;  at  ilia 
net  noctem,  ramoque  sedens  miserabile  carmen 
[       Integrat,  et  moestis  late  loca  questibus  implet 

So  Philomela,  from  th'  umbrageous  wood, 
In  strains  melodious  mourns  her  tender  brood, 
Snatch'd  from  the  nest  by  some  rude  ploughman's  hand, 
On  some  lone  bough  the  warbler  takes  her  stand  ; 
Tlie  live-long  night  she  mourns  the  cruel  wrong, 
And  hill  and  dale  resound  the  plaintive  s(Hig. 


Here  we  not  only  find  the  most  scrupulous  pro- 
priety, and  the  happiest  choice,  in  comparing  the 
Thracian  bard  to  Philomel  the  poet  of  the  grove ; 
but  also  the  most  beautiful  description,  containing 
a  fine  touch  of  the  pathos,  in  which  last  particular 
indeed  Virgil,  in  our  opinion,  excels  all  other  poets, 
whether  ancient  or  modern. 

One  would  imagine  that  nature  had  exhausted 
itself,  in  order  to  embellish  the  poems  of  Homer, 
Virgil,  and  Milton,  with  similes  and  metaphors. 
The  first  of  these  very  often  uses  the  comparison 
of  the  wind,  the  whirlwind,  the  hail,  the  torrent,  to 
express  the  rapidity  of  his  combatants ;  but  when 
he  comes  to  describe  the  velocity  of  the  immortal 
horses  that  drew  the  chariot  of  Juno,  he  raises 
his  ideas  to  the  subject,  and,  as  Longinus  ob- 
serves, measures  every  leap  by  the  whole  breadth 
of  the  horizon. 

Oaa-ov  (T'  mfouhz  avup  ihv  Ofp^uKjuota-iy 
H/utivos  iv  a-x,07rir,,  Xiua-a-av  iTTi  oivotto.  'ttovtov, 
Totrcrov  iTrSfKea-Koiia-t  Bicev  v'-^x^ag  iTTTrot. 

For  as  a  watchman  from  some  rock  on  high 
O'er  the  wide  main  extends  his  boundless  eye  ; 
Through  such  a  space  of  air  with  thimdering  sound 
At  ev'ry  leap  th'  immortal  coursers  bound. 

The  celerity  of  this  goddess  seems  to  be  a  favourite 
idea  with  the  poet ;  for  in  another  place  he  con>- 
pares  it  to  the  thought  of  a  traveller  revolving  in 
his  mind  the  different  places  he  had  seen,  and  pass- 
ing through  them  in  imagination  more  swLft  than . 
the  lightning  flies  from  east  to  west. 

Homer's  best  similes  have  been  copied  by  Vir- 
gil, and  almost  every  succeeding  poet,  howsoever 
they  may  have  varied  in  the  manner  of  expression. 
In  the  third  book  of  the  lUad,  Menelaus  seeing 
Paris,  is  compared  to  a  hungry  lion  espying  a  hind 
or  a  goat : 

'n<rri  Xioev  «;t*'P  f^^y^^  ^'  a-afxctTt  x.vpveti 
^upmv  «  iXa.<pov  mpAoVf  »  etypiov  euyat,  etc. 

So  joys  the  lion,  if  a  branching  deer 
Or  mountain  goat  his  bullcy  prize  appear ; 
In  vain  the  youths  oppose,  the  mastitTs  bay, 
The  lordly  savage  rends  the  panting  prey. 
Thus  fond  of  vengeance  with  a  furious  bound 
In  clanging  arms  he  leaps  upon  the  ground. 

The  Mantuan  bard,  in  the  tenth  book  of  the 
iEneid,  applies  the  same  simile  to  Mezentius,  when 
he  beholds  Acron  in  the  battle. 

Impastus  stabula  alta  leo  ceu  saepe  peragcans 
(Suadet  enim  vesana  fames)  si  forte  fugacem 
Conspexit  capream,  aut  surgentemin  comuacervtim  ; 
Gaudet  hians  immane,  comasque  arrexit,  et  hoerei 
Visceribus  super  accumbens ;  lavit  improba  teter 
Ora  cruor. 

Then  aa  a  hungry  lion,  who  beholds 

A  gamesome  goat  who  friiks  about  tlie  folds, 


516 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


Or  beamy  stag  that  grazes  on  the  plain ; 
He  runs,  he  roars,  he  shakes  his  rising  mane : 
He  grins,  and  opens  wide  his  greedy  jaws, 
The  prey  lies  panting  underneath  his  paws; 
He  fills  his  famish'd  maw,  his  mouth  runs  o'er 
With  imchew'd  morsels,  while  he  churns  the  gore. 

Dryden. 

The  reader  will  perceive  that  VirgU  has  im- 
proved the  simile  in  one  particular,  and  in  another 
fallen  short  of  his  original.  The  description  of  the 
lion  shaking  his  mane,  opening  his  hideous  jaws 
distained  with  the  blood  of  his  prey,  is  great  and 
picturesque ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  he  has  omit- 
ted the  circumstance  of  devouring  it  without  being 
intimidated,  or  restrained  by  the  dogs  and  youths 
that  surround  him;  a  circumstance  that  adds 
greatly  to  our  idea  of  his  strength,  intrepidity,  and 
importance. 

ESSAY  XVII. 

Of  all  the  figures  in  poetry,  that  called  the  hy- 
perbole,  is  managed  with  the  greatest  difficulty. 
The  hyperbole  is  an  exaggeration  with  which  the 
muse  is  indulged  for  the  better  illustration  of  her 
subject,  when  she  is  warmed  into  enthusiasm. 
Cluintilian  calls  it  an  ornament  of  the  bolder  kind. 
Demetrius  Phalereus  is  still  more  severe.  He  says 
the  hyperbole  is  of  all  forms  of  speech  the  most 
frigid ;  MtiXia-Tct  cTj  i  *T^ipCox»  '^v;)(jf  t^ctov  Trctyruv  ; 
but  this  must  be  understood  with  some  grains  of 
allowance.  Poetry  b  animated  by  the  passions ; 
and  all  the  passions  exaggerate.  Passion  itself  is 
a  magnifying  medium.  There  are  beautiful  in- 
stances of  the  hyperbole  in  the  Scripture,  which  a 
reader  of  sensibility  can  not  read  vvdthout  being 
strongly  affected.  The  difficulty  lies  in  choosing 
such  hyperboles  as  the  subject  will  admit  of;  for, 
according  to  the  definition  of  Theophrastus,  the 
frigid  in  style  is  that  which  exceeds  the  expression 
suitable  to  the  subject.  The  judgment  does  not 
revolt  against  Homer  for  representing  the  horses 
of  Ericthonius  running  over  the  standing  corn 
without  breaking  off  the  heads,  because  the  whole 
is  considered  as  a  fable,  and  the  north  wind  is  re- 
presented as  their  sire ;  but  the  imagination  is  a 
little  startled,  when  Virgil,  in  imitation  of  this 
hyperbole,  exhibits  Camilla  as  flying  over  it  with- 
out even  touching  the  tops : 

Ilia  vel  intact®  segetis  per  summa  volaret 
Gramina 

This  elegant  author,  we  are  afraid,  has  upon 
some  other  occasions  degenerated  into  the  frigid, 
in  straining  to  improve  upon  his  great  master. 

Homer  in  the  Odyssey,  a  work  which  Longinus 
does  not  scruple  to  charge  with  bearing  the  marks 
of  old  age,  describes  a  storm  in  which  all  the  four 
winds  were  concerned  together. 


Kfic/  Bo/)j«5  euBp»yiVir»c  fjnyat.  Ku/na.  KuxtvSm. 

We  know  that  such  a  contention  of  contrary 
blasts  could  not  possibly  exist  in  nature ;  for  even 
in  hurricanes  the  winds  blow  alternately  from  dif- 
ferent points  of  the  compass.  Nevertheless  "Vir- 
gil adopts  the  description,  and  adds  to  its  extrava- 
gance. 

Incubuere  mari,  totumque  a  sedibus  imis 

Una  Eurusque  Notusque  ruunt,  creberque  procellis 

Africus. 

Here  the  winds  not  only  blow  together,  but  they 
turn  the  whole  body  of  the  ocean  topsy-turvy. 

East,  west,  and  south,  engage  with  furious  sweep, 
And  from  its  lowest  bed  upturn  the  foaming  deep. 

The  north  wind,  however,  is  still  more  mischiev- 
ous: 

Stridens  aquilone  procella 

Velum  adversa  ferit,  fluctusque  ad  sidera  toUiu 

The  sail  then  Boreas  rends  with  hideous  cry, 
And  whirls  the  madd'ning  billows  to  the  sky. 

The  motion  of  the  sea  between  Scylla  and 
Charybdis  is  still  more  magnified ;  and  iEtna  is 
exhibited  as  throwing  out  volumes  of  flame,  whicU 
brush  the  stars.*  Sach  expressKui©  as  these  aij 
not  intended  as  a  real  representation  of  the  thing 
specified ;  they  are  designed  to  strike  the  reader's 
imagination;  but  they  generally  serve  as  marks 
of  the  author's  sinking  under  his  own  ideas,  who, 
apprehensive  of  injuring  the  greatness  of  his 
own  conception,  is  hurried  into  excess  and  extra- 
vagance. 

Gluintilian  allows  the  use  of  hyperbole,  when 
words  are  wanting  to  express  any  thing  in  its  just 
strength  or  due  energy:  then,  he  says,  it  is  better 
to  exceed  in  expression  than  fall  short  of  the  con- 
ception ;  but  he  Ukewise  observes,  that  there  is  no 
figure  or  form  of  speech  so  apt  to  run  into  fustian. 
Nee  alia  magis  via  in  xAjto^iXtuv  itur. 

If  the  chaste  Virgil  has  thus  trespassed  upon 
poetical  probability,  what  can  we  expect  from 
Lucan  but  hyperboles  even  more  ridiculously  ex- 
travagant ?  He  represents  the  winds  in  contest, 
the  sea  in  suspense,  doubting  to  which  it  shall  give 
way.  He  affirms,  that  its  motion  would  have  been 
so  violent  as  to  produce  a  second  deluge,  had  not 
Jupiter  kept  it  under  by  the  clouds ;  and  as  to  the 
ship  during  this  dreadful  uproar,  the  sails  touch 
the  clouds^  while  the  keel  strikes  the  ground. 

*  Speaking  of  the  first,  he  says, 

Tollimur  m  ccelum  curvato  gurgite,  et  iidem 
Subducts,  ad  manes  imos  descendimus  und^ 

Of  the  other, 

Attollitque  globes  flammarum,  et  sidera  larabit 


ESSAYS. 


517 


Nubila  tanguntur  velis,  et  terra  carina. 

This  image  of  dashing  water  at  the  stars,  Sir 
Richard  Blackmore  has  produced  in  colours  truly 
ridiculous.  Describing  spouting  whales  in  his 
Prince  Arthur,  he  makes  the  following  comparison : 

Like  some  prodigious  water-enigine  made 

To  play  on  heaven,  if  Ae  should  heaven  invade. 

The  great  fault  in  all  these  instances  is  a  devia- 
tion from  propriety,  owing  to  the  erroneous  judg- 
ment of  the  writer,  who,  endeavouring  to  capti- 
vate the  admiration  with  novelty,  very  often  shocks 
the  understanding  with  extravagance.  Of  this  na- 
^  ture  is  the  whole  description  of  the  Cyclops,  both 
in  the  Odyssey  of  Homer,  and  in  the  ^neid  of 
Virgil.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  that  the  Latin 
poet,  with  all  his  merit,  is  more  apt  than  his  great 
original  to  dazzle  us  with  false  fire,  and  practise 
upon  the  imagination  with  gay  conceits,  that  will 
iK)t  bear  the  critic's  examination.  There  is  not  in 
any  of  Homer's  works  now  subsisting  such  an 
example  of  the  false  sublime,  as  Virgil's  descrip- 
tion of  the  thunderbolts  forging  under  the  ham- 
mers of  the  Cyclops. 

Tres  imbris  torli  radios,  tres  nubis  aquosa 
Addiderant,  rutili  tres  ignis  et  alitis  Austri. 

Tliree  rays  of  writhen  rain,  of  fire  three  more, 
Of  winged  southern  winds,  and  cloudy  store, 
As  many  parts,  the  dreadful  mixture  frame. 

Drt/den. 

This  is  altogether  a  fantastic  piece  of  affecta- 
tion, of  which  we  can  form  no  sensible  image,  and 
serves  to  chill  the  fancy,  rather  than  warm  the 
admiration  of  a  judging  reader. 

Extravagant  hyperbole  is  a  weed  that  grows  in 
great  plenty  through  the  works  of  our  admired 
Shakspeare.  In  the  following  description,  which 
hath  been  much  celebrated,  one  sees  he  has  an  eye 
to  Virgil's  thunderbolts. 

O,  then  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 

She  is  the  fairies'  midwife ;  and  she  comes 

In  shape  no  biggerlhan  an  agate-stone 

On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman, 

Drawn  Avith  a  team  of  little  atomies 

Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep ; 

Her  wagon-spokes  made  of  long  spinner's  legs; 

The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshopper ; 

The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 

Tlte  collars,  of  the  mx)onshine's  isat'ry  beams,  etc. 

Even  in  describing  fantastic  beings  there  is  a  pro- 
priety to  be  observed  ;  but  surely  nothing  can  be 
more  revolting  to  common  sense,  than  this  num- 
bering af  the  moon-beams  among  the  other  imple- 
ments of  queen  Mab's  harness,  which,  though  ex- 
tremely slender  and  diminutive,  are  nevertheless 
objects  of  the  touch,  and  may  be  conceived  capa- 
ole  of  use.  ^ 


The  ode  and  satire  admit  of  the  boldest  hy- 
perboles, such  exaggerations  suit  the  impetuous 
warmth  of  the  one ;  and  in  the  other  have  a  good 
effect  in  exposing  folly,  and  exciting  horror  against 
vice.  They  may  be  likewise  successfully  used  in 
comedy,  for  moving  and  managing  the  powers  of 
ridicule. 


ESSAY  XVIII. 

Verse  is  an  harmonious  arrangement  of  long 
and  short  syllables,  adapted  to  different  kinds  of 
poetry,  and  owes  its  origin  entirely  to  the  measured 
cadence,  or  music,  which  was  used  when  the  first 
songs  or  hymns  were  recited.  This  music,  divided 
into  different  parts,  required  a  regular  return  of  the 
same  measure,  and  thus  every  strophe,  antistro' 
phe,  and  stanza,  contained  the  same  number  of 
feet.  To  know  what  constituted  the  different  kinds 
of  rhythmical  feet  among  the  ancients,  with  respect 
to  the  number  and  quantity  of  their  syllables,  we 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  consult  those  who  have 
written  on  grammar  and  prosody ;  it  is  the  busi- 
ness of  a  schoolmaster,  rather  than  the  accompUsh- 
ment  of  a  man  of  taste. 

Various  essays  have  been  made  in  different 
countries  to  compare  the  characters  of  ancient  and 
modern  versification,  and  to  point  out  the  difference 
beyond  any  possibility  of  mistake.  But  they  have 
made  distinctions,  where  in  fact  there  was  no  dif- 
ference, and  left  the  criterion  unobserved.  They 
have  transferred  the  name  of  rhyme  to  a  regular 
repetition  of  the  same  sound  at  the  end  of  the  line, 
and  set  up  this  vile  monotony  as  the  characteristic 
of  modern  verse,  in  contradistinction  to  the  feet  of 
the  ancients,  which  they  pretend  the  poetry  of  mod- 
em languages  will  not  admit. 

Rhyme,  from  the  Greek  word  T?vQ/uo(,  is  nothing 
else  but  number,  which  was  essential  to  the  ancient, 
as  well  as  to  the  modern  versification.  As  to  the 
jingle  of  similar  sounds,  though  it  was  never  used 
by  the  ancients  in  any  regular  return  in  the  mid- 
dle, or  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and  was  by  no  means 
deemed  essential  to  the  versification,  yet  they  did 
not  reject  it  as  a  blemish,  where  it  occurred  without 
the  appearance  of  constraint.  We  meet  with  it 
often  in  the  epithets  of  Homer :  Apyvptoto  Biota-, — 
AvA^  AvS'pm  Ayctjui/uvcev — almost  the  whole  first  ode 
of  Anacreon  is  what  we  call  rhyme.  The  follow- 
ing line  of  Virgil  has  been  admired  for  the  simili- 
tude of  sound  in  the  first  two  words. 

Ore  .Arethusa  tuo  siculus  confunditur  undis. 

Rhythmus,  or  number,  is  certainly  essential  to 
verse,  whether  in  the  dead  or  living  languages ; 
and  the  real  difference  between  the  two  is  this : 
the  number  in  ancient  verse  relates  to  the  feet,  and 
in  modern  poetry  to  the  syllables ;  for  to  assert  that 


518 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


modern  poetry  has  no  feet,  is  a  ridiculous  ab- 
surdity. The  feet  that  principally  enter  into  the 
composition  of  Greek  and  Latin  verses,  are  either 
•^  twn  or  three  syllables  :  those  of  two  syllables  are 
either  both  loner,  as  the  spondee ;  or  both  short,  as 
tne  pyrrhic ;  or  one  short,  and  the  other  long,  as 
the  iambic  ;  or  one  long,  and  the  other  short,  as  the 
troche.  Those  of  three  syllables,  are  the  dactyl, 
of  one  long  and  two  short  syllables ;  the  anapest, 
of  two  short  and  one  long ;  the  tribachium,  of  three 
short ;  and  the  molossus  of  three  long. 

From  the  different  combinations  of  these  feet, 
restricted  to  certain  numbers,  the  ancients  formed 
their  different  kinds  of  verses,  such  as  the  hexa- 
meter or  heroic  distinguished  by  six  feet  dactyls 
and  spondees,  the  fifth  being  always  a  dactyl,  and 
the  last  a  spondee ;  e.  g. 

12        3  4        5         6 

Principi-is  obs-ta,  se-ro  medi-cina  pa-ratur. 

The  pentameter  of  five  feet,  dactyls  and  spondees, 
or  of  six,  reckoning  two  cfcsuras. 

12  3       4       5         6 

Cum  mala  per  Ion-gas  invalu-ere  mo-ras. 

They  had  likewise  the  iambic  of  three  sorts,  the 
dimeter,  the  trimeter,  and  the  tetrameter,  and  all 
the  different  kinds  of  lyric  verse  specified  in  the 
odes  of  Sappho,  Alcaeus,  Anacreon  and  Horace. 
Each  of  these  was  distinguished  by  the  number,  as 
well  as  by  the  species  of  their  feet ;  so  that  they 
were  doubly  restricted.  Now  all  the  feet  of  the 
ancient  poetry  are  still  found  in  the  versification  of 
living  languages ;  for  as  cadence  was  regulated  by 
the  ear,  it  was  impossible  for  a  man  to  write  melo- 
dious verse,  without  naturally  falling  into  the  use 
of  ancient  feet,  though  perhaps  he  neither  knows 
their  measure,  nor  denomination.  Thus  Spenser, 
Shakspeare,  Milton,  Dryden,  Pope,  and  all  our 
poets,  abound  with  dactyls,  spondees,  trochees, 
anapests,  etc  which  they  use  indiscriminately  in 
all  kinds  of  composition,  whether  tragic,  epic,  pas- 
toral, or  ode,  having  in  this  particular,  greatly  the 
advantage  of  the  ancients,  who  were  restricted  to 
particular  kinds  of  feet  in  particular  kinds  of  verse. 
If  we  then  are  confined  with  the  fetters  of  what  is 
called  rhyme,  they  were  restricted  to  particular  spe- 
cies of  feet ;  so  that  the  advantages  and  disadvan- 
tages, are  pretty  equally  balanced  :  but  indeed  the 
English  are  more  free  in  this  particular,  than  any 
other  modern  nation.  They  not  only  use  blank 
•verse  in  tragedy  and  the  epic,  but  even  in  lyric 
fwetry.  Milton's  translation  of  Horace's  ode  to 
Pyrrha  is  universally  known  and  generally  admir- 
ed, in  our  opinion  much  above  its  merit.  There 
is  an  ode  extant  without  rhyme  addressed  to  Eve- 
ning, by  the  late  Mr.  Collins,  much  more  beautiful ; 
and  Mr.  Warton,  with  some  others,  has  happily 
«ucce«ded  in  divers  occasional  pieces,  that  are  free 


of  this  restraint :  but  the  number  in  all  of  thesa 
depends  upon  the  syllables,  and  not  upon  the  feet, 
which  are  unlimited. 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  genius  of  the 
English  language  will  not  admit  of  Greek  or  Latin 
measure;  but  this,  we  apprehend,  is  a  mistake 
owing  to  the  prejudice  of  education.  It  is  impos- 
sible that  the  same  measure,  composed  of  the  same 
times,  should  have  a  good  effect  upon  the  ear  in 
one  language,  and  a  bad  effect  in  another.  The 
truth  is,  we  have  been  accustomed  from  our  infancy 
to  the  numbers  of  English  poetry,  and  the  very 
sound  and  signification  of  the  words  dispose  the 
ear  to  receive  them  in  a  certain  manner ;  so  that 
its  disappointment  must  be  attended  with  a  disa- 
greeable sensation.  In  imbibing  the  first  rudi- 
ments of  education,  we  acquire,  as  it  were,  another 
ear  for  the  numbers  of  Greek  and  Latin  poetry, 
and  this  being  reserved  entirely  for  the  sounds  and 
significations  of  the  words  that  constitute  those  dead 
languages,  will  not  easily  accommodate  itself  to 
the  sounds  of  our  vernacular  tongue,  though  con- 
veyed in  the  same  time  and  measure.  In  a  word, 
Latin  and  Greek  have  annexed  to  them  the  ideas 
of  the  ancient  measure,  from  which  they  are  not 
easily  disjoined.  But  we  will  venture  to  say,  this 
diflaculty  might  be  surmounted  by  an  effort  of  at- 
tention and  a  little  practice ;  and  in  that  case  we 
should  in  time  be  as  well  pleased  with  English  as 
with  Latin  hexameters. 

Sir  PhiUp  Sydney  is  said  to  have  miscarried  in 
his  essays;  but  his  miscarriage  was  no  more  than 
that  of  failing  in  an  attempt  to  introduce  a  new 
fashion.  The  failure  was  not  owing  to  any  defect 
or  imperfection  in  the  scheme,  but  to  the  want  of 
taste,  to  the  irresolution  and  ignorance  of  the  pub- 
lic. Without  all  doubt  the  ancient  measure,  so 
different  from  that  of  modern  poetry,  must  have 
appeared  remarkably  uncouth  to  people  in  general, 
who  were  ignorant  of  the  classics ;  and  nothing 
but  the  countenance  and  perseverance  of  the  learn- 
ed could  reconcile  them  to  the  alteration.  We 
have  seen  several  late  specimens  of  English  hexa- 
meters and  Sapphics,  so  happily  composed,  that 
by  attaching  them  to  the  idea  of  ancient  measure, 
we  found  them  in  all  respects  as  melodious  and 
agreeable  to  the  ear  as  the  works  of  Virgil  and 
Anacreon  or  Horace. 

Though  the  number  of  syllables  distinguishes 
the  nature  of  the  English  verse  from  that  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin,  it  constitutes  neither  harmony, 
grace,  nor  expression.  These  must  depend  on  the 
choice  of  words,  the  seat  of  the  accent,  the  pause, 
and  the  cadence.  The  accent,  or  tone,  is  under- 
stood to  be  an  elevation  or  sinking  of  the  voice  in 
reciting :  the  pause  is  a  rest,  that  divides  the  verse 
into  two  parts,  each  of  them  called  an  hemistich. 
The  pause  and  accent  in  English  poetry  vary  oc- 
casionally, aca)rding  to  the  meaning  of  the  words; 


ESSAYS. 


519 


so  that  the  hemistich  does  not  always  consist  of  an 
equal  number  of  syllables:  and  this  variety  is 
agreeable,  as  it  prevents  a  dull  repetition  of  regu- 
lar stops,  like  those  in  the  French  versification, 
every  line  of  which  is  divided  by  a  pause  exactly  in 
the  middle.  The  cadence  comprehends  that  poeti- 
cal style  which  animates  every  line,  that  propriety 
which  give  strength  and  expression,  that  numero- 
eity  which  renders  the  verse  smooth,  flowing,  and 
harmonious,  that  significancy  which  marks  the 
passions,  and  in  many  cases  makes  the  sound  an 
echo  to  the  sense.  The  Greek  and  Latin  lan- 
guages, in  being  copious  and  ductile,  are  suscepti- 
ble of  a  vast  variety  of  cadences,  which  the  living 
languages  will  not  admit ;  and  of  these  a  reader  of 
any  ear  will  judge  for  himself. 


ESSAY  XIX. 

A  SCHOOL  in  the  polite  arts  properly  signifies 
that  succession  of  artists,  which  has  learned  the 
principles  of  the  art  from  some  eminent  master, 
either  by  hearing  his  lessons,  or  studying  his  works, 
and  consequently  who  imitate  his  manner  either 
through  design  or  from  habit.  Musicians  seem 
agreed  in  making  only  three  principal  schools  in 
music ;  namely,  the  school  of  Pergolese  in  Italy,  of 
Lully  in  France,  and  of  Handel  in  England ; 
though  some  are  for  making  Rameau  the  founder 
of  a  new  shoool,  different  from  those  of  the  for- 
mer, as  he  is  the  inventor  of  beauties  peculiarly 
his  own. 

Without  all  doubt,  Pergolese' s  music  deserves 
the  first  rank ;  though  excelling  neither  in  variety 
of  movements,  number  of  parts,  nor  unexpected 
flights,  yet  he  is  universally  allowed  to  be  the  mu- 
sical Raphael  of  Italy.  This  great  master's  prin- 
cipal art  consisted  in  knowing  how  to  excite  our 
passions  by  sounds,  which  seem  frequently  oppo- 
site to  the  passion  they  would  express :  by  slow 
solemn  sounds  he  is  sometimes  known  to  throw  us 
into  all  the  rage  of  battle ;  and  even  by  faster  move- 
ments he  excites  melancholy  in  every  heart  that 
sounds  are  capable  of  affecting.  This  is  a  talent 
which  seems  born  with  the  artist.  We  are  unable 
to  tell  why  such  sounds  aircct  us  ;  they  seem  no 
way  imitative  of  the  passion  they  would  express, 
out  o^ierates  upon  us  by  an  inexpressible  sympa- 
thy :  the  original  of  which  is  as  inscrutable  as  the 
secret  springs  of  life  itself.  To  this  excellence  he 
adds  another,  in  which  he  is  superior  to  every  other 
artist  of  the  profession,  the  happy  transition  from 
one  passion  to  another.  No  dramatic  poet  better 
knows  to  prepare  his  incidents  than  he ;  the  audi- 
ence are  pleased  in  those  intervals  of  passion  with 
the  delicate,  the  simple  harmony,  if  I  may  so  ex- 
press it,  in  which  the  parts  are  all  thrown  into 


fugues,  or  often  are  barely  unison.  His  melodies 
also,  where  no  passion  is  expressed,  give  equal 
pleasure  from  this  delicate  simplicity  tnd  1  need 
only  instance  that  song  in  the  Scrva  Padronoy 
which  begins  Lo  conosco  a  quegV  occclli,  as  one 
of  the  finest  instances  of  excellence  in  the  duo. 

The  Italian  artists  in  general  have  followed  his 
manner,  yet  seem  fond  of  embellishing  the  delicate 
simplicity  of  the  original.  Their  style  in  music 
seems  somewhat  to  resemble  that  of  Seneca  in 
writing,  where  there  are  some  beautiful  starts  of 
thought ;  but  the  whole  is  filled  with  studied  ele- 
gance and  unalTecting  affectation. 

Lully  in  France  first  attempted  the  improvement 
of  their  music,  which  in  general  resembled  that  of 
our  old  solemn  chants  in  churches.  It  is  worthy 
of  remark,  in  general,  that  the  music  of  every 
country  is  solemn  in  proportion  as  the  inhabitants 
are  merry ;  or  in  other  words,  the  merriest  spright- 
liest  nations  are  remarked  for  having  the  slowest 
music ;  and  those  whose  character  it  is  to  be  melan- 
choly, are  pleased  With  the  most  brisk  and  airy 
movements.  Thus  in  France,  Poland,  Ireland, 
and  Switzerland,  the  national  music  is  slow,  melan- 
chol}^,  and  solemn ;  in  Italy,  England,  Spain,  and 
Germany,  it  is  faster,  proportionably  as  the  people 
are  grave.  Lully  only  changed  a  bad  manner, 
which  he  found,  for  a  bad  one  of  his  own.  His 
drowsy  pieces  are  played  still  to  the  most  sprightly 
audience  that  can  be  conceived  ;  and  even  though 
Rameau,  who  is  at  once  a  musician  and  philoso- 
pher, has  shown,  both  by  precept  and  example, 
what  improvements  French  music  may  still  admit 
of,  yet  his  countrymen  seem  Httle  convinced  by  his 
rca>!onings :  and  the  Pont-Neuf  taste,  as  it  is  called, 
still  prevails  in  their  best  performances. 

The  English  school  was  first  planned  by  Purcel: 
he  attempted  to  unite  the  Italian  manner,  that  pre- 
vailed in  his  time,  with  the  ancient  Celtic  carol 
and  the  Scotch  ballad,  which  probably  had  also  its 
origin  in  Italy ;  for  some  of  the  best  Scotch  bal- 
lads, "  The  Broom  of  Cowdenknows/'  for  instance, 
are  still  ascribed  to  David  Rizzio.  But  be  that  as 
it  will,  his  manner  was  something  peculiar  to  the 
English  ;  and  he  might  have  continued  as  head  of 
the  English  school,  had  not  his  merits  been  en- 
tirely eclipsed  by  Handel.  Handel,  though  oi"igi- 
nally  a  German,  yet  adopted  the  English  nmnner ; 
he  had  long  laboured  to  please  by  Italian  composi- 
tion, but  without  success ;  and  though  hi^  English 
oratorios  are  accounted  inimitable,  yet  his  Italian 
operas  are  fallen  into  oblivion.  Pergolese  excelled 
in  passionate  simplicity  :  Lully  was  remarkable  for 
creating  a  new  species  of  music,  where  all  is  ele- 
gant, but  nothing  passionate  or  sublime ;  Handel's 
true  characteristic  is  sublimity ;  he  has  employed 
all  the  variety  of  sounds  and  parts  in  all  his  pieces; 
the  perfomances  of  the  rest  may  be  pleasing,  though 
executfd  by  few  performers ;  his  requires  the  full 


520 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


band.  The  attention  is  awakened,  the  soul  is 
roused  up  at  his  pieces :  but  distinct  passion  is  sel- 
dom expressed.  In  this  particular  he  has  seldom 
found  success ;  he  has  been  obliged,  in  order  to 
express  passion,  to  imitate  words  by  sounds, 
which,  though  it  gives  the  pleasure  which  imitation 
always  produces,  yet  it  fails  of  exciting  those  last- 
ing affections  which  it  is  in  the  power  of  sounds 
to  produce.  In  a  word,  no  man  ever  understood 
harmony  so  well  as  he  :  but  in  melody  he  has  been 
exceeded  by  several. 


[The  following  Objections  to  the  preceding  Es- 
say having  been  addressed  to  Dr.  Smollett 
(as  Editor  of  the  British  Magazine,  in  which 
it  first  appeared);  that  gentleman,  with  equal 
candour  and  politeness,  communicated  the  MS. 
to  Dr,  Goldsmith,  who  returned  his  answers 
to  the  objector  in  the  notes  annexed. — Edit,] 

Permit  me  to  object  against  some  things  ad- 
vanced in  the  paper  on  the  subject  of  The  Dif- 
ferent Schools  of  Music.  The  author  of  this 
article  seems  too  hasty  in  degrading  the  harmoni- 
ous Purcel*  from  the  head  of  the  English  school, 
to  erect  in  his  room  a  foreigner  (Handel),  who  has 
not  yet  formed  any  school.t  The  gentleman, 
when  he  comes  to  communicate  his  thoughts  upon 
the  different  schools  of  painting,  may  as  well  place 
Rubens  at  the  head  of  the  English  painters,  be- 
cause he  left  some  monuments  of  his  art  in  Eng- 


land.* He  says,  that  Handel,  though  originally 
a  German  (as  mostcertainly  he  was,  andcontinued 
so  to  his  last  breath),  vet  adopted  the  English 
manner.t  Yes,  to  be  sure,  just  as  much  as  Ru- 
bens the  painter  did.  Your  correspondent,  in  the 
course  of  his  discoveries,  tells  us  besides,  that 
some  of  the  best  Scotch  ballads,  "  The  Broom  of 
Cowdenknows,"  for  instance,  are  still  ascribed  to 
David  Rizzio.$  This  Rizzio  must  have  been  a 
most  original  genius,  or  have  possessed  extraordi- 
nary imitative  powers,  to  have  come,  so  advanced 


*  Had  the  objector  said  melodious  Purcel,  it  had  testified  at 
least*  greater  acquaintance  with  music,  and  Purcel's  peculiar 
excellence.  Purcel  in  melody  is  ftequently  great :  his  song 
made  in  his  last  sickness,  called  Rosy  Bowers  is  a  fine  instance 
of  this :  but  in  harmony  he  is  far  short  of  the  meanest  of  our 
modern  composers,  his  fullest  harmonies  being  exceedingly 
eimple.  His  Opera  of  Prince  Arthur,  the  words  of  which 
were  Dryden's,  is  reckoned  his  finest  piece.  But  what  is  that 
in  point  of  harmony,  to  what  we  every  day  hear  from  modern 
masters  1  In  short,  with  respect  to  genius,  Purcel  had  a  fine 
one ;  he  greatly  improved  an  art  but  little  known  in  England 
before  his  time :  for  this  he  deserves  our  applause :  but  the  pre- 
seRt  prevailing  taste  in  music  is  very  different  from  what  he 
Jeft  it,  and  who  was  the  improver  since  his  time  we  shaU  see 
by  and  by. 

t  Handel  may  be  said  as  justly  as  any  man,  not  Pergoleee 
excepted,  to  have  founded  a  new  school  of  music.  When  he 
first  came  into  England  his  music  was  entirely  Italian :  he 
composed  for  the  Opera  ^  and  though  even  then  his  pieces 
were  liked,  yet  did  they  not  meet  with  universal  approbation, 
in  those,  he  has  too  servilely  imitated  the  modem  vitiated 
Italian  taste,  by  placing  what  foreigners  call  the  point  d' ar- 
gue too  closely  and  injudiciously.  But  in  his  Oratorios  he 
is  perfectly  an  original  genius.  In  these,  by  steering  between 
the  manners  of  Italy  and  England,  he  has  struck  out  new 
harmonies  and  formed  a  species  of  music  different  from  all 
others.  He  has  left  some  excellent  and  eminent  scholars, 
particularly  Worgan  and  Smith,  who  compose  nearly  in  his 
manner :  a  manner  as  different  from  Purcel's  as  from  that  of 
modern  Italy,  Consequently  Handel  may  be  placed  at  the 
bead  of  the  Eagush  school 


The  objector  will  not  have  Handel's  school  to  be  called  an 
English  school,  because  he  was  a  German.  Handel,  in  a 
great  measure,  found  in  England  those  essential  differencfw 
which  characterize  his  music ;  we  have  already  shown  that 
he  had  them  not  upon  his  arrival.  Had  Rubens  come  over  to 
England  but  moderately  skilled  in  his  art ;  had  he  learned  here 
all  his  excellency  in  colouring  and  coiTectness  of  designing; 
had  he  left  several  scholars  excellent  in  his  manner  behind 
him ;  I  should  not  scruple  to  call  the  school  erected  by  him 
the  English  school  of  painting.  Not  the  country  in  which  a 
man  is  born,  but  his  peculiar  etyle  either  in  painting  or  in 
music— that  constitutes  him  of  this  or  that  school.  Thus 
Champagne,  who  painted  in  the  manner  of  the  French  school, 
is  always  placed  among  the  painters  of  that  school,  though  he 
was  born  in  Flanders,  and  should  consequently,  by  the  object- 
or's rule,  be  placed  among  the  Flemish  painters.  Kneller  is 
placed  in  the  German  school,  and  Oatade  in  the  Dutch, 
though  bom  in  the  same  city.  Primatis,  who  may  be  truly 
said  to  have  founded  the  Roman  school,  was  born  in  Bologna  • 
though,  if  his  country  was  to  determine  his  school,  he  should 
have  been  placed  in  the  Lombard.  There  might  several 
other  instances  be  produced ;  but  these,  ii  is  hoped,  will  be 
sufiicient  to  prove,  that  Handel,  though  a  German,  may  be 
placed  at  the  head  of  t}ie  Eriglish  school.    • 

t  Handel  was  originally  a  German ;  but  by  a  long  continuance 
in  England,  he  might  have  been  looked  upon  as  naturalized  to 
the  country.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  fine  writer ;  however, 
if  the  gentleman  dislikes  the  expression  (although  he  must  bo 
convinced  it  is  a  common  one),  I  wish  it  were  mended. 

1 1  said  that  they  were  ascribed  to  David  Rizzio.  That  they 
are,  the  objector  need  only  look  into  Mr.  Oswcdd's  Collection 
of  Scotch  tunes,  and  he  will  there  find  not  only  "The  Broom 
of  Cowdenknows,"  but  also  "  The  Black  Eagle,"  and  several 
other  of  the  best  Scotch  tunes,  ascribed  to  him.  Though  this 
might  be  a  sufficient  answer,  yet  I  must  be  permitted  to  go 
farther,  to  tell  the  objector  the  opinion  of  our  best  modern 
musicians  in  this  particular.  It  is  the  opinion  of  the  melo- 
dious Geminiani,  that  we  have  in  the  dominions  of  great 
Britain  no  original  music  except  the  Irish ;  the  Scotch  and 
English  being  originally  borrowed  from  the  Italians.  And 
that  his  opinion  In.  this  respect  is  just  (for  I  would  not  be 
swayed  merely  by  auiliorities,)  it  is  very  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose, furst  from  the  conformity  between  the  Scotch  and  an- 
cient Italian  music.  They  who  compare  the  old  French  Vau- 
devilles, brought  from  Italy  by  R'muccini,  with  those  pieces 
ascribed  to  David  Rizzio,  who  was  preuy  nearly  contempora- 
ry with  him,  will  find  a  strong  resemblance,  notwithstanding 
the  opposite  characters  of  the  two  nations  which  have  pre- 
served those  pieces.  When  I  would  have  them  compared,  1 
mean  I  would  have  their  bases  compared,  by  which  the  simi  ■ 
litude  may  be  most  exactly  seen.  Secondly,  it  is  reasonable 
from  the  ancient  music  of  the  Scotch,  which  is  still  preserved 
in  the  Highlands,  and  which  bears  no  resemblance  at  all  to 
the  music  of  the  low-country.  The  Highland  tunes  are  sung  to 
Irish  words,  and  flow  entirely  in  the  iBish  manner.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  Lowland  music  is  always  sung  to  English 
words. 


ESSAYS. 


521 


in  life  as  he  did,  from  Italy,  and  strike  so  far  out 
of  the  common  road  of  his  own  country's  music. 

A  mere  fiddler,*  a  shallow  coxcomb,  a  giddy,  in- 
solent, worthless  fellow,  to  compose  such  pieces  as 
nothing  but  genuine  sensibility  of  mind,  and  an 
exquisite  feeUng  of  those  passions  which  animate 
only  the  finest  souls,  could  dictate ;  and  in  a  man- 
ner too  so  extravagantly  distant  from  that  to  which 
he  had  all  his  life  been  accustomed ! — It  is  impos- 
sible. He  might  indeed  have  had  presumption 
enough  to  add  some  flourishes  to  a  few  favourite 
airs,  like  a  cobbler  of  old  plays  when  he  takes  it 
upon  him  to  mend  Shakspeare.  So  far  he  might 
go ;  but  farther  it  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  be- 
lieve, that  has  but  just  ear  enough  to  distinguish 
between  the  Italian  and  Scotch  music,  and  is  dis- 
posed to  consider  the  subject  with  the  least  degree 
of  attention.  S.  R. 

March  18,  1760. 


ESSAY  XX. 

There  can  be  perhaps  no  greater  entertainment 
than  to  compare  the  rude  Celtic  simplicity  with 
modern  refinement.  Books,  however,  seem  inca- 
pable of  furnishing  the  parallel ;  and^  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  the  ancient  manners  of  our  own  an- 
cestors, we  should  endeavour  to  look  for  their  re- 
mains in  those  countries,  which  being  in  some 
measure  retired  from  an  intercourse  with  other  na- 
tions, are  still  untinctured  with  foreign  refinement, 
language,  or  breeding. 

The  Irish  will  satisfy  curiosity  in  this  respect 
preferably  to  all  other  nations  I  have  seen.  They 
in  several  parts  of  that  country  still  adhere  to  their 
ancient  language,  diress,  furniture,  and  supersti- 
tions ;  several  customs  exist  among  them,  that  still 
speak  their  original ;  and  in  some  respects  Cajsar's 
description  of  the  ancient  Britons  is  applicable  to 
them. 

Their  bards,  in  particular,  are  still  held  in  great 
veneration  among  them ;  those  traditional  heralds 
are  invited  to  every  funeral,  in  order  to  fill  up  the 
intervals  of  the  bowl  with  their  songs  and  harps. 
In  these  they  rehearse  the  actions  of  the  ancestors 
of  the  deceased,  bewail  the  bondage  of  their  coun- 
try under  the  English  government,  and  generally 
conclude  with  advising  the  young  men  and  maid- 


*  David  Rizzio  was  neitlier  a  mere  fiddler,  nor  a  sliallow 
coxconih  nor  a  worthlese  fellow,  nor  a  stranger  in  Scotland. 
lie  had  indeed  been  brought  over  from  Piedmont,  to  be  put 
at  the  head  of  a  band  of  music,  by  King  James  V.  one  of  the 
Ai06t  elegant  princes  of  his  time,  an  exquisite  judge  of  music, 
Hd  well  as  of  poetry,  architecture,  and  all  the  fine  arts.  Rizzio, 
at  the  time  of  his  death,  had  been  above  twenty  years  in 
Scotland :  he  was  secretary  to  the  Queen,  and  at  the  same 
time  an  agent  from  the  Pope ;  so  that  he  could  not  be  so  ob- 
scure as  he  has  been  reporesented. 


ens  to  make  the  best  use  of  their  time,  for  they 
will  soon,  for  all  their  present  bloom,  be  stretched 
under  the  table,  like  the  dead  body  before  them. 

Of  all  the  bards  this  country  ever  produced,  the 
last  and  the  greatest  was  Carof.an  the  Blind. 
He  was  at  once  a  poet,  a  musician,  a  composer, 
and  sung  his  own  verses  to  his  harp.  The  origi- 
nal natives  never  mention  his  name  without  rap- 
ture: both  his  poetry  and  music  they  have  by 
heart ;  and  even  some  of  the  English  themselves, 
who  have  been  transplanted  there,  find  his  music 
extremely  pleasing.     A  song  beguining 

"  O'Rourke's  noble  fare  will  ne'er  be  forgot," 

translated  by  Dean  Swift,  is  ^f  his  composition ; 
which,  though  perhaps  by  this  means  the  best 
known  of  his  pieces,  is  yet  by  no  means  the  most 
deserving.  His  songs  in  general  may  be  compared 
to  those  of  Pindar,  as  they  have  frequently  the 
same  flights  of  imagination ;  and  are  composed  (I 
do  not  say  written,  for  he  could  not  write)  merely 
to  flatter  some  man  of  fortune  upon  some  excel- 
lence of  the  same  kind.  In  these  one  man  is 
praised  for  the  excellence  of  his  stable,  as  in  Pin- 
dar, another  for  his  hospitality,  a  third  for  the 
beauty  of  his  wife  and  children,  and  a  fourth  for 
the  antiquity  of  his  family.  Whenever  any  of 
the  original  natives  of  distinction  were  assem- 
bled at  feasting  or  revelling,  Carolan  was  generally 
there,  where  he  was  always  ready  with  his  harp 
to  celebrate  their  praises.  He  seemed  by  nature 
formed  for  his  profession ;  for  as  he  was  born  blind, 
so  also  he  was  possessed  of  a  most  astonishing 
memory,  and  a  facetious  turn  of  thinking,  which 
gave  his  entertainers  infinite  satisfaction.  Being 
once  at  the  house  of  an  Irish  nobleman,  where 
there  was  a  musician  present  who  was  eminent  in 
the  profession,  Carolan  immediately  challenged  him 
to  a  trial  of  skill.  To  carry  the  jest  forward,  his 
Lordship  persuaded  the  musician  to  accept  the 
challenge,  and  he  accordingly  played  over  on  his 
fiddle  the  fifth  concerto  of  Vivaldi.  Carolan,  im- 
mediately taking  his  harp,  played  over  the  whole 
piece  after  him,  without  missing  a  note,  though  he 
never  heard  it  before ;  which  produced  some  sur- 
prise :  but  their  astonishment  increased,  when  he 
assured  them  he  could  make  a  concerto  in  Ihe 
same  taste  himself,  which  he  instantly  composed ; 
and  that  with  such  spirit  and  elegance,  that  it  may 
compare  (for  we  have  it  still)  with  the  finest  com- 
positions of  Italy. 

His  death  was  not  more  remarkable  than  his 
life.  Homer  was  never  more  fond  of  a  glass  than 
he ;  he  would  drink  whole  pints  of  usquebaugh, 
and,  as  he  used  to  think,  without  any  ill  conse- 
quence. His  intemperance,  However,  in  this  re- 
spect, at  length  brought  on  an  incurable  disor- 
der, and  when  just  at  the  point  of  death,  he  called 
for  a  cup  of  his  beloved  liquor.    Those  who  were 


629 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


standing  round  him,  surprised  at  the  demand,  en- 
deavoured to  persuade  him  to  the  contrary ;  but  he 
l)ersisted,  and,  when  the  bowl  was  brought  to  him, 
attempted  to  drink,  but  could  not ;  wherefore,  giv- 
ing away  the  bowl,  he  observed  with  a  smile,  that 
it  would  be  hard  if  two  such  friends  as  he  and  the 
cup  should  part  at  least  without  kissing ;  and  then 
expired. 


ESSAY  XXI. 

Of  all  men  who  form  gay  illusions  of  distant 
happiness,  perhaps  a  poet  is  the  most  sanguine. 
Such  is  the  ardour  of  his  hopes,  that  they  often  are 
equal  to  actual  enjoyment ;  and  he  feels  more  in 
expectance  than  actual  fruition.  I  have  often  re- 
garded a  character  of  this  kind  with  some  degree 
of  envy.  A  man  possessed  of  such  warm  imagi- 
nation commands  all  nature,  and  arrogates  posses- 
sions of  which  the  owner  has  a  blunter  relish. 
While  life  continues,  the  alluring  prospect  lies  be- 
fore him :  he  travels  in  the  pursuit  with  confidence, 
and  resigns  it  only  with  his  last  breath. 

It  is  this  happy  confidence  which  gives  life  its 
true  relish,  and  keeps  up  our  spirits  amidst  every 
distress  and  disappointment.  How  much  less 
would  be  done,  if  a  man  knew  how  little  he  can 
do !  How  wretched  a  creature  would  he  be,  if  he 
saw  the  end  as  well  as  the  beginning  of  his  pro- 
jects !  He  would  have  nothing  left  but  to  sit  down 
in  torpid  despair,  and  exchange  employment  for 
actual  calamity. 

1  was  led  into  this  train  of  thinking  upon  lately 
visiting*  the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  late  Mr, 
Shenstone,  who  was  himself  a  poet,  and  possessed 
of  that  warm  imagination,  which  made  him  ever 
foremost  in  the  pursuit  of  flying  happiness 
Could  he  but  have  foreseen  the  end  of  all  his 
schemes,  for  whom  he  was  improving,  and  what 
changes  his  designs  were  to  undergo,  he  would 
have  scarcely  amused  his  innocent  life  with  what 
for  several  years  employed  him  in  a  most  harmless 
manner,  and  abridged  his  scanty  fortune.  As  the 
progress  of  this  improvement  is  a  true  picture  of 
sublunary  vicissitude,  I  could  not  help  calling  up 
my  imagination,  which,  while  I  walked  pensively 
along,  suggested  the  following  reverie. 

As  I  was  turning  my  back  upon  a  beautiful 
piece  of  water  enlivened  with  cascades  and  rock- 
work,  and  entering  a  dark  walk  by  which  ran  a 
prattUng  brook,  the  Genius  of  the  place  appeared 
before  me,  but  more  resembling  the  God  of  Time, 
than  him  more  peculiarly  appointed  to  the  care  of 
gardens.  Instead  of  shears  he  bore  a  scythe ;  and 
he  appeared  rather  with-  the  implements  of  hus- 
bandry, than  those  of  a  modern  gardener.   Havinff 


1773. 


remembered  this  place  in  its  pristine  beauty,  I 
could  not  help  condoling  with  him  on  its  present 
ruinous  situation.  I  spoke  to  him  of  the  many 
alterations  which  had  been  made,  and  all  for  the 
worse ;  of  the  many  shades  which  had  been  taken 
away,  of  the  bowers  that  were  destroyed  by  ne- 
glect, and  the  hedge-rows  that  were  spoiled  by  clip- 
ping. The  Genius  with  a  sigh  received  my  con- 
dolement,  and  assured  me  that  he  was  equally  a 
martyr  to  ignorance  and  taste,  to  refinement  and 
rusticity.  Seeing  me  desirous  of  knowing  farther, 
he  went  on : 

"  You  see,  in  the  place  before  you,  the  paternal 
inheritance  of  a  poet ;  and,  to  a  man  content  with 
little,  fully  sufficient  for  his  subsistence:  but  a 
strong  imagination  and  a  long  acquaintance  with 
the  rich  are  dangerous  foes  to  contentment.  Our 
poet,  instead  of  sitting  down  to  enjoy  life,  resolved 
to  prepare  for  its  future  enjoyment,  and  set  about 
converting  a  place  of  profit  into  a  scene  of  plea- 
sure. This  he  at  first  supposed  could  be  accom- 
plished at  a  small  expense ;  and  he  was  willing  for 
a  while  to  stint  his  income,  to  .have  an  opportunity 
of  displaying  his  taste.  The  improvement  in  this 
manner  went  forward  ;  one  beauty  attained  led  him 
to  wish  for  some  other ;  but  he  still  hoped  that 
every  emendation  would  be  the  last.  It  was  now 
therefore  found,  that  the  improvement  exceeded 
the  subsidy,  that  the  place  was  grown  too  large  and 
too  fine  for  the  inhabitant.  But  that  pride  which 
was  once  exhibited  could  not  retire ;  the  garden 
was  made  for  the  owner,  and  though  it  was  be- 
come unfit  for  him  he  could  not  willingly  resign  it 
to  another.  Thus  the  first  idea  of  its  beauties  con- 
tributing to  the  happiness  of  his  life  was  found  un- 
faithful ;  so  that,  instead  of  looking  within  for  sat- 
isfaction, he  began  to  think  of  having  recourse  to 
the  praises  of  those  who  came  to  visit  his  improve- 
ment. 

"  In  consequence  of  this  hope,  which  now  took 
possession  of  his  mind,  the  gardens  were  opened 
to  the  visits  of  every  stranger ;  and  the  country 
flocked  round  to  walk,  to  criticise,  to  admire,  and. 
to  do  mischief.  He  soon  found-,  that  the  admirers 
of  his  taste  left  by  no  means  such  strong  marks 
of  their  applause,  as  the  envious  did  of  their 
malignity.  All  the  windows  of  his  temples,  and 
the  walls  of  his  retreats,  were  impressed  with  the 
characters  of  profaneness,  ignorance,  and  obsceni- 
ty; his  hedges  were  broken,  his  statues  and  urns 
defaced,  and  his  lawns  worn  bare.  It  was  now 
therefore  necessary  to  shut  up  the  gardens  once 
more,  and  to  deprive  the  public  of  that  happiness, 
which  had  before  ceased  to  be  his  own. 

"  In  this  situation  the  poet  continued  for  a  time 
in  the  character  of  a  jealous  lover,  fond  of  the  beau- 
ty he  keeps,  but  unable  to  supply  the  extravagance 
of  every  demand.  The  garden  by  this  time  was 
completely  grown  and  finished;  the  marks  of  art  were 


ESSAYS. 


523 


covered  up  by  the  luxuriance  of  nature;  the  wind 
ing  walks  were  grown  dark ;  the  brook  assumed  a 
natural  sylvage  ;  and  the  rocks  were  covered  with 
moss.  Nothing  now  remained  but  to  enjoy  the 
beautips  of  the  place,  when  the  poor  poet  died,  and 
his  garden  was  obliged  to  be  sold  for  the  benefit 
of  those  who  had  contributed  to  its  embellishment. 
*•'  The  beauties  of  the  place  had  now  for  some 
time  been  celebrated  as  well  in  prose  as  in  verse ; 
and  all  men  of  taste  wished  for  so  envied  a  spot, 
where  every  urn  was  marked  with  the  poet's  pen- 
cil, and  every  walk  awakened  genius  and  medita- 
tion. The  first  purchaser  was  one  Mr.  True- 
penny, a  button-maker,  who  was  possessed  of  three 
thousand  pounds,  and  was  willing  also  to  be  pos- 
sessed of  taste  and  genius. 

"  As  the  poet's  ideas  were  for  the  natural  wild- 
ness  of  the  landscape,  the  button-maker's  were  for 
the  more  regular  productions  of  art.  Re  conceiv- 
ed, perhaps,  that  as  it  is  a  beauty  in  a  button  to  be 
of  a  regular  pattern,  so  the  same  regularity  ought 
to  obtain  in  a  landscape.  Be  this  as  it  will,  he  em- 
ployed the  shears  to  some  purpose ;  he  clipped  up 
the  hedges,  cut  down  the  gloomy  walks,  made  vis- 
tas upon  the  stables  and  hog-sties,  and  showed  his 
friends  that  a  man  of  taste  should  always  be  doing. 
"The  next  candidate  for  taste  and  genius  was  a 
captain  of  a  ship,  who  bought  the  garden  because 
the  former  possessor  could  find  nothing  more  to 
mend ;  but  unfortunately  he  had  taste  too.  His 
great  passion  lay  in  building,  in  making  Chinese 
temples,  and  cage-work  summer-houses.  As  the 
place  before  had  an  appearance  of  retirement,  and 
inspired  meditation,  he  gave  it  a  more  peopled  air ; 
every  turning  presented  a  cottage,  or  ice-house,  or 
a  temple ;  the  improvement  was  converted  into  a 
little  city,  and  it  only  wanted  inhabitants  to  give  it 
the  air  of  a  village  in  the  East  Indies. 

"In  this  manner,  in  less  than  ten  years,  the  im- 
provement has  gone  through  the  hands  of  as  many 
proprietors,  who  were  all  willing  to  have  taste,  and 
to  show  their  taste  too.  As  the  place  had  received 
its  best  finishing  from  the  hand  of  the  first  possessor, 
so  every  innovator  only  lent  a  hand  to  do  mischief 
Those  parts  which  were  obscure,  have  been  en- 
lightened ;  those  walks  which  led  naturally,  have 
Jeen  twisted  into  serpentine  windings.  The  colour 
of  the  flowers  of  the  field  is  not  more  various  than 
-he  variety  of  tastes  that  have  been  employed  here, 
and  all  in  direct  contradiction  to  the  original  aim 
of  the  first  improver.  Could  the  original  possessor 
but  revive,  with  what  a  sorrowful  heart  would  he 
look  upon  his  favourite  spot  again!  Ke  would 
scarcely  recollect  a  Dryad  or  a  Wood-nymph  of  his 
former  acquaintance,  and  might  perhaps  find  him- 
self as  much  a  stranger  in  his  own  plantation  as  in 
the  deserts  of  Siberia." 


ESSAY  XXII. 


The  theatre,  like  all  other  amusements,  has  its 
fashions  and  its  prejudices;  and  when  satiated  with 
its  excellence,  mankind  begin  to  mistake  change 
for  improvement.  For  somie  years  tragedy  was 
the  reigning  entertainment ;  but  of  late  it  has  en- 
tirely given  way  to  comedy,  and  our  best  efllbrts 
are  now  exerted  in  these  lighter  kinds  of  composi- 
tion. The  pompous  train,  the  swelling  phrase, 
and  the  unnatural  rant,  are  displaced  for  that 
natural  portrait  of  human  folly  and  frailty,  of 
which  all  are  judges,  because  all  have  sat  for  the 
picture. 

But  as  in  describing  nature  it  is  presented  with 
a  double  face,  either  of  mirth  or  sadness,  our  modem 
writers  find  themselves  at  a  loss  which  chiefly  to 
copy  from;  and  it  is  now  debated,  whether  the 
exhibition  of  human  distress  is  likely  to  afford  the 
mind  more  entertainment  than  that  of  human  ab- 
surdity? 

Comedy  is  defined  by  Aristotle  to  be  a  picture 
of  the  frailties  of  the  lower  part  of  mankind,  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  tragedy,  which  is  an  exhibition  of 
the  misfortunes  of  the  great.  When  comedy  there- 
fore ascends  to  produce  the  characters  of  princes  or 
generals  upon  the  stage,  it  is  out  of  its  walk,  since 
low  life  and  middle  life  are  entirely  its  object.  The 
principal  question  therefore  is,  whether  in  describ- 
ing low  or  middle  life,  an  exhibition  of  its  follies 
be  not  preferable  to  a  detail  of  its  calamities?  Or. 
in  other  words,  which  deserves  the  preference— the 
weeping  sentimental  comedy  so  much  in  fashion 
at  present,*  or  the  laughing  and  even  low  comedy, 
which  seems  to  have  been  last  exhibited  by  Van- 
brugh  and  Cibber? 

If  we  apply  to  authorities,  all  the  great  masters 
in  the  dramatic  art  have  but  one  opinion.  Their 
rule  is,  that  as  tragedy  displays  the  calamities  of 
the  great,  so  comedy  should  excite  our  laughter, 
by  ridiculously  exhibiting  the  follies  of  the  lower 
part  of  mankind.  Boileau,  one  of  the  best  modern 
critics,  asserts,  that  comedy  will  not  admit  of  tragic 
distress : 

Le  comique,  ennemi  des  soupirs  et  des  pleurs, 
N'admet  point  dansses  vers  de  tragiques  douleurs. 

Nor  is  this  rule  without  the  strongest  foundation 
in  nature,  as  the  distresses  of  the  mean  by  no 
means  affect  us  so  strongly  as  the  calamities  of  the 
great.  When  tragedy  exhibits  to  us  some  great 
man  fallen  from  his  height,  and  struggling  with 
want  and  adversity,  we  feel  his  situation  in  the 
same  manner  as  we  suppose  he  himself  must  feel, 
and  our  pity  is  increased  in  proportion  to  the  height 


1773. 


mi 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


from  which  he  fell.  On  the  contrary,  we  do  not 
so  strongly  sympathize  with  one  born  in  humbler 
circumstances,  and  encountering  accidental  dis- 
tress: so  that  while  we  melt  for  Belisarius,  we 
scarcely  give  halfpence  to  the  beggar  who  accosts 
ns  in  the  street.  The  one  has  our  pity ;  the  other 
our  contempt.  Distress,  therefore,  is  the  proper 
object  of  tragedy,  since  the  great  excite  our  pity  by 
their  fall ;  but  not  equally  so  of  comedy,  since  the 
actors  employed  in  it  are  originally  so  mean,  that 
they  sink  but  little  by  their  fall. 

Since  the  ifirst  origin  of  the  stage,  tragedy  and 
comedy  have  run  in  distinct  channels,  and  never 
till  of  late  encroached  upon  the  provinces  of  each 
other.  Terence,  who  seems  to  have  made  the 
nearest  approaches,  always  judiciously  stops  short 
before  he  comes  to  the  downright  pathetic ;  and  yet 
he  is  even  reproached  by  Csesar  for  wanting  the 
vis  comica.  All  the  other  comic  writers  of  anti 
quity  aim  only  at  rendering  folly  or  vice  ridiculous 
but  never  exalt  their  characters  into  buskined 
pomp,  or  make  what  Voltaire  humorously  calls  a 
tradesman's  tragedy. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  this  weight  of  authority  and 
the  universal  practice  of  former  ages,  a  new  species 
of  dramatic  composition  has  been  introduced  under 
the  name  of  sentimental  comedy,  in  which  the  vir- 
tues of  private  life  are  exhibited,  rather  than  the 
vices  exposed ;  and  the  distresses  rather  than  the 
faults  of  mankind  make  our  interest  in  the  piece. 
These  comedies  have  had  of  late  great  success,  per- 
haps from  their  novelty,  and  also  from  their  flatter- 
ing every  man  in  his  favourite  foible.  In  these 
plays  almost  all  the  characters  are  good,  and  ex- 
ceedingly generous ;  they  are  lavish  enough  of  their 
tin  money  on  the  stage ;  and  though  they  want 
humour,  have  abundance  of  sentiment  and  feeling. 
If  they  happen  to  have  faults  or  foibles,  the  spec- 
tator is  taught,  not  only  to  pardon,  but  to  applaud 
them,  in  consideration  of  the  goodness  of  their 
hearts ;  so  that  folly,  instead  of  being  ridiculed,  is 
commended,  and  the  comedy  aims  at  touching  our 
passions  without  the  power  of  being  truly  pathetic. 
In  this  manner  we  are  likely  to  lose  one  great 
source  of  entertainment  on  the  stage ;  for  while  the 
comic  poet  is  invading  the  province  of  the  tragic 
muse,  he  leaves  her  lovely  sister  quite  neglected. 
Of  this,  however,  he  is  no  way  solicitous,  as  he 
measures  his  fame  by  his  profits. 

But  it  will  be  said,  that  the  theatre  is  formed  to 
amuse  mankind,  and  that  it  matters  little,  if  this 
end  be  answered,  by  what  means  it  is  obtained. 
If  mankind  find  delight  in  weeping  at  comedy,  it 
would  be  cruel  to  abridge  them  in  that  or  any  other 
innocent  pleasure.  If  those  pieces  are  denied  the, 
name  of  comedies,  yet  cgill  them  by  any  other  name,  | 


and  if  they  are  delightful,  they  are  good.  Th«*iT 
success,  it  will  be  said,  is  a  mark  of  their  meiit, 
and  it  is  only  abridging  our  happiness  to  deny  U8 
an  inlet  to  amusement. 

These  objections,  however,  are  rather  specious 
than  sohd.  It  is  true,  that  amusement  is  a  great 
object  of  the  theatre,  and  it  will  be  allowed  that 
these  sentimental  pieces  do  often  amuse  us ;  but 
the  question  is,  whether  the  true  comedy  would  not 
amuse  us  more  ?  The  question  is,  whether  a  cha 
racter  supported  throughout  a  piece,  with  its  ridi- 
cule still  attending,  would  not  give  us  more  delight 
than  this  species  of  bastard  tragedy,  which  only  is 
applauded  because  it  is  new'? 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  was  sitting  unmoved  at 
one  of  the  sentimental  pieces,  was  asked  how  he 
could  be  so  indifferent ?  "  Why,  truly,"  says  he, 
"  as  the  hero  is  but  a  tradesman,  it  is  indifferent  to 
me  whether  he  be  turned  out  of  his  counting-house 
on  Fish-street  Hill,  since  he  will  still  have  enough 
left  to  open  shop  in  St.  Giles's." 

The  other  objection  is  as  ill-grounded ;  for  though 
we  should  give  these  pieces  another  name,  it  will 
not  mend  their  efficacy.  It  will  continue  a  kind 
of  mulish  production,  with  all  the  defects  of  its  op- 
posite parents,  and  marked  with  sterility.  If  we 
are  permitted  to  make  comedy  weep,  we  have  an 
equal  right  to  make  tragedy  laugh,  and  to  set  down 
in  blank  verse  the  jests  and  repartees  of  all  the  at- 
tendants in  a  funeral  procession. 

But  there  is  one  argument  in  favour  of  senti- 
mental comedy  which  will  keep  it  on  the  stage  in 
spite  of  all  that  can  be  said  against  it.  It  is  of  all 
others  the  most  easily  written.  Those  abiUties 
that  can  hammer  out  a  novel,  are  fully  sufficient 
for  the  production  of  a  sentimental  comedy.  It  i» 
only  sufficient  to  raise  the  characters  a  little ;  t(? 
deck  out  the  hero  with  a  riband,  or  give  the  heroint^ 
a  title;  then  to  put  an  insipid  dialogue,  without 
character  or  humour,  into  their  mouths,  give  then* 
mighty  good  hearts,  very  fine  clothes,  furnish  a 
new  set  of  scenes,  make  a  pathetic  scene  or  twoj 
with  a  sprinkling  of  tender  melancholy  conversa- 
tion through  the  whole,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but 
all  the  ladies  will  cry,  and  all  the  gentlemen  ap 
plaud. 

Humour  at  prejsent  seems  to  be  departing  from 
the  stage,  and  it  will  soon  happen  that  our  comic 
players  will  have  nothing  left  for  it  but  a  fine  coat 
and  a  song.  It  depends  upon  the  audience  whether 
they  will  actually  drive  those  poor  merry  creatures 
from  the  stage,  or  sit  at  a  play  as  gloomy  as  at  the 
tabernacle.  It  is  not  easy  to  recover  an  art  when 
once  lost;  and  it  will  be  but  a  just  punishment^ 
that  when,  by  our  being  too  fastidious,  we  have 
banished  humour  from  the  stage,  we  should  our- 
selves be  deprived  of  the  art  of  laughing. 


ESSAYS. 


527 


ESSAY  XXIII. 

As  I  see  you  are  fond  of  gallantry,  and  seem 
willing  to  set  young  people  together  as  soon  as  you 
can,  I  can  not  help  lending  my  assistance  to  your 
endeavours,  as  I  am  greatly  concerned  in  the  at- 
tempt. You  must  know,  sir,  that  I  am  landlady 
of  one  of  the  most  noted  inns  on  the  road  to  Scot- 
land, and  have  seldom  less  than  eight  or  ten  couples 
a- week,  who  go  down  rapturous  lovers,  and  return 
man  and  wife. 

If  there  be  in  this  world  an  agreeable  situation, 
it  must  be  that  in  which  a  young  couple  find  them- 
selves, when  just  let  loose  from  confinement,  and 
whirling  off  to  the  land  of  promise.  When  the 
post-chaise  is  driving  off,  and  the  blinds  acre  drawn 
up,  sure  nothing  can  equal  it.  And  yet,  I  do  not 
know  how,  what  with  the  fearsof  being  pursued, 
or  the  wishes  for  greater  happiness,  not  one  of  my 
customers  but  seems  gloomy  and  out  of  temper. 
The  gentlemen  are  all  sullen,  and  the  ladies  dis- 
contented. 

But  if  it  be  ♦•  -dng  down,  how  is  it  with  them 
coming  back?  Having  been  for  a  fortnight  together, 
they  are  then  mighty  good  company  to  be  sure.  It 
is  then  the  young  lady's  indiscretion  stares  her  in 
the  face,  and  the  gentleman  himself  finds  that  much 
is  to  be  done  before  the  money  comes  in. 

For  my  own  part,  sir,  I  was  married  in  the 
usual  way ;  all  my  friends  were  at  the  wedding :  I 
was  conducted  with  great  ceremony  from  the  table 
to  the  bed ;  and  I  do  not  find  that  it  any  ways  di- 
minished my  happiness  with  my  husband,  while, 
poor  man !  he  continued  with  me.  For  my  part, 
I  am  entirely  for  doing  things  in  the  old  family 
way;  I  hate  your  new-fashioned  manners,  and 
never  loved  an  outlandish  marriage  in  my  life. 

As  I  have  had  numbers  call  at  my  house,  you 
may  be  sure  I  was  not  idle  in  inquiring  who  they 
were,  and  how  they  did  in  the  world  after  they  left 
me.  1  can  not  say  that  I  ever  heard  much  good 
come  of  them ;  and  of  a  history  of  twenty-five  that 
I  noted  down  in  my  ledger,  I  do  not  know  a  single 
couple  that  would  not  have  been  full  as  happy  if 
they  had  gone  the  plain  way  to  work,  and  asked 
the  consent  of  their  parents.  To  convince  you  of 
it,  I  will  mention  the  names  of  a  few,  and  refer  the 
rest  to  some  fitter  opportunity. 

Imprimis,  Miss  Jenny  Hastings  went  down  to 
Scotland  with  a  tailor,  who,  to  be  sure,  for  a  tailor, 
was  a  very  agreeable  sort  of  a  man.  But  I  do  not 
know,  he  did  not  take  proper  measure  of  the  young 
lady's  disposition ;  they  quarrelled  at  my  house  on 
their  return ;  so  she  left  him  for  a  cornet  of  dra- 
goons, and  he  went  back  to  his  shop-board. 

Miss  Rachel  Runfort  went  off  with  a  grenadier. 
They  spent  all  their  money  going  down ;  so  that 


he  carried  her  down  in  a  post-ch"*^*^^"g  ^^^  their 
back  she  helped  to  carry  his  knap^^™^^^^'^-    The 

Miss  Racket  went  down  with  heP^  ^^  ^J^^i^  own 
own  phaeton ;  but  upon  their  returf^'^^'^^P  ^*  this 
fond  of  driving,  she  would  be  every  n'^"^  nations 
for  holding  the  whip.  This  bred  a  dik^"^^^  P^®- 
before  they  were  a  fortnight  together,  she^*  ^^  * 
he  could  exercise  the  whip  on  somebody  e'llP.  '' 
sides  the  horses.  ^''  * 

Miss  Meekly,  though  all  compliance  to  the  will 
of  her  lover,  could  never  reconcile  him  to  the  change 
of  his  situation.  It  seems  he  married  her  suppos- 
ing she  had  a  large  fortune ;  but  being  deceived  in 
their  expectations,  they  parted;  and  they  now 
keep  separate  garrets  in  Rosemary-lane. 

The  next  couple  of  whom  I  have  any  account, 
actually  lived  together  in  great  harmony  and  un- 
cloying  kindness  for  no  less  than  a  month ;  but  the 
lady  who  was  a  Uttle  in  years,  having  parted  with 
her  fortune  to  her  dearest  Ufe,  he  left  her  to  make 
love  to  that  better  part  of  her  which  he  valued  more. 

The  next  pair  consisted  of  an  Irish  fortune-hunt- 
er, and  one  of  the  prettiest  modestest  ladies  that 
ever  my  eyes  beheld.  Ab  he  was  a  well-looking 
gentleman,  all  dressed  in  lace,  and  as  she  was  very 
fond  of  him,  I  thought  they  were  blessed  for  life. 
Yet  I  was  quickly  mistaken.  The  lady  was  no 
better  than  a  common  woman  of  the  town,  and  he 
was  no  better  than  a  sharper ;  so  they  agreed  upon 
a  mutual  divorce:  he  now  dresses  at  the  York 
Ball,  and  she  is  in  keeping  by  the  member  for  our 
borough  to  parliament. 

In  this  manner  we  see  that  all  those  marriages 
in  which  there  is  interest  on  the  one  side  and  diso- 
bedience on  the  other,  are  not  likely  to  promise  a 
large  harvest  of  delights.  If  our  fortune-hunting 
gentlemen  would  but  speak  out,  the  young  lady, 
instead  of  a  lover,  would  often  find  a  sneaking 
rogue,  that  only  wanted  the  lady's  purse,  and  not 
her  heart.  For  my  own  part,  I  never  saw  any 
thing  but  design  and  falsehood  in  every  one  of 
them ;  and  my  blood  has  boiled  in  my  veins,  when 
I  saw  a  young  fellow  of  twenty,  kneeling  at  the  feet 
of  a  twenty  thousand  pounder,  professing  his  pas- 
sion, while  he  was  taking  aun  at  her  money.  I  do 
not  deny  but  there  may  be  love  in  a  Scotch  mar- 
riage, but  it  is  generally  all  on  one  side. 

Of  all  the  sincere  admirers  I  ever  knew,  a  man 
of  my  acquaintance,  who,  however,  did  not  run 
away  with  his  mistress  to  Scotland,  was  the  most 
so.  An  old  exciseman  of  our  town,  who  as  you 
may  guess,  was  not  very  rich,  had  a  daughter,  who, 
as  you  shall  see,  was  not  very  handsome.  It  Was 
the  opinion  of  every  body  that  this  young  woman 
would  not  soon  be  married,  as  she  wanted  two 
main  articles,  beauty  and  fortune.  But  for  all  this, 
a  very  well-looking  man,  that  happened  to  be  trav- 
elling those  parts,  came  and  asked  the  exciseman 


GOLDSMITH'S  WORKS. 


sa-i 


''  in  marriage.     The  exciseman 

from  which  he  fWenly  oy  him,  asked  him  if  he  had 
so  strongly  syro- "for,"  says  he-,  "she  is  hump- 
circumstances/ery  well,"  cried  the  stranger,  "  that 
tress:  so  thaj." — "  Ay,"  says  the  exciseman,  "but 
scarcely  givij-  is  as  brown  as  a  berry." — "  So  much 
iisinthci-j"  cried  the  stranger,  "such  skins  wear 
our  ccs:^"  But  she  is  bandy-legged,"  says  the  ex- 
objpman. — "No  matter,"  cries  the  other;  "her  pet- 
ticoats will  hide  that  defect," — "But  then  she  is 
very  poor,  and  wants  an  eye."— "  Your  description 
delights  me,"  cries  the  stranger :  "  I  have  been 
looking  out  for  one  of  her  make  ;  for  I  keep  an  ex- 
iiibition  of  wild  beasts,  and  intend  to  show  her  oflf 
lor  a  Chimpanzee." 


ESSAY  XXIV. 

Mankind  have  ever  been  prone  to  expatiate  in 
the  praise  of  human  nature.  The  dignity  of  man 
is  a  subject  that  has  always  been  the  favourite  theme 
of  humanity:  they  have  declaimed  with  that  osten- 
tation which  usually  accompanies  such  as  are  sure 
of  having  a  partial  audience ;  they  have  obtained 
victories  because  there  were  none  to  oppose.  Yet 
from  all  I  have  ever  read  or  seen,  men  appear  more 
apt  to  err  by  having  too  high,  than  by  having  too 
despicable  an  opinion  of  their  nature;  and  by  at- 
tempting to  exalt  their  original  place  in  the  creation, 
depress  their  real  value  in  society. 

The  most  ignorant  nations  have  always  been 
found  to  think  most  highly  of  themselves.  The 
Deity  has  ever  been  thought  peculiarly  concerned 
in  their  glory  and  preservation ;  to  have  fought 
their  battles,  an4  inspired  their  teachers:  their 
wizards  are  said  to  be  familiar  with  heaven,  and 
every  hero  has  a  guard  of  angels  as  well  as  men  to 
attend  him.  When  the  Portuguese  first  came 
among  the  wretched  inhabitants  of  the  coast  of  Afri- 
ca, these  savage  nations  readily  allowed  the  strangers 
more  skill  in  navigation  and  war ;  yet  still  consid- 
ered them  at  best  but  as  useful  servants,  brought  to 
their  coast,  by,  their  guardian  serpent,  to  supply 
them  with  luxuries  they  could  have  lived  without. 
Though  they  could  grant  the  Portuguese  more 
riches,  they  could  never  allow  them  to  have  such  a 
king  as  their  Tottimondelem,  who  wore  a  bracelet 
of  shells  round  his  neck,  and  whose  legs  were 
covered  with  ivory. 

In  this  manner  examine  a  savage  in  the  history 
of  his  country  and  predecessors,  you  ever  find  his 
warriors  able  to  conquer  armies,  and  his  sages  ac- 
quainted with  more  than  possible  knowledge ;  hu- 
man nature  is  to  him  an  unknown  country ;  he 
thinks  it  capable  of  great  things  because  he  is  ig 
norant  of  its  boundaries ;  whatever  can  be  con- 
ceived to  be  done,  he  allows  to  be  possible,  and 
whatever  is  possible  he  conjectures  must  have  been 


done.  He  never  measures  the  actions  and  power* 
of  others  by  what  himself  is  able  to  perform,  nor 
makes  a  proper  estimate  of  the  greatness  of  his 
fellows  by  bringing  it  to  the  standard  of  his  own 
incapacity.  He  is  satisfied  to  be  one  of  a  country 
where  mighty  things  have  been ;  and  imagines  the 
fancied  power  of  others  reflects  a  lustre  on  himself. 
Thus  by  degrees  he  loses  the  idea  of  his  own  in- 
significance in  a  confused  notion  of  the  extraordi- 
nary powers  of  humanity,  and  is  willing  to  grant 
extraordinary  gifts  to  every  pretender,  because  un- 
acquainted with  their  claims. 

This  is  the  reason  why  demi-gods  and  heroes 
have  ever  been  erected  in  times  or  countries  of  ig- 
norance and  barbarity:  they  addressed  a  people  who 
had  high  opinions  of  human  nature,  because  they 
were  ignorant  how  far  it  could  extend  ;  they  ad- 
dressed a  people  who  were  willing  to  allow  that 
men  should  be  gods,  because  they  were  yet  imper- 
fectly acquainted  with  God  and  with  man.  These 
impostors  knew,  that  all  men  are  naturally  fond 
of  seeing  something  very  great  made  from  the  little 
materials  of  humanity ;  that  ignorant  nations  are 
not  more  proud  of  building  a  tower  to  reach  heaven, 
or  a  pyramid  to  last  for  ages,  than  of  raising  up  a 
demi-god  of  their  own  country  and  creation.  The 
same  pride  that  erects  a  colossus  or  a  pyramid,  in- 
stals  a  god  or  a  hero :  but  though  the  adoring  sav- 
age can  raise  his  colossus  to  the  clouds,  he  can  ex--^ 
alt  the  hero  not  one  inch  above  the  standard  of  hu-*^ 
manity :  incapable,  therefore,  of  exalting  the  idol, 
he  debases  himself,  and  falls  prostrate  before  him. 

When  man  has  thus  acquired  an  erroneous  idea 
of  the  dignity  of  his  species,  he  and  the  gods  be- 
come perfectly  intimate;  men  are  but  angels,  angels 
are  but  men ;  nay,  but  servants  that  stand  in  wait- 
ing, to  execute  human  commands.  The  Persians, 
for  instance,  thus  address  the  prophet  Hali :  "  I  sa- 
lute thee,  glorious  Creator,  of  whom  the  sun  is  but 
the  shadow.  Masterpiece  of  the  Lord  of  human 
creatures,  Great  Star  of  Justice  and  Religion.  The 
sea  is  not  rich  and  liberal,  but  by  the  gifts  of  thy 
munificent  hands.  The  angel  treasurer  of  Heaven 
reaps  his  harvest  in  the  fertile  gardens  of  the  purity 
of  thy  nature.  The  primum  mobile  would  never 
dart  the  ball  of  the  sun  through  the  trunk  of  Hea- 
ven, were  it  not  to  serve  the  morning  out  of  the 
extreme  love  she  has  for  thee.  The  angel  Gabriel, 
messenger  of  truth,  every  day  kisses  the  groundsel 
of  thy  gate.  Were  there  a  place  more  exalted  than 
the  most  high  throne  of  God,  I  would  affirm  it  to 
be  thy  place,  O  master  of  the  faithful !  Gabriel, 
with  all  his  art  and  knowledge,  is  but  a  mere  scholar 
to  thee."  Thus,  my  friend,  men  think  proper  to 
treat  angels ;  but  if  indeed  there  be  such  an  order 
of  beings,  with  what  a  degree  of  satirical  contempt 
must  they  Usten  to  the  songs  of  little  mortals  thus 
flattering  each  other!  thus  to  see  creatures,  wiser 
indeed  than  the  monkey,  and  more  active  than  th© 


ESSAYS. 


527 


oyster,  claiming  to  themselves  a  mastery  of  Heaven! 
minims,  the  tenants  of  an  atom,  thus  arrogating  a 
partnership  in  the  creation  of  universal  nature ! 
surely  Heaven  is  kind  that  launches  no  thunder  at 
those  guilty  heads ;  but  it  is  kind,  and  regards  their 
follies  with  pity,  nor  will  destroy  creatures  that  it 
loved  into  being. 

But  whatever  success  this  practice  of  making 
demi-gods  might  have  been  attended  with  in  bar- 
barous nations,  I  do  not  know  that  any  man  became 
a  god  in  a  country  where  the  inhabitants  were  re- 
fined. Such  countries  generally  have  too  close  an 
inspection  into  human  weakness  to  think  it  invest- 
ed with  celestial  power.  They  sometimes,  indeed, 
admit  the  gods  of  strangers  or  of  their  ancestors, 
who  had  their  existence  in  times  of  obscurity ;  theur 


weakness  being  forgotten,  while  nothing  but  their 
power  and  their  miracles  were  remembered.  The 
Chinese,  for  instance,  never  had  a  god  of  their  own 
country;  the  idols  which  the  vulgar  worship  at  this 
day,  were  brought  from  the  barbarous  nations 
around  them.  The  Roman  emperors  who  pre- 
tended to  divinity,  were  generally  taught  by  a 
poniard  that  they  were  mortal;  and  Alexander, 
though  he  passed  among  barbarous  countries  for  a 
real  god,  could  never  persuade  his  polite  country- 
men into  a  similitude  of  thinking.  The  Lacede- 
monians shrewdly  complied  with  his  commands  by 
the  following  sarcastic  edict : 


THE  END. 


r 


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